Brock – Kris Michaels

weird and tripped bells, although he had no fucking clue why. They made it two steps past the window before Kallie lost it. “That motherfucker is abusing her.” “Yeah, he could be.” He hated there was nothing they could do about it. “Could be?” “Unless she comes forward, it is hard to prove.” “I’m going to be coming back.” “She’s got to make a complaint, or you have to catch him in the act.”

There were no handprint bruises on her that he could see, and he’d looked. He’d wanted a reason to put cuffs on that bastard. Kallie stopped on the sidewalk and palmed her phone. Glancing at the screen, she growled in irritation before shoving the phone back in her pocket. “He’s going to end up killing her,” she snapped. She wrenched the car door open and dropped inside the car.

“She knows to come looking for us at the precinct. Next time you stop by, I’ll give you a couple business cards for local shelters and so- cial workers.” Brock turned on the vehicle and waited for traffic to clear before he merged into the lanes of traffic. “Was that the ex again?” She waved a dismissive hand.

“She’s so freaking tiny. He was what… six-two or three and at least a hundred pounds heavier than her? I hate abusive pricks.” She ground out the words and flopped her head against the headrest. “Okay, sorry. I’m picking up my soap- box and heading home now, and yes, I know she needs to make the complaint.

It is just frustrating.” “That fire in your gut? That’s the reason you do this job. You, my dear detective, are a warrior for the underdog and you can preach to me from your soapbox anytime.” “Yeah, well, we all need someone, don’t we?” “Always.” He wondered if she realized she’d included herself in that comment.

His admiration for this woman just reached a new level. She was a survivor. He depressed his turn indicator and head- ed toward the morgue.

Copyright © 2020 by Kris Michaels All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except where permitted by law. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, then you are reading an illegal pirated copy. Make sure that you are only reading a copy that has been officially released by the author.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Created with Vellum 1kitap1.com/en CONTENTS Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Epilogue Also by Kris Michaels About the Author 1kitap1.com/en “D CHAPTER 1 etective King, there is a report of a warehouse fire with a dead body off of Livingston in the old warehouse district.

Patrols are on scene, and a cordon has been established.” The dis- patcher’s voice was far too fucking perky for 1:00 a.m. He blinked hard and tried to bring the light fixture and fan on the ceiling into focus. It wasn’t working too well. He closed his eyes again and mumbled, “Roger that. Send the address to my phone. Have you notified Detective Whitt?” “I called him first, sir. He told me to remind you he’s with Vice tonight.” Crap that’s right. He glanced at the clock. He’d just fallen asleep.

Thirty-five minutes ago, to be exact. “Fuck.” “Sir?” “Sorry. Never mind. Text me the address. Tell the responding pa- trols I’m on my way.” He flipped the blanket back and headed to the bathroom. Two minutes later he made a quick detour into the kitchen. He had two coffee pots, one of the drip-brew big boys that made a pot the size of the Titanic, and a different machine that made coffee quickly, by the cup. He used three coffee pods, enough cream to sink the aforementioned Titanic, and a fuck-ton of sugar to fill his travel tankard before he headed downstairs to his truck.

The three- minute delay waiting for his coffee was a necessity. The general pub- lic needed him awake when he drove, and the dead body wasn’t go- ing to get… deader. Damn, it was going to be a long night. The tires of his old truck crunched against the scattered gravel on the patchwork asphalt as he came to a stop outside the charred rem- nants of what once was a warehouse.

Now it was a fucking shell, a huge husk burned and purged empty of any contents.

This is a short excerpt from the opening of “” by Unknown, quoted for review and introduction purposes. All rights belong to the copyright holders.

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• File Extension: .pdf
• File Size: 2,844,143 bytes (2.712 MB)
• Title: –
• Author: Unknown
• Pages: 218
• Language: English (en)

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• Estimated Reading Time: 377.14 minutes
• Total Words: 75,429
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