Read the first 3 Chapters of DARK LIES…

Prologue

His will be the last face I see.

The monster in sheep's clothing. A true predator. 

I went through all the stages of grief. Whizzed through them in record time. All those times I wondered what it would feel like to sit across from a stone-faced doctor and have him give you the news. It's cancer. Terminal cancer. Only I got the shortened, drive-thru version of that scenario. No cancer. Just assured death. No 'get your affairs in order'. No 'we'll support and comfort you'. Just straight to a nightmare end. 

Denial lasted all of a minute. He used handcuffs, the good ones. None of those playful, fuzzy ones lovers used in a sexy game of submission. I yanked so hard, my arm popped free of my shoulder. The skin peeled away from my hand. Like a glove, I thought. Hadn't there been a book like that, where the person freed themselves from a handcuff by peeling off their skin? Or was I thinking about that story with the guy who'd cut off his arm to save his life? That took far longer than the fifteen minutes I had before water seeped in around me. That ended denial. It was happening. Death was going to meet me at the other end no matter how hard I tried. 

Isolation came next but that was easy. I was alone in the car. The monster stayed on shore, lingering to watch as I drowned. I was absurdly glad his features, his evil smirk were muted by the surrounding night. 

Frigid, slimy water rolls over the tops of the open windows. It pools around my feet, around my flip-flops. They'd find me in flip-flops. Should have worn better shoes. The funny things you think of when it's all going to shit. 

Anger. That was a given. I screamed at him through the half-open windows. Hollow threats that they would get him. That he would be brought to justice. He is smart. True evil requires brains. Bargaining came next but it was fleeting. I begged for my life only long enough to realize that a murderer's version of orgasm was hearing their victim plead. What was a horrific murder without a little begging? 

Will it be called horrific? Will anyone miss me? Have I pissed off enough people to produce a few 'how tragic' comments murmured behind fake tears? 

Cold water pools around my ankles. It's only water but it looks murky and menacing. I swallow and taste the rusty, decaying scent of the water. By morning, the sun will heat the surface of the lake. Boys will come fishing with their dads. Young lovers will tease each other to distraction during a mid-day swim. Birds and squirrels will land on the beach to take sips of the cool water. The water has a musty smell. It reminds me of swimming with friends in the pond behind our house. My hair would smell of moss for a week. 'Becca, you smell like sewage,' Dad would say. He was always a fucker. 

Depression came with its own story. It seems the myth is true. Your life passes before your eyes when you face certain death. Once the true darkness sank in, I was suddenly that girl again, in my small, pathetic hometown. The girl everyone wanted but no one could have. My friends were so envious of my popularity. No one ever asked me if I wanted it. If someone had given me the choice between having my pick of the boys in town or an entirely different family, I wouldn't have thought twice. It would have been the family every time. 

My free hand drags through the water as if I am checking the temperature of bathwater. I am going to miss bubble baths. Maybe most of all. The thin scribble of ink, a tattoo from my teens, is illuminated by the streaks of moonlight. They teased me as the girl no one could have, but there had been someone. Just one. No one knew. I hid the tattoo under a watch. 

The tattoo takes me back again. I can't seem to stay out of my past. Is this part of it all? Part of dying? 

I'm sitting in my dad's big armchair. It smells of his stale cigarettes and the general stench of my hateful old man. Any other day, I never would have sat there. Any other day, he would have yanked me by the arms and thrown me across the room. But that day, the day of my grandmother's funeral, I stared at him as I sat in it, letting him know I was going to sit in his chair and that was that. Nonna was the only person I cared about, the only anchor in my life, and when she died, I was lost, alone. Neighbors and friends floated in and out of the house bringing coffee cakes and casseroles, none of them staying long. They all loved my grandmother. They spent hours quilting and baking and having coffee with her. My parents were better in very small doses, if at all. Through the haze of my grief, I kept staring at Greta Harvey's glasses. They were crooked, leaning severely to the right. I stared at her tilted glasses as she carried a pot of beef stew into the kitchen, as she leaned over to give my mother a stiff hug. I stared at them as she bent down to touch my cheek, her own ample cheeks rolling up into a sympathetic smile. I sat on my hands to keep myself from reaching up and straightening out those damn glasses. The funny things you think about when it's all going to shit.

