The Single Dad's Holiday Match
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Tanya Agler
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CHAPTER ONE
NEVER BEFORE HAD the first week of any of Brooke Novak’s previous five jobs, all in different states, been quite so exhilarating or exhausting. The air of The Whitley Community Center now buzzed with an energy missing when she and her son, Colin, had carried her boxes to her new director’s office, the windows of which overlooked the Great Smoky Mountains of North Carolina.
Brooke halted on the staircase and smoothed a flyer she’d posted this morning for Trunk or Treat, one of two programs approved at her first staff meeting a few days ago. Her Halloween costume for the event hung in her temporary closet in Aunt Mitzi’s guest room. Until she and Colin found an affordable place to rent in town that would also take their rescued labradoodle, Daisy, they were staying with her favorite aunt, who hadn’t batted an eye when the dog bounded into her small house. Instead, Aunt Mitzi lavished attention on Daisy, who preened, and Colin, who pretended otherwise.
Although her son had voiced his disappointment about leaving his friends in Houston, not to mention his hard-fought spot on the varsity basketball team, Brooke softened the blow with a promise they’d remain here until he graduated Hollydale High. No more moving.
Besides, Aunt Mitzi was winning Colin over through his stomach. Last night he consumed three pimento cheese sandwiches and several helpings of her famous coleslaw. He’d even made a friend at school and asked if he could go white water rafting with Riley’s family.
With a smile, Brooke climbed the remaining stairs and entered the computer room where Olivia, the youth events coordinator, led a group of homeschoolers in a coding lesson. Brooke ran her finger over one of the black computer towers in desperate need of replacement with sleek modern equipment and faster connection speeds. Tablets with the latest learning apps were also a necessity.
Everywhere she turned, something needed improvement, and her list of expenditures for future purchases grew at an exponential rate. During her job interview, the primary benefactor and boss, Frederick Whitley, warned her she’d have her hands full considering the extent to which the previous director, Ray Hinshaw, neglected his job in his final year. Her six-month contract gave Mr. Whitley an out if she didn’t bring the center up to par.
Instead, she intended on giving him every reason to deliver a long extension, with her promise to Colin that they’d be staying in North Carolina a bonus incentive. Besides, only holding down one job instead of two, sometimes even three, was downright luxurious.
Her vision of this becoming a real community center, a place where residents could earn their high school GED or congregate for exercise, would take longer than six months, and she wouldn’t stop there. The town needed a food bank, and this location was the perfect place to help residents survive rough patches. She knew what it was like to want and need help as a kid. If Aunt Mitzi hadn’t sent Brooke’s mom a monthly check, Brooke would have gone to sleep hungry more often than she had.
Olivia glanced Brooke’s way and walked over. With her blond hair pulled up in a ponytail and her oversize striped oxford shirt, Olivia looked more like one of the students than their teacher. Just out of college, she was eleven years younger than Brooke, not to mention perky and peppy, two words that would never begin to describe herself. “The kids just started their assignment. What do you need?”
Brooke reached into her oversize crossbody purse and pulled out a pen and notepad. “I called another staff meeting for tomorrow morning, and I’m bringing pumpkin muffins from the Night Owl Bakery. What’s one thing that would make more teenagers want to come here for programs?”
“Food.” Olivia grinned and rubbed her stomach.
Brooke chuckled. “I should have known.” Thanks to Colin, that answer should have been obvious. Sixteen next month, her son was an endless pit and resembled a walking beanpole, his tall frame already at six feet. The three inches separating them didn’t seem like much, but he could pack away an olive-and-green-pepper pizza by himself and still have room for a salad and dessert. “Any thoughts on innovative programming?”
“I’ll ask the group of teens for suggestions when the lesson’s done, and I’ll also research some ideas tonight.”
Brooke’s phone buzzed. “Hold that thought.”
She checked her incoming text and then read it again. A police officer was waiting in the lobby for her. If that wasn’t enough, the desk attendant, Betty Ruddick, the sweetest septuagenarian Brooke had ever met, had included a flame emoji along with a thermometer in the red.
Olivia laid a hand on Brooke’s arm. “Is anything wrong?”
“I hope not. If you finish your report before the meeting, email it to me so I can review it. Thanks.”
Brooke hurried downstairs, her curiosity piqued. The officer’s back was to her, his police hat underneath his arm as he chatted with Betty. From the slope of his shoulders, Brooke didn’t sense urgency. Good thing, as Frederick Whitley had made it very clear his expectations of her as director included the center staying out of the news for anything other than positive publicity.
