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Quinn

A loud bang shakes me from sleep.

I’m tangled in my covers like a bad BDSM bondage session. That’s all in my fantasies, though. My smutty book flies off the covers as another bang shakes the whole house. It could be Dad sleepwalking again, acting out his night terrors of arresting the most dangerous criminals in the state.

Something tells me there’s more to it this time.

The air, maybe. Or the eerie quiet after each disturbance. It’s like Jason or Michael Myers is stomping around the second floor and tossing furniture all over the place.

My first instinct is to call for him—but what if there’s a burglar in the house? Dad always said to assess the situation before diving into action.

Then again, who’d be dumb enough to rob Patrick Dall, Jersey PD captain of the homicide unit?

I take a breath when I realize how silly my first thoughts are. He’s fine. Dad’s always fine. I’ll just gently wake him and hope he doesn’t clobber me in the process.

My feet touch the cold wooden floor as I swing the last of my sheets off. Adjusting the tank-top strings so my breasts aren’t hanging out in front of him, I shove my feet into my slippers.

About to slide out of my room and make a shit ton of noise, I stop myself. No. That’d be silly, Quinn. What if there really is someone bad in the house?

Dark thoughts creep back in as I pull out of my Uggs, the fur soft against my feet, making me want to curl back under my covers.

Mumbling resounds beyond the door, coming from the first floor.

Oh my God. He usually doesn’t make it downstairs.

What the hell is going on here?

Jeez. Where’s his gun?

Ugh. I haven’t gone to the range with him in so long. And what the hell was his code to the safe again? My birthday or his?

The ting of my two tennis bracelets makes me freeze in place. Yes, I sleep with my jewelry. Don’t judge me. Each charm is a different air of protection, but right now? They might get me killed.

I slip off the bracelets and place them on my bed.

I’ve been a Nervous Nellie my whole twenty-four years of life due to Dad’s profession, which is ironic because if you ask any of my past boyfriends or prospects, they’d say one look from me is like one of Homelander’s lasers.

My friends too. You can imagine their surprise when they asked me to live with them in their big four-bedroom apartment in Hoboken, and I opted to stay under Dad’s protection.

Can you blame me? He’s pretty much a guaranteed bodyguard every night—

Bang!

I shiver when glass shatters. Now something is really going on.

Tiptoeing to my door, I reach for the knob with a quavering hand and slowly inch it open to more commotion below.

Eeer!

The floor creeks beneath my stupid foot, and the air sucks out of my lungs when the commotion suddenly stops.

There’s a shadow downstairs. Two shadows… dragging something. I see it through the crack in the door amidst the leaking moonlight, and they’re looking around because they heard a disturbance. Me . Whispers carry throughout the house. I can’t understand anything. No words, accent, nothing.

Be a good witness, Quinn, like you were trained to. Forest green ski masks, black gloves. One about six-two, the other around my height—five-three.

My heart drops to my belly when I see it. My father—all two hundred sixty pounds of him—being carried by the legs, arms sprawled uselessly over the floor. He’s out cold. Or worse.

Screaming silently in my hands is all I can do. My eyes burn from the tears itching them. Why does my body do this? Why am I freezing up when he needs me most?

Run for his gun in his room across the way. The combination is my birthday. They won’t be able to catch you in time.

I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, imagining the two burglars rushing up the stairs grabbing my ankle. They claw up my body and reach for my neck, squeezing the life out of me. Then we’d both be gone.

Dad . My teeth grit.

In a flash, the two burglars are out of the house. Cold winter air pushes in snow flurries over the welcome mat, and the house feels infinitely colder.

When I finally unfreeze, I clamor for my phone and call the police, then text all of my dad’s closest friends to expedite the process.

Please. Please.

I wait for a response, and as if I wished it, a call comes in.

“Bill.” I choke on my own breath. “I don’t know what happened. Two bangs, shadows—”

“ Breathe, Quinn, ” Bill’s smoker’s voice rattles through the phone. “ I’m already on my way. Stay on. Tell me exactly what you saw. ”

“Two people. Had to be men. Green ski masks. Black leather jackets. One was really tall—like six-two—and the other was about my height… I think.”

