“Deal.” For once in his life, Mac wanted to be part of his family. Now he had to figure out how to make that happen. He’d been alone so long, anything else took thought and effort.
Hannah reached across the table and opened her hand. Mac took it. Grant placed a hand on each of their shoulders. The three of them were connected now in a way they hadn’t been since they’d faced all those survival challenges their father had set up for them. They were bound by their shared experiences.
But once there had been four of them.
Grief welled in Mac’s chest. Raw and sharp, it nearly choked him. Grant’s hand squeezed his shoulder. Mac swallowed hard. Lee had been gone for fifteen months, but the wound his murder left was still wide open, and the Colonel’s death had been a handful of salt.
Mac needed to deal with his pain before the scar it left was permanent.
Chapter Thirteen
Stella jerked awake. Her heart hammered. Her breaths bellowed in and out of her lungs as if she’d just run the academy obstacle course.
Trembling, she pushed her sweaty hair off her forehead. The nightmare had been vivid enough she could smell gunpowder, feel the stock of her AR-15 against her shoulder, and hear Lance groaning as she fired at the armed and fleeing suspect. But winging him hadn’t been enough. He’d gotten away. He’d gone on to kill two cops. Hannah and Brody had nearly died.
Swallowing the sickness rising in her throat, she got out of bed and stumbled to the shower. Not even the scalding water could completely wash away the nightmare. Dawn had not made an appearance yet when Stella tiptoed into the dark kitchen. The remnants of her nightmare lingered. Gunshots, blood, the sharp scent of gunpowder. A quick burst of panic kicked her adrenals into overdrive. Breathing deeply, she leaned on the counter, her fingers gripping the edge until she got her pulse under control. She hadn’t had a flashback in a long time. She’d thought she was over them.
But would she ever truly get over what had happened? Failure was tough to accept.
She turned on the overhead light and lifted the coffeepot, grateful that it was already full. Pouring herself a mugful, she drank half its contents standing over the sink. The caffeine hit her system and eased her lack-of-sleep headache. Three restless nights were beginning to take their toll.
The front door opened and her grandfather entered, fully dressed and carrying a camera rigged with a telephoto lens.
“You were working so late, I didn’t expect you to be up this early.” He kissed her cheek. Worried eyes scanned her face. It was impossible to hide anything from the retired NYPD homicide detective.
“I need to get to the station.” Stella had reviewed her case notes until she’d fallen asleep over the files.
“If you’re not going to sleep, you need to eat. Let me make you some breakfast.” Setting down his camera, Grandpa ignited a burner and set a frying pan on the stove. On cue, nails pattered on the tile as her sister’s French bulldog trotted into the room and sat at Grandpa’s feet, his oversize head cocked in expectation.
“What were you doing outside with the camera at this hour?” Stella leaned a hip on the counter. “Obviously you weren’t walking the dog.”
Snoozer wasn’t an early riser, unless there was food.
Grandpa added butter to the pan and retrieved a carton of eggs from the fridge. “Someone has been letting their dog crap on our lawn during the night. I’m going to find out who it is.”
Stella covered her grin by sipping from her mug.
“What? I still know how to conduct an investigation.” He pointed to the camera. “People should take responsibility. I’m tired of cleaning the kids’ shoes.”
“It’s probably a loose dog.”
“Then people should keep their dogs on leashes.” Grandpa cracked eggs into the pan one-handed. “I will find out who it is.”
“I don’t doubt you for a second.” Stella knew her grandfather would hunt their errant pooper like a bloodhound.
“You’d think three-acre lots would give people enough room for their animals on their own property.” He slid four slices of bread into the toaster. “You were late last night and now up early this morning. Tough case?”
“Several. Do you remember Missy Green?”
“Didn’t you hang around with her in high school?” He took two plates from the cabinet and poured Stella a glass of orange juice.
“Yes. She turned up dead on Monday.”
Grandpa paused, the carton in one veiny hand. “I’m sorry to hear that. She was a good kid.”
“She was tortured and killed. Then her body was dumped.” How many people could share that kind of information with a grandparent?