The water reaches my knees. My feet are numb from the cold. Blood trickles from my torn up wrist, the wrist that is going to be the cause of my death. In tenth grade, Samuel Peters grabbed my wrist. He told me it was so small he could break it into a million pieces with a good squeeze. I dared him to do it. That was me. Not the girl who yanked her wrist free to give him the slap he deserved. I was the girl who dared him to do it. If only Samuel were here now, crushing my wrist so that I could fold my hand and pull it free from my shackle. 

I stare down at my thighs. The blood is mixing with the clammy water. The sliver of moon somehow manages to find me in my watery grave, to illuminate my imminent death. Summer shorts. I am going to die in my denim cutoffs. It is exactly what I would choose to wear if someone told me, 'you're going to die today, choose your wardrobe wisely'. I would have skipped the flip-flops. The funny things you think of when it's all going to shit. 

The water level reaches my belly button. Why is it taking the car so long to sink? Aren't cars impossibly heavy? My heartbeat races as some of the earlier rage reappears. What a bastard. What a goddamn bastard. His image is only a silhouette now, a familiar silhouette. His elbows stick out as his hands casually rest in his pockets as if he is just somebody's dad or thoughtful boyfriend, out for an evening stroll, out to watch the stars peel out of the darkness. The only thing missing is the cup of coffee in his hand. 

The car is filling faster now. Water weight brings it to the bottom of the lake. How deep is it? Will they find me? I hope they don't. I prefer to spend eternity with the fish in the lake. I imagine them using the car as a reef, a coral reef. Did that only happen in salt water? Why didn't he drown me in the ocean where I could become part of a coral reef? The funny things you think of when it's all going to shit. 

I stretch my neck as long as it will go. A bit of denial comes back to tease me, then acceptance washes over me again. Just like the cold, slimy water that has nearly filled the cab. A moment of terror seizes me as I think about what it will be like to have that same slick, mossy water fill my throat, my lungs, my body. Then I remind myself—relax, this won't be so bad. 

After all, this isn't the first time you've died.

Chapter One

Logan stared down at the lump at the end of his arm. It had only been two days, but he'd nearly forgotten what his hand looked like, the rounded knuckles, the slim veins, the dent from his wedding ring that never seemed to go away. Swelling made moving his fingers pure torture, and the deep cut, where the medic had removed the asshole's front tooth, seemed to be oozing something that shouldn't be oozing from any part of his body. The medic, a young kid who looked as if he was still closer to acne than to razor burn, asked if it was worth it. Logan hadn't hesitated. He'd nodded. "Yeah, it was worth it."

All of it was still in his head, crystal clear as if his brain had captured everything on video, in high definition. Clearest of all were those brown eyes, the eyes of the five-year-old girl staring up at him from the cage her father kept her in, the four by four prison complete with chains and a flat dog bowl filled with filthy water. The horrid smell of the place, human waste, mold, stale food was stuck in his nostrils. The seven-year-old was right next to her, in her own chain-link prison. She was as small as her sister, both girls too malnourished to grow. Worst of all, their dead mother was lying on the floor next to the cages. And then there was dad, the man who should have protected them, cared for them, fed them, loved them. He sat on the crumbling front steps of his rundown house, his hands bound behind his back as he yelled at the police to get off his property. When the social worker tried to walk past him to enter the house, the scumbag shot his foot out, dislodging the unsuspecting woman's kneecap. She collapsed, screaming in pain. 

It had been the last straw for Logan. He snatched the creep by the collar and pounded him, using his weaker left fist as a precaution. The right would have killed him in three blows. And every blow was pure delight. As he obliterated the features, as the cheekbone gave way and the nose sank into the cavity between the two beady eyes, as the teeth broke out, one landing right in Logan's knuckle, as blood covered his hand and the asshole's face so heavily it was impossible to know the source, Logan told himself this would probably cost him his job. But it was worth it.