“Ruddick. I knew that name sounded familiar. Are you any relation to Mason, the local paramedic?” The officer’s strong voice echoed in the open lobby atrium, the natural light from the skylights flooding the area with sunny brightness.
“He’s my grandson.” Pride laced Betty’s words, and she glanced at Brooke. “Handsome as all get-out, if I do say so myself. I keep telling Brooke she needs to meet him. I’m not getting any younger, and Mason is taking his sweet time settling down. I’d like a great-grandchild while I can still hold him or her.”
Brooke laughed at another of Betty’s attempts to set her up with her grandson, who had to be a good five years younger than her. The officer turned around, and sunlight glinted off his short brown hair, making it appear almost blond. He was no slouch in the handsome category himself, with his hazel eyes and square jaw. When she stepped closer, he smiled, and the fine crinkles at the edges of his eyes jumped out, making him look slightly older than her original guess of thirty-five.
She extended her hand toward him. “I’m Brooke Novak, the new director. How may I be of service?”
“Officer Jonathan Maxwell.” His smile turned into a concerned straight line. “I have a few questions for you about the center. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“Is something wrong?” Not already.
He shifted his hat to his other arm. “I’d like to review some of the center’s security precautions with you.”
Her gaze flew to her office door, where she was still unpacking the boxes of books from her online college program. Being squished in like sardines with them might not be conducive to a serious conversation. Shuffling noises came from the direction of the gym, where some senior citizens were practicing their chair yoga positions with the instructor’s calm voice guiding them through the gentle moves for increased balance awareness. “Hold on a minute, and I’ll take you on a tour of the gardens.” Brooke closed the gym doors before grabbing her blazer from her office.
Today’s cream pantsuit was another of her bargain thrift store scores, and she smoothed the material to gain some confidence before escorting him through the electronic front door. In no time, Officer Maxwell matched her slow steps along the sidewalk. She wasn’t accustomed to being outside this time of day, and the coolness of mid-October in the Smoky Mountains would take some getting used to after the heat of Houston.
“Does the center employ a nighttime security guard?” He sure didn’t beat around the bush.
“Although I admire your bluntness, can you start over and fill me in on the purpose of this visit? Since I’m still composing the letter to the local sheriff about cooperation between the center and the police department, I gather this is official business.”
His gaze swept over the path ahead of them. “You’re right. I need information about your operating hours and your security detail.”
“That’s a rather broad statement. I’d like a reason for my answer first.” She stepped over a large crack in the sidewalk, taking care with her two-and-a-half-inch black heels that brought her eye-level with Officer Maxwell. She added sidewalk repair to the long list for maintenance man Joe, who happened to be Betty’s husband. Yet another item for tomorrow’s staff meeting, and another expense.
“There was an incident this morning involving a juvenile in a fender bender. He admitted the community center was where he acquired a fake ID. He never actually met the person he dealt with, but this was where he was told to collect the fake ID. I was wondering whether the center has any security cameras. Any footage of the possible exchange might be of assistance in the investigation.”
Officer Maxwell’s words caught Brooke off guard, and she stumbled. He reached out an arm and helped steady her. She sent a smile of thanks his way before distancing herself. “How long ago was this possible exchange?”
His perceptive hazel gaze met hers. “Within the past month. The center’s cooperation would be appreciated.”
“I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I can’t release any footage to you.”
Those warm eyes cooled, although she received the distinct impression Officer Maxwell would remain friendly unless circumstances called for a different side of him. “I can get a warrant.”
She bristled at his presumption she was being difficult. “That’s not the problem, Officer Maxwell. We don’t have exterior cameras at the present time, and our inside monitors, which are limited to the gym and a few other areas, mainly upstairs, are only on a live feed loop. Betty keeps an eye on the screens behind her desk during operating hours, and we’re looking into upgrading the system.”
Another expense, but one she’d have to justify to Mr. Whitley during their next weekly conference call. While the center received the bulk of its funding from the state, making it a public facility, the Furniture King of North Carolina turned philanthropist supplemented the remainder of the budget from his millions. Growing up in Hollydale and now living in nearby Asheville, he oversaw the board of directors, and his last name graced the front archway and the pavilion among other areas.
“Is someone guarding the premises 24/7? A security company?” He pulled a small notepad and pencil from his front pocket.
