“Husband.”
“Would you and your husband consider letting the boy stay with you? I can request emergency approval for you as foster parents, although I’m afraid the stipend checks would be delayed at least a month.”
“I don’t think you understood. He’s not my son.”
“Yes,” Colt shouted toward the phone, “I am.”
“He needs to go back where he came from, wherever that is.”
“Boys who run away from home,” Ramona said quietly, “are often better off not going back. That’s not the department’s official policy, so I’d appreciate it if you don’t repeat that, but I thought you should hear it.”
“Him staying with us is not an option.”
Ramona sighed. “Ok. There’s a juvenile residential facility in Jefferson City—”
“You want me to put him in a detention center?”
“—or a group home in Franklin County.”
“You’re joking, right? Do you know what happens in those places? In both of them?”
“We do everything possible to ensure that the children in our custody are safe.”
“I’m sure that’s a huge relief to all the kids who get—” Hazard remembered Colt and cut himself off.
“Those are your options,” Ramona said. “There aren’t any foster families available right now. You can drop him off at one of those locations; I’ll text you the addresses. Or I can pick him up myself, but it won’t be until tonight; I’ve got my hands full with an emergency.”
“Are you hearing this?” Hazard asked Colt. The boy still had his jaw set for a fight. “A group home or a detention center?”
“A residential facility,” Ramona said in Hazard’s ear.
“Just tell me who your parents are, and I’ll get you back to them.”
“You,” Colt said. His voice was thick. “You’re my dad.”
“For the love of God, kid.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Hazard. I need to go. Please call me and leave a voicemail letting me know what you decide.”
The call disconnected. Hazard tossed the phone on his desk.
“I’ll run away,” Colt said. “You can take me wherever you want, but I’ll run away. They can’t make me stay.” He shoved his hands into the jacket’s pockets. “And I won’t bother you again, so you don’t have to worry about that.”
“This is a fucking nightmare,” Hazard said.
“Sorry I’m such an inconvenience.”
“This is my own personal fucking nightmare.”
Colt stared at a point behind Hazard. His face was rigid as he struggled to control himself.
“Mother. Fucker.” Hazard stood. “Come on. Get your ass in gear.”
“I’ll run away—”
“I heard you,” Hazard snapped. “I’m taking you to school. Because that’s what kids do. They go to school. I’ll pick you up this afternoon. Jesus Christ.”
Colt swallowed, and it looked difficult, like he had a knot in his throat.
“I said get your ass in gear,” Hazard said.
“You’re not taking me to one of those places?”
“What the fuck did I just say?”
Colt swallowed again. He rubbed his knuckles under his chin. After a moment, he nodded.
“Fuck my life,” Hazard said as shepherded the boy toward the door.
His phone buzzed as he was locking up the office.
“What?” he asked as he answered.
Somers’s voice sounded tight. “What are you doing?”
“Enrolling him in school.”
For a moment, whatever emotion was constricting Somers’s speech seemed forgotten as he asked, “What? Why?”
“I’ll tell you later.” Hazard jabbed a finger at the stairs to get Colt moving, and the boy threw him the bird. “What’s up?”
“The sheriff’s department has a murder on their hands, and they want both of us to help.” Somers cleared his throat. “Ree, it’s a weird one.”
CHAPTER FIVE
NOVEMBER 1
FRIDAY
12:07 PM
WHEN SOMERS SPOTTED THE unmarked car coming up the dirt drive, he let out a groan.
The call from the sheriff had caught him just as he was walking into the station—a request for Somers, who had handled more murder investigations in the area than anyone except Hazard, to take a look at a probable homicide. He had driven twenty minutes outside of town, taken a frontage road for another half mile, before following a gravel country road a few more miles. The final stretch, a dirt driveway almost a mile long itself, had Somers wincing as the Mustang rocked over chuckholes, ridges, and ruts. With the exception of the house up the hill, fallow fields and dense woods spread in every direction.
And somehow, in spite of all that, Dulac had found him.
The unmarked vehicle, one of the Chevy Impalas that the Wahredua PD had favored while George Orear was over the motor pool, came to a stop immediately behind the Mustang. The driver was a young man—just past his mid-twenties—with dark hair, creamy skin, and the kind of freckles that people seemed to go crazy for. Gray Dulac had been Somers’s partner before Somers had been made chief; more than that, he was a friend.
A boyish grin split Dulac’s face. He hit the horn a few times, already screaming with excitement inside the car.
Ok. Friend was sometimes stretching the word.
As Dulac got out of the Impala, Somers had a glimpse of his new partner—Yolanda Palomo, a woman he’d hired out of Kansas City because she had a stellar record of closing cases and because, more importantly, she seemed like she could hold her own against Dulac. She was stocky, thick across the hips and shoulders, although the dark suit softened some of the lines. To judge by the tightness of her mouth, she was still adapting to her new colleague.
“Dude!” Dulac shouted as he jogged through the dust cloud still drifting up from the drive. He hit Somers at full speed, wrapping him in a hug and rocking both men to a staggering stop. “Holy shit, bro. You look fucking gorgeous!” At which point, he tried to lift him off the ground. “Married life looks drop-dead-fucking-beautiful on you.”
Laughing, Somers swatted him on the back of the head. “Put me down, dummy.” Up the hill, by the brick, ranch-style house that presumably had belonged to the victim, several of the sheriff’s deputies were watching, and Somers lowered his voice. “Gray, cut it out.”
Dulac set him down, and Somers straightened his uniform. He glanced over his shoulder. One of the deputies was snickering behind his hands while the other whispered something.
“Bro, look at that tan. Solid gold, man. Ten out of ten would recommend. Fuck. What did you do the whole time you were gone? Squats? Is it just the uniform? Because your ass is looking better than Emery’s.”
“Chief,” Palomo said.