Castillo's voice rumbled through the thick glass panes of his office. Someone on the other end of the phone had him plenty mad. That was going to make it worse for Logan. He leaned his head back against the cold plaster wall behind him, closed his eyes and adjusted his ass on the hard bench. It was that day in tenth grade all over again. Sitting outside Principal Halbert's office, his hand tucked in the ice pack the nurse had wrapped around it, waiting to be suspended for throwing his fist into Caleb Dixon's face. Dixon had deserved it too, only Logan's motive for hitting him hadn't been for the right reasons. Jeremy West had always been teased mercilessly. He was the quintessential nerd. Every high school had one, but Jeremy was really top of the line. Becca had had it with the teasing. She shoved Caleb hard and he shoved back, hard enough to push her down. Logan's fist shot straight into Dixon's jaw. He wasn't protecting Jeremy, but he should have been. Jeremy never deserved the shit he got. Never. 

"Coop, my man. Hang in there, buddy," Detective Gregor's voice jarred Logan from his grim thoughts. He was always wearing that same clownish grin. "Hey, we're all pulling for you. That animal deserved everything you gave him and more." Gregor was one of those good ole boys who liked to be liked. He was that guy who always sat at the popular kid's table, and they let him because he brought his mom's chocolate chip cookies to share. Without the cookies he would have been toast. He was an okay guy who probably talked far too much about the 'amazing' sex he was having with his girlfriend, but he was a sloppy detective. He left too many stones unturned. He was too busy wanting everyone to like him to worry about nailing shut a case. 

Gregor glanced down at Logan's hand and swallowed hard, pretending he wasn't grossed out. "Wow, that's gnarly." His gaze shot toward the captain's office to make sure Castillo wasn't witnessing the interaction. After all, Logan was that kid on the bench in front of the principal's office, and Gregor was the kid who wanted to be pals with everyone as long as it didn't get him in trouble. "Good luck, buddy." 

Logan nodded. Gregor had never been his buddy. Logan couldn't see any scenario in any period of time in any place in the world where that would've been the case. Castillo was still cussing someone out on the phone. Maybe he'd blow off all his steam on the call and have nothing left, Logan thought as he leaned forward, resting his arms on his thighs. His head was pounding.

The clamor in the precinct wasn't any different than any other day. The woman whining at the front desk, pestering the police technician behind the glass window to arrest her neighbor for constantly allowing his sprinklers to hit her car. The drunk guy sitting outside the processing room, trying futilely to get free of his restraints while spitting and cursing at the arresting officers. The phones ringing endlessly and the mix of voices and occasional laughter, it all played continuously like an infinite loop. The chaos never stopped. Normally, Logan could tune it out, but his hand throbbed and his head ached and he just wanted to be at home on his threadbare couch with a cold beer at his side and his feet up on the wobbly coffee table. 

Logan's phone vibrated. Out of habit, he reached for it with his left hand, stopping just short of shoving it painfully into his pocket. He leaned back and reached across to pull it free. Vicki. Seeing the name gave him the usual charge in the chest, the twinge, the twist that came knowing he was going to hear her voice. 

"Hey, Vick. What's up?"

"Did I catch you at a bad time?" It was a soft, silky voice. One that Logan just couldn't free from his head no matter how hard he tried. "It sounds like you're at the station."

"Sitting outside the principal's office," he said wryly.  

"What?" 

"Nothing. What's up?"

"You sound down. Are you taking care of yourself?" she asked. 

"Not sure what you mean. I eat. I sleep. I shit. Guess I'm doing everything that I'm supposed to be doing." And all of it without you, he thought afterward.

She clucked her tongue. "I'm going to take that as a no." A pause followed. It was long enough that Logan pulled his phone from his ear to see if the call had been dropped. He heard his name again, slipping off those soft pink lips, lips he'd never kiss again. He pushed the phone back against his ear. 

