Asher (Inked Brotherhood 1)

At least, he used to. No idea if he still does that now.

I walk past my old house, disturbed at the changes I can see. The porch is now painted a garish green, and the rose bushes have been cut. No curtains hang at the windows; they’re bare, like watching eyes.

Shivering, I hurry toward Ash’s house on the corner lot. I’m almost there when I notice the police car and the EMT truck sitting on the other side.

And the yellow tape.

I back away, though not before two policemen who’re cooling their heels outside the car see me and call for me to wait.

So I do, my heart racing. What the hell happened? Is Ash okay?

“Good day, miss.” The first officer has a goatee and an open, friendly face. “Couldn’t help noticing you were going to ring the bell. What brings you here?

My pulse races. “I used to live nearby. I was passing through the neighborhood and thought to pay a visit.”

The other man, clean-shaven and with what seems to be a chronic scowl, gives me a once over. “Why are you here? What’s your relationship with the Devlins?”

What’s this—the good cop/bad cop routine?

“What happened here?” I ask.

The good cop glances at the house. “Mr. Devlin was found dead this morning. Do you know anything about it?”

Black spots dance in front of my eyes. “Asher?”

“Jake Devlin.” His eyes narrow. “Do you know where Asher Devlin is?”

Relief swamps me, and I struggle not to let it show. Not Asher. He’s alive.

The bad cop takes a menacing step closer. “I asked if you know where Asher Devlin is.”

“I have no idea.” And it’s the truth.

“When did you last see him?”

“Yesterday. Yesterday morning.”

“How did he seem to you?”

God. “Normal. I guess.”

The other policeman frowns and rakes a hand through his short, grey hair. “Do you know if Asher and his father were on good terms? Do you know if Asher ever threatened him?”

Is he suggesting what I think he is? “No, Ash would never...” I struggle to pull myself together. “Asher is a good guy.”

But his dad beat him. What if Ash fought back? Could anyone blame him?

And yet the idea makes me sick.

“Isn’t it true Jake and Asher Devlin often fought?” the scowling policeman asks. “That Jake Devlin beat his son?”

I swallow hard. What if saying yes incriminates Ash? “I don’t know.”

“Fine. May I see some ID, please?”

With trembling fingers I draw it out of my purse and show it to him. He examines it and jots down my name and ID number.

“Well, Ms. Morrison, if you happen to see or talk to Asher Devlin, please let us know.” The less intimidating officer passes me a card with his name and number. Then the two of them turn and head back to the police car.