“No, but I’ll look into hiring one.” She smoothed her hair, some strands escaping from her tight bun. “If you have any recommendations of where to begin, I’d appreciate it. I’ve only just started here in the past week, and I’m not familiar with local firms. However, the center will be undergoing some renovations soon.”
“What precautions are taken to guard the property at night?” He tucked his notepad under his arm and donned his officer cap.
“There’s a padlock on the gate you enter to gain access to the parking lot. It’s locked every night.” They turned the corner to the flat open space where a construction crew would break ground for a new aquatic addition after the start of the new year. “I unlock the front gate every morning as I’m the first to arrive.”
“Besides you, who has keys to the facility?”
“All the exterior locks were changed on my first day here, as well as the security codes and passwords. Myself and Mr. Whitley have the new keys.” The millionaire philanthropist was above reproach, and she held up two fingers and then three more. “The local locksmith also made keys for the assistant director, the janitor and Joe Ruddick, who’s Betty’s husband and our maintenance person.”
“Do you also lock the facility at night?”
“Joe locks up every night except for the five times a month when we have late hours.”
Officer Maxwell stopped walking and wrote at a furious pace. “When’s that?”
“Two Fridays and a Saturday every month. On those days, we extend our hours and remain open late for a game night or a cooking class or some other special program for teens. There are also two Wednesday night adult programs for those who can’t make time on weekends or work during the week.” Until she could justify hiring additional staff, the current hours would remain standard operating procedure.
“Can I get a list of the teen programs?” He glanced her way, a slight smile curling his lips.
She couldn’t shake the feeling that smile had gotten him out of trouble a time or two. “I’ll email you the list before I leave today.”
He pulled out a business card. “This has all my work contact info.”
She accepted it and reached for her cell phone in the inside pocket of her blazer. After snapping a picture of the card, she stored them both away. “I—” She stopped herself before mentioning how she had a habit of forgetting about business cards in her pantsuits and washing them.
“Yes?” He held his pencil midair.
“I was wondering if you knew anything else about the person manufacturing the IDs.”
“Ask me that again in a couple of weeks.” There went that smile again.
This time, however, determination lurked in his eyes, and she wouldn’t place a bet against him tracking down the responsible culprit by then.
He closed his notepad and inserted the pencil in the spiral wire. “Does the center have a computer lab? Any laminating equipment?”
His point didn’t escape her. “Are you suggesting the person made them here? I thought you were only investigating the location where they were sold or exchanged. I don’t even think it’s possible to manufacture them here. Our equipment is in serious need of updating.”
Now she wished there was a camera that had captured the exchange so an exact date for the transfer could be established. If news of this visit reached Mr. Whitley, it would serve her better if the transaction had occurred during her predecessor’s tenure. As it was, she only had six months to turn this center around, and this wasn’t a good beginning.
“Just gathering facts, Mrs. Novak.”
“Ms. Novak.” She shrugged as they reached the front of the building. “Brooke works, too. The computer lab is on the second level. Follow me.”
Noise crackled on his walkie-talkie, and she stepped back while he answered.
“I’m going to take a rain check on that tour of the lab.” He glanced at the blue sky, dotted with white fluffy clouds against the verdant mountain peaks, a change from the flatter, brown landscape of Houston. “Not that there’s a hint of rain around.”
That smile surfaced again along with a glimpse of his appealing sense of humor, and her gaze went to his left ring finger, which was bare. She blinked away any curiosity about his marital status while he waited for her to enter the building. Though the officer had an easygoing manner, he’d transitioned to all business when it came to questions regarding this morning’s accident. His trail would hopefully peter out somewhere else. The last thing she needed was for the center to become embroiled in a fake ID scheme.
As much as she wanted to return his smile, not that it was aimed at her as anything other than the director of the center, she couldn’t. She liked her job and intended to keep it. Colin wasn’t the only Novak to like Hollydale, not by a long shot.
JONATHAN MAXWELL PULLED into the Hollydale Police Department parking lot and banged his hand on the steering wheel. He expected some days to be harder than others. That was simply the life of any law enforcement officer. The shifts involving car accidents, though, jarred him like no others. He shook out the stinging pain and cut the engine.
He exited his vehicle and headed toward the one-story nondescript brick police station, dwelling on the details for the accident report and the subsequent interview of the director at the community center. Fortunately, the teen driver had walked away, but not before Jonathan caught a glimpse of the future when his twelve-year-old daughter, Izzy, who was growing up too fast, would sit behind the wheel of a car.