“ Did they see you? ”

“I—I don’t think so.” I swallow past a hard lump forming in my throat.

Dad’s gone. It sinks in. He might be dead. God no.

My face scrunches as the sobs come.

“ Don’t you worry. Your dad is the toughest son of a bitch I know. He’ll endure, and we will find them. ” Bill does his best to comfort me, but I’m already far gone.

Flashes of my dad taking me to police banquets plague my mind. Bill and Ferraro were always at either of his sides having beers together. They laughed when a cute rookie cop came up to me just to say hello, and when he heard my last name—Dall—his face went ghost-white.

I remember it so clearly—stomping my foot and glaring at Dad like I’d kill him. I was the only one who could make him go red in the face. Now… he might be gone.

The phone slips from my hands as I slide down my bed to the floor, covering my face in hopes this is a bad dream.

I wish my mom and sister were here. I only talk to them once in a blue moon since they moved to Cali years ago, but God could I use their support.

No point to call them now anyway. The cops are on it, and they’d descend into a panic. Not what I need at the moment.

It’s not like I can lean on my friends from work or college, either.

That’s the price of being sort of a loner, I guess.

Even though they all know me as the loud one, I never really got past the surface with them.

I usually spend my free nights with Dad watching true crime documentaries or my soaps, if I could convince him to fork over the remote. God it hurts to think of it now.

Sirens flash through my window, forcing my head up.

They’re here.

Thunderous footsteps of the SWAT team give me goosebumps. My name echoes through the house, making me wonder if I’m dreaming, or rather… if I’m going to pass out.

Thump! Thump!

Ferraro shows up in my room first. Shoe polish black hair slicked back makes him look more mobster than cop. Grey trench coat, red button down beneath… he was already on duty in the middle of the night before he got here.

“Came as soon as I could, Quinn.” He crouches to his knees, brow furrowed. “My men are already on it.”

I sob into my hands.

“Hey. Hey. Listen to me. We’re going to get your father back.” He balls a tight fist, making his black glove scrunch. “And after he’s home safe, I’ll break whoever dared cross us.”

His ferocity transfers to me. All of the tremoring in my joints heats into anger.

“You better, Uncle F.” I take a deep breath.

“Bet your ass.” He stands, holding his hand out for me to grab. “You stay with me and Mara while we sort this out, alright?”

I shake my head. “No, I’m staying here.”

“It’s a crime scene, Quinn—”

My glare speaks volumes. I’m not a fan of his missus, if I’m being honest. She’s too intrusive and… off. Guess she’s pleasant enough, but alone time is too important when I’m stressed out. So that’ll be a hard no .

“Jeez. Alright, young lady. I’ll see what I can do. But you’re going to have company for a few days either way.”

I huff and look away, yet he still lingers.

“You look like him when you do that, you know?” He laughs while pulling me into a hug. His belly is big, arms warm. I could go to sleep in them.

Now’s not the time for comfort, though. My dad was taken. Never in a million years…

I pat Ferraro twice and break the embrace, lethargically heading for my door to glimpse the uniformed men and women searching the walls for fingerprints. I know it’s protocol, and I also know it’s a gigantic waste of time. The two men were wearing gloves. They were careful… professionals.

Why would they go after a police captain? That’s like rule number one for criminals, isn’t it? Don’t mess with cops.

I head down the stairs, feeling the weight of my legs compound from weakness. My toes go numb. My fingers too. It’s like I’m having the slowest heart attack in the world.

A familiar face snaps me out of my daze. Clean shaven, blue eyes, pale skin. One of my dad’s rookies who asked me on a date at the holiday party last year. Channing. Much like the one at the banquet, he folded like an Amazon cardboard box when my dad came and put an arm around my shoulders.

Who would’ve thought a ghostly pale man could turn nearly fire engine red? Uncle F even made a joke about calling them to put out a fire. Poor guy.

He looks up at me, then quickly shifts away to do his job.

Wuss.

I wince at myself for having the thought.

I’m no better. Moreover… why am I such a bitch sometimes?

