After turning too quickly, she stumbled and almost fell rushing to the door. She closed the door behind her and moved a little more slowly across the porch and down the steps, her hands searching her pockets for her keys. If she had to go back in there . . .

She climbed into her Wagoneer and thanked God when the keys were in the ignition.

Summoning every ounce of resolve she possessed, she started the engine and shifted into drive, only then remembering to fasten her seat belt. Considering the way her head throbbed and the need to vomit along with the loopy feeling, she probably had a concussion, but that was another of those situations she couldn’t do anything about at the moment.

She held on to the steering wheel with both hands and drew in a deep breath, then another. She could straighten this out later. “It was an accident.”

The words rang hollowly in the air around her.

He’d attacked her. The weapon had discharged.

Accidental shooting. Maybe even self-defense. He had threatened her and her daughter.

What the hell had she been thinking, confronting him in the first place? Had she really expected the bastard to come clean with her? She was a better cop than this. Goddamn it.

She was losing it . . . or maybe she’d already lost it.

A man was dead. Possibly an innocent man. No way. Hell no. She refused to go that far. He was guilty of at least covering up numerous crimes, possibly even murder. Her lips tightened. Oh yes. Every instinct she had honed over the years as a detective warned that he was the one.

Curve.

Her breath stalled in her lungs. She shoved her foot down on the brake.

Too late. The car spun, sliding sideways.

She missed the curve.

The ditch rose up to meet her.

2

TEN DAYS EARLIER

Wednesday, June 6

9:15 a.m.

Birmingham Police Department

First Avenue North

Major Investigations Division

“I’m not happy about this.” Kerri shook her head, dug her fists deeper into her waist. “How did I draw the short straw?”

Lieutenant Dontrelle Brooks leaned far enough back in his chair that if not for the credenza behind him, he might have actually tipped over. The sharp creases in his white shirt stood at attention; his tie lay expertly knotted at his throat. He could land the coveted cover of GQ as the best-dressed cop in America. Too bad the look wouldn’t last long. By noon his crisp white shirt would be wrinkled and his blue-and-red-striped tie loosened the slightest bit from dealing with frustrating situations, not unlike this one, that he would just as soon ignore.

“Detective Falco needs a top-notch detective to teach him the ropes.” The LT flared his big hands—hands that had collared more than his fair share of perps before ending up pushing around pencils and shuffling resources. “You’re the best in the division, Devlin. What’s the big deal? You were once a new detective. If Boswell hadn’t wanted you as a partner, you think you’d be the next in line for a promotion to sergeant at this stage in your career?”

Trent Boswell had been her partner for seven years, until he’d retired last month. He had been the best partner any detective could ask for. A good cop, a good man. Falco, on the other hand, was rumored to be a pain in the ass who had skated on the edge his entire too-short career. He had more reprimands than anyone in the Birmingham Police Department. Frankly, Kerri didn’t see how the hell he’d made detective, much less found his way into Major Investigations. Being a good detective was about a lot more than passing a written exam. A cop’s record, bearing, and attitude came into play with equal gravity. She assumed the guy had unearthed a dirty little secret on someone high enough up to make a difference, because he didn’t have the record, the bearing, or the attitude to hold the rank—in her possibly not-so-humble and entirely unobjective opinion.

She hated that kind of double-dealing.

But she got it now. “In other words, I’m being punished for being a good cop?”

Brooks rolled his eyes. “Enough with the grief, Devlin. You know how this works.”

Before she could launch her next wave of protest, he stopped her with a caveat: “Just give this arrangement a month. If you’re not happy with him as your partner, then we’ll consider other options.”

The lie rolled glibly off his tongue, but the body language told the real story. His shoulders had slumped forward, and he immediately averted his gaze from hers. She was stuck with Falco until he quit or got himself fired or dead.

The more likely scenario was that his cocky, completely irreverent attitude would get her dead.

Damn it.

“Whatever you say, sir.” Might as well back away from the brick wall in front of her and get on with this new arrangement. Her only option at this point was to figure out the deal with Falco and how he’d reached the rank of detective in spite of his rocky record.

Learn his secrets and gain some measure of leverage.

As exasperating as it was to be stuck with the new guy, considering all she’d heard about him, she had rank over Falco, and she had every intention of using that seniority to see that he played by her rules. End of story.

Brooks nodded. “You’ve always been a good team player, Devlin. Your flexibility is duly noted and appreciated.”

Blah blah blah. She barely held her own eye roll in check.

Not trusting herself to respond, she nodded and exited the LT’s office. She walked the length of the bullpen, hesitated before reaching the cubicle she and Boswell had shared. Making detective had been her goal from the day she’d decided she wanted to be a cop. Being assigned to Birmingham’s brand-new Major Investigations Division had been the icing on the cake. This division was the first of its kind, encompassing not only Birmingham proper but the communities that surrounded it, like Hoover, Mountain Brook, Vestavia, and half a dozen others. The cream-of-the-crop detectives from those same communities had been selected to serve alongside BPD’s finest. Crimes that rose to the level of crossing local jurisdictions fell under the purview of Major Investigations.

Day one as partners she and Boswell had adjusted their small space so that their desks faced each other, their file cabinets were out of the way, and the shared case board was front and center. Now she was rethinking that arrangement. Separate work spaces would be far more tolerable under these new circumstances. Otherwise she would be stuck face to face with Falco, every hour of every day in the office.

Thank God a good portion of their time would be in the field. Then again, partners spent a lot of hours cramped up in a vehicle together doing surveillance or tracking down leads.

She heaved a big breath. This arrangement was going to be endlessly challenging and utterly irritating. Be that as it may, it was her duty to try and make it work. Good team player.

“Hey, Devlin,” this new partner of hers said as she approached their shared work space. “How’d things go with the boss?”

She stared at him. In light of the fact that he hadn’t been here when she’d gone into the LT’s office, he had obviously nosed around to learn her whereabouts. “My meeting with the boss was private, Falco. Do you grasp the concept of privacy?”

He held up his hands in surrender. “I got you, Devlin. I definitely didn’t mean to get all up in your business or anything.”

She kept to herself the first snarky response that came to mind. Make the best of the situation. At some point today, they should discuss his wardrobe and appearance. Worn-out jeans, wrinkled shirts, and scuffed biker boots were not appropriate attire for a detective representing the Major Investigations Division. His beard-shadowed jaw and shaggy hair didn’t make the cut either. Giving him grace, she reminded herself he was new. It was her job to ensure he was properly oriented.

“Unless you got some other private business”—Falco stood and reached for his vintage lightweight leather jacket—“we just landed our first case together. A homicide.”

Wait. Wait. Wait. Kerri shook her head. “How did we land anything?”

He shrugged into that beat-up jacket she decided wasn’t really vintage, just abused. “No clue,” he said. “Sergeant Gordon handed it off like two minutes ago.”

“Sykes and Peterson are up.” She’d scarcely filed her final report on the Hayden case.

“The story is,” Falco explained, “Sykes and Peterson got caught up in a robbery at their Starbucks stop this morning.”

Great. She grabbed the keys on her desk and the large dark-roast black coffee she’d picked up at a drive-through and hadn’t yet had the chance to drink. “We’ll take my vehicle.”

Falco’s reputation as a reckless driver preceded him. To date he had wrecked two official vehicles in his five-year career.

“Suit yourself. Did I mention this is a two for one?”

Two vics? Not good. “What’s the address?”

Kerri headed for the stairwell exit. Whoever and whatever the circumstances, the double homicide had been handed off to MID. There would be a clear and undeniable reason. Cops were territorial. No one liked someone else bulldozing into their jurisdiction without justifiable cause.