Vicki's breath whispered through the phone. "I wanted to tell you before you heard it from a family member or mutual friend—"

Logan chuckled. It was short and dry. "There aren't any mutual friends, Vick. They all ended up in your court. Tell me what?" Castillo's voice was a low rumble. He seemed to be finishing the call. Logan was waiting to be slammed once he stepped inside the captain's office. What he wasn't expecting was to be slammed as he waited outside the door. 

"I'm pregnant," she said it fast as if blurting it would soften the impact. "Rick and I are expecting a boy in October. I thought you should hear it from me. I didn't want to send it in a text."

Polite of her. I'll drive the ice pick into your heart over the phone and not in a text. 

"Logan?" she said tentatively.

Logan sat up straighter, suddenly finding it hard to catch a decent breath in his slouched position. "Yeah, wow, October. That's only a few months away." He stared down at his hand hoping he could focus on how badly it hurt. It would lessen the sting of the conversation.

"I didn't want to take a chance by announcing it too early. We've been keeping it to ourselves. I've been camouflaging it as much as possible. I didn't want to let people know just in case—well—you know." 

Logan knew, he knew so fucking well that he could taste bile in his throat just thinking about it. The first time was short. They'd barely had time to absorb it when suddenly the baby was gone. It hurt but it had been just a mere whisper, a few weeks of nervous joy at the prospect of having a baby. The second time fate was a little crueler. They'd told everyone and even allowed themselves the fun of debating whether it would be a boy or girl. Vicki had started reading parenting books and there were brochures on the safest cribs and car seats. Logan woke in the middle of the night to sobbing. Vicki was in the bathroom. The doctor hadn't confirmed it but she knew. Baby two was gone. The marriage was growing more fragile. Third time wasn't a charm. Logan remembered every detail of the night when Vicki's mom called him. It was raining and they'd just found a body in the bottom of a ravine. He saw Margaret's name on the screen and he knew. It was over… again. This time he hadn't allowed himself to imagine himself a father, to imagine himself cursing and throwing tools as he tried to put together the crib, to imagine himself sitting up at night cradling a baby, his baby. But Vicki had. She'd felt a kick. She'd connected with the tiny life inside of her. This time she wanted answers. She needed to know why. One young doctor, a confident, cocksure guy with a narrow face and long nose had mentioned incompatibility. One word and that was it. The marriage fell apart so fast, Logan had no chance to stop it.

"Cooper, get in here!" Castillo bellowed loud enough that every head in the precinct turned. 

"I've got to go, Vick. I'm really happy for you both." Apparently, Rick and Vicki were compatible. Maybe it was the rhyming names. "Take care." 

Logan hung up and put the phone away. Castillo had already turned around and gone back into his office. Logan pushed up from the bench. Standing made the pressure in his hand worse, and it seemed to shoot right up to his aching head. If he was fired, he'd take a long vacation. Maybe somewhere remote. Somewhere ex-wives, angry police captains and kiss ass coworkers couldn't find him.

Chapter Two

Captain Castillo didn't look up from the folder on his desk as Logan walked into his office. The dank little space smelled of anger and sweat and the menthol cough drops Castillo was always sucking on. Logan had surmised the drops were to soothe his throat from all the yelling. Logan had worked with Castillo out in the field. He was a good detective, one of the best. He moved up the ranks quickly. More than once Logan had heard him mutter that he would have preferred the field to his office any day. Castillo had allowed himself to get pasty white and pillowy soft sitting in that chair behind the desk. He was only fifty, eleven years older than Logan, but his hair was thinning and he was always sweating. Even today, with the noisy air conditioner in the room blasting out cool air, there was a sheen of sweat on his forehead, a forehead that grew more exposed from hair loss each day.

"Close the damn door," Castillo barked even though Logan was already pushing it shut. Logan figured he was in for a yell session. The door didn't need to be open. This half of the precinct would hear it anyhow. 