Did my dad really cause this? In high school, he pretty much chased away and turned me off to the three boyfriends I attempted to bring home, and thereafter, I pretty much developed a switch that dries me up like a clam whenever a man shows the slightest insecurity.

Oof .

Dad would be smiling now if he knew what I’m thinking.

It’s times like these I regret not going into forensics like I wanted to.

I was on my way even if the idea of nepotism really bothered me, but I was literally slapped in the other direction when three men tried to have their way with me one late night after the bar.

If it wasn’t for that old bouncer, I would’ve been—

Anyway, the safe route of accounting was one of the few available in Dad’s eyes after that.

I don’t even like numbers, or reading pronouncements, but being at a desk means less risk of harm according to him, I guess.

It was a lot of kicking and screaming on my end, but ultimately, he’d been through enough when Mom left, so…

I gave him a break. Now more than ever, I wish I finished pursuing my dream.

Maybe if things went a little differently, I’d be useful in this investigation, or at the very least have a man who could help me find my dad. Now I have to wait on Uncle F and Bill, and pray they aren’t washed up tough guys.

xxx

Hours go by. It’s still dark out, but there’s a hint of dawn touching the snow outside. It’s been ages since I’ve been up at this hour. It’s always eight a.m. coffee, work, repeat until Friday. Even on my “go out late” nights, I’m snoring by three a.m.

What the hell? Might as well get some fresh freezing air to jar me out of this nightmare.

Getting my jacket on, I step past the yellow caution tape roping off a section of the hallway. It’s still so surreal.

“Where are you going?” a young cop with ridiculous cheekbones calls from the kitchen.

“Excuse me?” I arc my eyebrow at him when he stops at the island ledge.

“Lieutenant Ferraro gave strict orders to—”

“If I need you, you’ll know,” I say.

The truth is, I’m overcompensating with my attitude for being a coward earlier.

Rationalizing that it’s better I didn’t say anything—telling myself, “Yeah, I got the cops here fast,” for what?

They found nothing so far. It’s obvious.

At least if I’d found the courage to act, maybe I could’ve shot one or both of them. Saved my dad.

I sigh and let the cold air slap me in the face.

I’m the daughter of Captain Dall. No fear, I amp myself. Have to find Dad.

Annoyed that I can feel the rookie’s eyes on me from the kitchen window, I walk down the shoveled pathway to the steps on the side of my dad’s house, shaking my head at the soundless sirens spinning to alert all the neighbors my dad was taken.

The cold air rushes up my nose, giving me instant brain freeze. My fingers tingle through the gloves. Yet… there’s an angry heat flushing through my chest and abdomen, making me unzip my coat and fan myself.

Am I having a panic attack?

I find the side stoop and settle there in hopes the anxiety passes. The cops are a few steps away, so I’ll be safe here.

Sitting outside for twenty minutes does nothing to calm my nerves.

Scrnch. Scrnch. Scrnch.

Faint footsteps resound from down the way, and the rustling of a paper bag.

My head turns to a man I’ve only glimpsed once before.

Clack. Clack.

His loafers hit the heated sidewalk alongside the gate in front of his mansion across the way. Loafers? In this weather?

My eyes scan his tailored slacks leading up to the bulge.

Bulge… in this weather?

His dress shirt under his suit jacket somehow stays perfectly tucked into his pants as he struts toward his home with groceries at 6:15 in the morning.

What kind of idiot shops at this hour?

His beard is a mix of silver and black, just enough to give my thighs a quick caress of heat, and his piercing green eyes make my heart flutter.

He’s looking at me. No… he’s looking past me.

I turn my head to the boring grey shingles of my house.

Shit. Now he knows I was looking at him.

When my head whips back, he’s lingering, slowing his footsteps like an old lion on the prowl. Now my heart skips two beats. Here comes that heart attack again.

Before I know it, he picks up his pace and starts onto the pathway of his mansion.

Dad made it a point to know all the surrounding neighbors. It’s the detective in him, I guess. And If I recall correctly—that mansion is owned by a company used for movie sets. But it’s been empty for as long as I can remember… until now.