It was hard to believe that only this fine October morning, Izzy had exclaimed she couldn’t go to school without her lucky soccer ball. Not even five minutes later, his younger daughter, Vanessa, upended the sofa cushions, along with half the house, while hunting for her favorite scrunchie. She kept mumbling she’d fail her math test if she wasn’t wearing it. When had his daughters left stuffed animals and tricycles behind for competitive sports and fashion accessories? If life didn’t slow down, they’d be asking for the car keys too soon.
The bracing wind buffeted his cheeks, and he hurried toward the back door. The cooler temperatures, along with the scarecrows the elementary school students used to decorate Hollydale’s sidewalks, were a sign the holidays would arrive faster than Izzy would outgrow another pair of soccer cleats. Years ago, his wife, Anne, had always transformed their Savannah home into a winter wonderland between Halloween and Thanksgiving. All Jonathan had to do was show up and bask in the laughter and love.
This fall, those holidays and Christmas promised long days at work since he was Hollydale’s newest police recruit, although, at thirty-seven, he was by no means the youngest officer. Uprooting his daughters to North Carolina from Georgia after Anne’s death hadn’t been easy, but any regrets dissipated in the soft mountain breeze once his favorite cousin, Caleb, had returned to Hollydale, with his aunt and uncle following close behind. The only pitfall was saying goodbye to his hard-earned detective badge and some of the accompanying perks, the biggest of which had been enjoying holidays at home unless he’d been on call.
Concentrating on Izzy and Vanessa provided a welcome distraction from this report, as he dreaded his follow-up discussion with the sheriff. Mike Harrison wasn’t going to like what Jonathan had uncovered, although he wouldn’t be surprised either.
Jonathan entered the station, the familiar scent of bleach and stale coffee mingling in a rather comforting fashion after the day’s events. His spotless regulation boots smacked the faded beige linoleum. He waved at Harriet, the dispatcher who kept everyone in line, having done so for the last two generations of police officers.
“Afternoon, Maxwell.” She removed the familiar headset, her springy gray curls popping back into place. She extended a mug with a cat lurking among bright pink flowers toward him. “That bad, huh?”
How she read minds like that he wasn’t quite sure, but he wished he could read Izzy and Vanessa half as well as Harriet deciphered every officer in the department. He gave a grateful nod of thanks as he accepted the brew. Admittedly, it wasn’t quite up to the level of Deb’s, who ran the local coffeehouse across the street. It was liquid caffeine. While not the best choice since adrenaline still coursed through his veins, he’d take it and run.
“Seen worse.” If someone ran one of the four red lights, that warranted the siren and a mention on the front page of the Hollydale Herald. “Mike in?”
“He asked about you earlier. That’s why you were lucky enough to get the last cup from the pot. Still hot from this morning.” Harriet’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “I figured you’d need this since he wants to see you in his office first thing.”
“Harriet, if you were ten years younger...” Jonathan sniffed the rather strong brew and somehow stopped short of wincing. “I’d get down on one knee and propose right now.”
She laughed and replaced her headset. “If I were thirty years younger, I’d say yes, and then Bert would challenge you to a duel.”
Jonathan chuckled at the reference to her husband, two hundred eighty pounds of pure muscle and all heart. Some Hollydale residents were still recovering from Harriet and Bert’s fortieth anniversary bash last month.
“My money’s on Bert every time.” He winked as she answered a call.
Jonathan slipped away and set the mug on his desk. Although the caffeine cried out to him, the dregs of this morning’s pot turned his stomach, and he no longer wanted it. Best to get this encounter with the sheriff over and out. While the former sheriff had hired him, Jonathan had spent most of his time on the force reporting to Sheriff Harrison and found him to be a man of his word. He’d had worse bosses, and few better.
After tapping on the sheriff’s door, Jonathan waited less than a second before Mike bade him to enter. Good. With a report to write and another round of running radar on Timber Road, he could still arrive home in time to eat dinner with Izzy and Vanessa if this were kept short and to the point. Mike closed a manila file while Jonathan settled on the hard oak chair.
“Fill me in on the accident.” Mike leaned back and closed his eyes, although that wasn’t a sign the sheriff was tired, only his way of visualizing the scene.