Castillo picked up a pen to sign his name on something. "Take a seat, Coop." There wasn't as much anger in his tone as Logan expected. Maybe that was because the next words were going to be 'turn in your badge'. That didn't need yelling or anger. Those words could be said without any emotion, just a straightforward command. 

Logan picked the chair on the right because the one on the left was so wobbly it rocked back and forth with every movement. He didn't mind it on days after a successful investigation when he was feeling cocky and sure of himself, but with the pain in his head and hand and the prospect that he had just ended his career, he wanted four steady legs beneath him. 

Castillo put down the pen with a clamor and rested back. His chair squeaked as if he'd just sat back on a family of mice. He peered at Logan over the mountain of paperwork on his desk. "Do you think the job I have is easy, Cooper? Do you think I'm in here painting my fucking fingernails and answering calls from sweet little grannies who can't find their lost cats?"

Logan stared back at him for a long moment. "I'm going to assume those are rhetorical questions."

"Are they?" Castillo's voice was raised a few decibels but still not at its usual pitch for a good shouting session. "Cuz it seems you think that's what's happening in here. Otherwise, you wouldn't pull shit like you did. Otherwise, you wouldn't have decided to go all fucking vigilante on that scumbag. Now I've got internal affairs breathing down my neck. They want to know why my detective, my best detective I might add, decided to turn someone's face into hamburger."

"He deserved it."

Castillo sat forward so fast the chair rolled into the desk. "Don't you think I know that? I saw the photos of those little girls, treated worse than people treat their dogs. Fuck, far worse. My dog has his own couch. Can you imagine that? The wife bought him a designer couch to match the furniture in the living room. But guess where that dog is laying every time I go to sit down in my easy chair." Castillo grabbed a lozenge and fiddled with the cellophane wrapper. "Shit."

Logan figured he'd brought up the dog story to soften the blow when he asked for his badge.

Castillo was about to stick the clear red drop in his mouth but thought better of it. Yelling at someone wasn't as effective with one cheek stretched out with a cough drop. Logan would just as soon not have to perform the Heimlich on the sweaty captain. 

"The point is, Logan," his voice had lowered, and he was calling him by his first name. Maybe he'd used up all his rage on the phone call after all. "Any one of us would have liked to pound that asshole's face into pulp, but we don't do it. Do you know why?"

"Because it hurts." Logan held up his hand. 

Castillo flinched. "Jesus. Not because it hurts. Because it's not protocol. We don't beat the shit out of suspects because that's not how things work."

"Should I turn in my badge?"

"Give me a good reason not to ask for it?"

"You just said it. I'm your best detective." The dull ache in Logan's head seemed to be spreading over his entire skull. If he was being fired, he just wanted to get it the fuck over with. Drop the guillotine blade already. 

"Do you like this job, Coop?"

What was with all the off-brand questions? Castillo was normally straight to the point. Maybe this time the point was more painful than a reprimand. Maybe this time he was working up to some shitty news. Turn in your badge and get a lawyer. That would do it. That would put the topper on Logan's day. 

Logan thought about Vicki's phone call. He thought about his crummy little apartment that didn't allow pets yet still smelled like urine. Vicki had taken the dog too. It was for the best she'd kept insisting. Logan looked up from his pulpy left hand. Castillo had shoved the cough drop in after all. His cheek stuck out like a hamster's. 

"This job is all I've got." The words that were supposed to stay packed in his head rolled out of his mouth.

What was that in Castillo's face? Genuine concern? Not possible. "Then why do you take such chances?" The desk phone rang. Castillo held up his finger. "Don't move. We're not through yet."

"Castillo here." His dark brows moved up and down on his sweaty forehead. He sucked on the cough drop as he listened to the voice on the other end. He nodded as if the person could see him. "Right, then that's the way the report will read. Yep. Yep." Castillo glanced briefly my direction. "He's in my office right now. Right. Right. Yep." He hung up. 

