Grave Secrets (Manhunters 1)

“Make the pickup tomorrow night at eight, son, or I’ll find someone to run against you in the next election.”

Savannah pulled in a sharp breath. Lyle wouldn’t make that threat lightly. Without Hank in a position of power, Lyle also lost power.

“I’ll text you when they’re ready,” Lyle said. “Drop them at my house after you pick them up. I have to deliver at the end of the week.”

The door to Hank’s office jerked open. Lyle barged out of the room, saw Savannah, and stopped dead. His expression was familiar—furious and indignant. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

She straightened and crossed her arms. “Waiting to talk to Hank.”

He took one menacing step toward Savannah. Her gut hiccupped with fear, but she held her ground. “Looks like you’re eavesdropping.”

“Only someone with something to hide would think that.”

Hank stepped into the hall, scowling. His gaze jumped from Lyle to Savannah. “What the hell do you want?”

She forced her voice steady. “To talk about our son—unless that’s too much trouble.”

“Fuck,” he bit out, turning back into his office. “What the hell now?”

Savannah stepped around Lyle, glad to be out from under his icy stare, and entered Hank’s office. “I’m sorry discussing Jamison is such an inconvenience.”

“Shut up.” He dropped into the chair behind his desk and scanned the paperwork scattered there.

She was so sick of being treated like shit. She deserved so much better. Ian’s crooked smile flashed in her head. Yeah, that. That’s how she should be treated.

But then, Hank used to have a charming smile too.

He cracked a pen against his desk. “What?”

“You told me to shut up.” She forced her spine to steel. Forced attitude through the fear. “I know from past experience that if I speak without an invitation, I end up with your knuckles against my face.”

He gave her the you-fucking-bitch stare and stabbed a finger toward the door. “Shut that door.”

She ignored him. “I won’t be here long. I just wanted to point out the irrationality of fighting for full custody of Jamison.”

“Don’t start.”

“You can’t even hold up your end of visitation now. You’ve agreed to take him one night every two weeks, but he hasn’t spent any time with you in months.”

“I’m a little busy”—he gestured to his desk—“in case you haven’t noticed.”

“That’s my point.” She dropped the attitude and brought up a compassionate tone. “You’re always busy. Your job is important. The town depends on you. Taking full custody of Jamison would hinder yo

ur availability to the people who need you most.”

He pushed from the chair and approached in that menacing way that—in another life—would have had her backing away. Now she stood firm and held his gaze, even while her insides trembled.

“Don’t fuckin’ pretend you care,” he said, his voice low and rough. “You don’t tell me how things work. You don’t tell me how to spend my time or how to raise my son.” He lifted his hand, and Savannah flinched. But instead of hitting her, he jabbed a rigid finger against her chest. “You don’t walk away from me.”

“Stop stabbing at me.” Even as the words came out, she braced for a backhand against her cheek. “It hurts.”

He dropped his hands to his hips. “I told you that if you divorced me, you’d lose Jamison. And I’m a man of my word.”

“You also said you’d honor and cherish me on our wedding day.”

His eyes narrowed. “I also said until death do us part.”

A stream of ice coursed down the center of Savannah’s body.