Jonathan pulled out his notepad, preferring the old school method of taking notes, although he could have recited the information from memory. “The juvenile ditched school, drove his dad’s truck and was involved in a fender bender. When I arrived on the scene, he didn’t realize his fake ID had become stuck to his actual license. After I read him his Miranda rights, he muttered something about the ‘stupid community center.’”
Mike opened his eyes and righted himself, snapping his pencil in half. He flinched and shook his head. “Didn’t mean for that to happen. Go on.”
“Remember when the owner of the Corner Grocery called us a week ago?” Jonathan leaned forward and pressed his elbows into his thighs, the stiff navy fabric of his uniform not yielding much.
“When he confiscated the fake ID?” Mike rubbed the bridge of his nose and reached for a disposable cup with The Busy Bean’s distinctive logo. He swigged a large sip. “From our investigation, we determined the teen wasn’t local.”
“Today’s juvenile, Eric, had a fake driver’s license with his photo on it.” And a birthdate to indicate he was twenty-two, which was most unrealistic, considering he looked younger than his actual age of seventeen. “I wrote a citation, and his parents are contacting a lawyer, probably Penelope Romano. I’ll go through her office to schedule an interview. Then I touched base with the new community center director.”
Although he would have guessed she worked for a major corporation instead of a small nonprofit. Tall and elegant, Brooke Novak looked like she could have stepped off a runway and onto the sidewalks of Hollydale. Her cream suit paired with a coppery silk top resembled something from one of those fashion shows Vanessa loved to watch. Her chestnut hair, worn up in a sophisticated style, showcased her regal neck. Even her calm voice gave every impression of someone upscale and on the move.
She probably wouldn’t last long in a small town like Hollydale before some urban job caught her attention.
“Logical follow-up. Did you get any leads there?”
Jonathan shook his head. “Brooke, um, Ms. Novak, just started, so she’s still learning the ropes.”
“Okay then. Good work. Keep me posted.” Mike lowered his gaze to his desk and rearranged some files.
Intent on leaving, Jonathan rose and caught sight of his name on the tab of a manila folder. Was that his employment file? He expected the information to be in the computer, but the paper copy didn’t surprise him much, considering Mike’s predecessor preferred handwritten reports. After his election, Mike had updated the twentieth-century computers and upgraded the bulletproof vests. Progress took time, though, and he guessed other projects had priority over digitizing records.
The incident report would have to wait a couple more minutes. “Is that my employment file?”
Mike nodded and opened the manila folder. “Degree in criminal justice, several commendations for your service as a detective in Savannah. Hollydale had to be a step down for you. Why?”
What Mike might see as a demotion, Jonathan perceived as a trade-off, if not exactly a full promotion. His daughters had needed a change. He wanted a return to life without pitying looks from coworkers and friends. If he’d heard one more person whisper “Poor Jonathan” behind his back after Anne’s death, he might have had a meltdown. Besides, Anne had been the one who’d wanted to settle in an urban setting close to her parents. Personally, he’d enjoyed his summer vacations in Hollydale, a welcome time away from his parents’ busy schedule, when every minute revolved around work. Small-town living suited him. That might sound corny to some, and the fact was, he didn’t want to say any of that aloud. Even if he did trust Mike with his life.
“Too many reasons to name. Glad I moved here, though. I wouldn’t miss seeing Ethel follow Caleb around their yard for all the commendations in Georgia.” After his cousin had married Lucie, her menagerie, which included a miniature pig named Ethel, who adored Caleb, had taken Jonathan’s family in as well. His daughters loved spending time at Caleb and Lucie’s home.
Mike opened his mouth as if to say something but stopped. Instead, he downed the rest of his coffee and threw the cup into the trash can underneath his desk. “Last night I went to the county commission meeting.”
Having sat in on a couple of those himself, Jonathan didn’t envy Mike the task. “Thanks for taking that one for the department.”
“No problem.” Mike grinned before a somber expression came over him. “The county commission approved the upcoming year’s budget and an expansion of our services. We’re reaping the benefits of local growth, but we’ve also seen a small uptick in crime over the past several years.”
Nothing like the crime Jonathan had encountered in Savannah, though. When Jonathan moved here a couple of years ago, a series of burglaries had rocked Hollydale. Mike had found himself in the middle when the former sheriff formed a definite opinion about the main suspect, namely Mike’s best friend and now wife, Georgie, who’d been innocent. However, that was about the extent of the criminal activity around here.