"The suspect is dead." 

Logan felt the breath go out of him.

"Not from injuries," Castillo continued, "so you can take that look off your face. The officer we positioned outside his door got distracted by some squabble down the hall. Probably staged to distract him. In the meantime, someone slipped into his hospital room and turned up the morphine drip. That asshole had it easy. Just drifted off in a nice, cushy drug induced sleep. They're investigating it. Once the story got out about how those two little girls were treated—let's just say, he wasn't a respected member of society."

Logan sat forward. His head felt like a lead ball. Numbness was wearing off, and his hand was starting to feel as if someone was hammering it consistently with a mallet. 

"We're writing it up as resisting arrest. The suspect became violent. That poor young social worker, who needs a whole new knee just to walk again, can attest to that."

"So that's it?" Logan asked. 

The cough drop crunched between Castillo's teeth. "Nope. The higher-ups have made it mandatory that you attend therapy sessions to deal with your anger issues."

Logan stood up. "No fucking way am I sitting on a shrink's couch pouring out all my mommy and daddy issues. That therapy crap is bullshit."

Castillo held out his palm. "Then hand over the badge."

Logan stared down at Castillo. The captain didn't flinch or show even an ounce of emotion as he stared up at him. He was serious. It was therapy or the badge. It took Logan longer than he would have expected to make the decision. 

"Fuuck." Logan turned to leave. The captain tossed another zinger before he could escape. That couch and cold beer were calling him more than ever. 

"Your first session is tomorrow," Castillo said. Logan turned back around. His head and hand hurt too much to argue. "You'll go twice a week for six months or until the therapist signs off on it. I'll text you the contact information once I get it. Report back to duty next Monday, and that hand better look like a hand and not a clay sculpture my four-year-old might make."

"Right. I'll get to work on that," Logan said dryly. Before he could turn to the door, Castillo had one more blow.

"Your new partner starts Monday." He tossed the next bomb out as if he was just telling Logan that it was hot outside. 

"No partner," Logan said. "You know I work better without one."

"New protocol. Chief wants everyone partnered up. That way detectives are safer. It also keeps them from going rogue—you know—beating the shit out of suspects."

"Christ," Logan muttered. "Not Gregor. Don't pair me with Gregor."

"It's not Gregor." He shuffled through the papers on his desk, pushing aside thick folders until he found the page he was looking for. "Detective Reggie Hawkins is from down south, from Los Angeles." 

"Shit, not one of those tofu eating, Kumbaya clowns from Southern California. Fuck, what did I do to deserve—" Logan cut himself short. His throbbing hand was an instant reminder of what he'd done to deserve it. 

Castillo held the slightly crumpled paper in his hand. "It says Reggie graduated first in her class from the academy. Detective Hawkins comes with high recommendations from her superiors."

Logan froze to the spot and stared at Captain Castillo. "I'm going to assume you said 'her' accidentally."

Castillo tossed the paper aside. "Assume all you want. By the way, Google Santa Cruz in the 1960s if you want to know where the Kumbaya bullshit came from. You're working right along sidewalks and beaches that were once covered by hippies. Don't know where tofu started but once a week, Gina tries to stick it in a casserole or stew, thinking I'm not going to notice. By the way, the transfer paper says Hawkins has a positive attitude. I'm hoping it rubs off on you."

Logan laughed but cut it short when the reverberation hit his aching skull. He reached the door.

"And, for fuck's sake, get a life. If this job was all I had, I'd be pounding faces too," Castillo barked.

"Thanks for the pep talk, Cap'n."

"I'll send you the contact information for the therapist as soon as I get it."

"Great." Logan walked out of the office. Plenty of curious expressions turned his direction. 

"How did it go?" Gregor popped out from nowhere. He must have been lingering in the hallway waiting for Logan to leave the office.

"How does any meeting with Castillo go?" Logan left him with the answer that wasn't really an answer at all. Therapy and a new partner. Why the hell didn't Castillo just ask for his badge?