Her Detective's Secret Intent

For a long moment she stared at Chantel. “You were Max’s first wife’s partner,” she said, verifying what the doctor for whom she worked had told her himself.

“That’s right.”

“You saw her die.”

“Yes.”

“And your sister-in-law, Julie. She was a victim.”

“Yes.”

“One who wasn’t believed for over a decade because her abuser had a lot of power...”

“Her brother always believed her. And it was her abuser’s father who really had the power, but he believed his son.”

Chantel was exhibiting patience, seemingly willing to take whatever route Miranda needed to get where they were going in this conversation.

“I can trust you.”

“Absolutely.”

She hadn’t been asking a question. “Tad told you that Jeff was my abuser,” she went on, guessing, but sure, too, based on what he’d said in the other room. Your father, he knew that Jeff was dead. As if that made her free. No shit he knew. She’d told him.

“Yes, he did.” And then, pinning Miranda with a steely look, Chantel asked, “Isn’t he?”

She shook her head, then collapsed, and this time it was Chantel who screamed for help.

Chapter 26

“Sam!” Chantel’s voice could be heard through most of the detective squad room. Tad, who’d been standing with Detective Sam Larson, locked eyes with the older man for a second before they both ran for the door of the women’s restroom, bursting inside without hesitation.

They were all trained in basic CPR.

“Get Ethan,” she said. “Bring him here.” She was talking to Sam, but Tad was going, too. If something had happened to that boy...

“Tad, stay here.” Chantel’s command was just that. A command. Not a request. Or open to options.

With a glance at the departing back of the detective, Tad forced himself to stand down. He had to admit he was influenced by Sam’s history; he’d just discovered the detective was married to a woman he’d promised to keep safe, only to have her first husband, a noted psychiatrist, find her and beat her almost to death.

“Jeff Patrick is not her abuser,” Chantel said, biting the words out with such anger, Tad didn’t question her.

“Who is?” The chief was wrong. The chief, who was never wrong.

“Her father.” Chantel’s words came in the same instant as recognition.

He went cold. Could feel the blood draining from his skin. And nausea forming. He’d led Miranda’s abuser to her doorstep.

His worst nightmare coming true.

He looked at her, huddled there, refusing to look back at him. He’d done this.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, throwing the door open. He pushed into the small bathroom next door, barely made it to the toilet and puked his guts out.

* * *

Miranda didn’t need Chantel’s urging to get up off the floor. To wash her face, pull herself together. Knowing that Ethan was on his way was enough to propel her outside herself and into doing whatever had to be done.

Within minutes of Sam’s leaving, Miranda was sitting in a kitchen with Chantel, drinking orange juice.