Total pages in book: 187
Estimated words: 174623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 174623 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 873(@200wpm)___ 698(@250wpm)___ 582(@300wpm)
All these things factor into how he should be handled if he shows up here looking for her.
I watch as Juliet decides it's safe to get out of her car, but before she can fully open her door, another car comes up, the front tire popping over the curb, the front end blocking the driveway.
"We've got a bogie," I say into my mic, moving in the direction of the car.
"No," I growl when Juliet straightens, looking as if she's ready to go to battle with this man.
She stays locked in place, eyes wide as the man exits the vehicle.
"Red Honda Civic," I say, knowing Max is in his office this time of day.
"Niner-three-six, Delta-Tango-Victor," Holler says, having a better view of the front plate than I have from my vantage point.
"Are my fucking kids in there?" the man growls as he comes around the front end of his car, barely wincing when he cracks his knee on the front bumper.
He's a little thing, something I've seen people online call a pocket man, but if he has a weapon, it doesn't matter what size he is. He can still be deadly.
I reach into my jeans, grabbing the gun in my appendix-carry holster.
"Wait," Holler warns, making me wonder if the guys have been debriefed on me.
"Travis Shaw," Max says through the mic. "Five-four, one-seventy-five. Brown hair and eyes. Father of Dean and Daisy, ex-husband of Dana, who all reside at Juniper."
"Sir, you can't be here," Holler says, his voice calm.
"Are my fucking kids inside that house?" the man rages.
"Mr. Shaw," Holler says, his own hand close to the gun on his hip. "It's advised that you leave this property."
The man stumbles over the grass connecting to the sidewalk, hitting his knees in a rush of gasped air. I'm four feet away from him, and even this far, I can smell the whiskey on his breath.
"I have a right to my fucking kids," he growls, struggling to get back on his feet.
"The restraining order against you says otherwise," I growl, fighting the urge to take a few steps closer and kick him in the face with my steel-toed boot.
"Front door open."
"Fuck," I growl under my breath without even looking back.
Everyone who lives and works here is advised not to open the door if there's a confrontation outside. We don't want whoever might be trying to gain access to have confirmation that they're here, but telling them that and them listening are apparently two different things.
"Baby!" the man yells, looking toward the house. "Baby, tell them. Tell them you love me."
The sound of sobs tickles the back of my ears, and I remember being the little boy who felt helpless and cried because there was nothing he could do to make the situation better.
"I love you, Dana. This is all a mistake."
"FPD en route," Max says over the radio. "Three minutes out."
"I've stopped drinking," the man says. "Dean, come to Daddy."
The sobs of the little boy grow louder.
"Ma'am, can you take the kids back inside?" Holler asks politely.
"Don't leave me!" the man screams, his fingers clawing at the dirt as he continues to try to stand, falling back to the ground repeatedly.
I don't know how he made it here without wrecking his car.
"I stopped drinking!" he repeats. "Baby, please. I can't live without you."
"You're drunk now," I growl. "Make it to your feet, and it'll be the last time you stand."
The man looks in my direction, his eyes wide as if this is the first time he has seen me.
"Who the fuck are you?" he snaps. "Are you fucking my old lady?"
The sound of sirens fills the air, but I don't lose my focus on the man until uniformed officers are at his side, placing him in handcuffs.
"You're in violation of a restraining order," the cop says as they pull him up, handcuffs in place.
"I didn't get near her," he growls.
"Court order says five hundred feet," the cop says, looking up at me.
"Eighty-seven to the front porch," I tell him.
"Drunk driving," the cop says as they all but drag him to their patrol car. "Reckless driving. Obstructing the sidewalk."
"I didn't fucking park there!" he rages, struggling to get away from them.
"Resisting arrest," the cop continues, unfazed by the man.
"This is harassment," the man snaps. "Let me go."
"Public intoxication. Disorderly conduct," the cop says as his partner opens the back door of the patrol unit. "Puke in the back of my car, and I'll add destruction of government property."
The cop gets him into the car, locking him inside before he can argue further.
He turns back to me, but my eyes are locked on Juliet, who is still standing by her car.
"Holler," I growl. "Give him what he needs. Make sure to issue a criminal trespass."
Normally, criminal trespasses aren't issued initially because revealing a victim's location brings more trouble, but since Dana Shaw stepped out onto the front porch, confirming that she and the kids are here, that extra step might as well be taken.