Jonathan settled back in the chair and kept his gaze on his file. “You raise a good point. Are these fake driver’s licenses and IDs related to that growth? Or is the person behind this local to Hollydale?”
“That’s what you need to find out. This could be related to the influx of people from Asheville buying vacation homes in Hollydale for a Smoky Mountain weekend getaway. Some of the teens might think we’re yokels up here.” Mike plucked another pencil from the holder on his desk and began tapping it against the scarred oak surface. “By the way, the county approved the funds for the expansion of the department, including a new patrol officer and a salary allowance for a lead detective for Dalesford County.”
That woke Jonathan up more than one of Deb’s espressos.
While Jonathan liked Hollydale, something had been missing over the past few years. Handing out speeding citations didn’t quite match the thrill of searching out evidence and piecing together the activity in more complicated crimes. “When will the job opening for detective be posted for applications?”
Mike tapped the folder on his desk. “Soon, but I have to warn you, rural detectives face different challenges than you may have encountered in your previous urban position. There’s no question about your qualifications. If anything, you’re overqualified.”
Two years of working in a small town had prepared Jonathan for the more leisurely pace in these parts. There was nothing like having to write out a traffic citation to his uncle, Drew, for speeding. Still, Mike’s voice held an edge Jonathan didn’t often hear. “What challenges?”
“More local interference and forty hours a week is what’s expected and required. More than that won’t necessarily be compensated unless it’s approved beforehand.”
“Sounds familiar.” Jonathan shrugged, as that was normal for the department anyway. “You’re holding something back. What is it?”
“I talked to the district attorney, Stuart Everson, to finalize details on the posting and give you a recommendation based on what I remembered about your background.” Mike gave a sheepish shrug and grinned. “He said we still have to post it online and the usual places, even if someone in the department is qualified for the job. Assuming you’re interested, that is.”
“I haven’t been this excited since Deb at The Busy Bean started giving first responders a discount.”
“But Stuart also told me something else.” Mike closed the employment folder. “His niece, who’s awaiting the results of her detective’s exam, is applying for the job.”
Local politics, indeed. Jonathan exhaled a deep breath. “I see.”
Mike rose and crossed over to the window. “All things considered, you’re overqualified for your present job...”
“But I’m not related to the district attorney.” Jonathan finished Mike’s sentence for him. “I can’t do anything about that at this late date. Pretty sure he and his wife, Kitty, won’t adopt me and my daughters.”
Mike opened the blinds before facing Jonathan. “If you find out who’s behind the fake ID scheme, that would seal the deal as far as I’m concerned. Even Stuart would have a hard time saying no with proven results. Did I mention the detective job comes with a pay raise and extra benefits, like holidays off?”
That made the position all the more attractive. His daughters already missed out on having their mother around for holidays. His extended family and neighbors pulled their weight and then some, but it wasn’t the same as having their father present for holidays. He should know since his parents had been workaholics in every sense of the word.
“Nothing like a little pressure to solve a case.”
“Like you’d settle for anything else. That sense of humor of yours doesn’t hide your strong work ethic from me, Maxwell.” Mike scrubbed his jaw before sitting once more. “I’d take over this case if I didn’t trust you to get to the bottom of it.”
“Twist the knife a little harder, won’t you? There’s nothing like a superior’s confidence in you to exert extra pressure to solve it.” He knew fake IDs could be generated anywhere. Still, Jonathan couldn’t shake the feeling this was a local operation. “I’ll assume the budget didn’t authorize a computer program to write my report. I’ll log in the evidence and get it done. Anything else?”
Concern crossed Mike’s face. “I have to ask. Will you be okay taking the lead on this one? The car accident, I mean.”
Mike was trying to be kind, but Jonathan didn’t know whether to be touched or run screaming out of the station at yet another reference to his past.
He brushed his hand over his chin, the slight stubble no surprise. “I’m a police officer. Car accidents are part and parcel in this line of work.”
He sent Mike a curt nod before striding away.
Nothing could have prepared him for that moment five years ago when he’d witnessed an accident through the window of his squad car. Within seconds, he arrived at the scene. Cold had descended into his bones when he recognized the mangled metal of one of the cars. He rushed to the driver’s door, thrown open by the impact of the crash. There he found Anne, unresponsive, while the other driver stumbled over, rubbing his bleary eyes, in anguish over falling asleep behind the wheel. Jonathan started CPR to no avail.
Anne had died on impact.
