Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 102903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102903 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 515(@200wpm)___ 412(@250wpm)___ 343(@300wpm)
I pull to a stop and cut the engine. Shane climbs from the passenger seat of our black, unmarked Camaro as I slide out from behind the wheel and step onto the concrete driveway of a quaint blue farmhouse on a hill with at least five acres of land surrounding it.
This house is in a much wealthier area than I expected—all the way in Franklin, south of Nashville. It’s incredibly quiet. I can’t quite reconcile the idea of a woman who lives here with a sex line operator for Call Me Anytime, but it’d hardly be the weirdest shit I’ve seen in my tenure as a detective with the Metro Police Department.
People are always surprising me in new, exciting, fucked-up ways.
“You sure this is the address that came back for the number you ran?” I ask, still a little uncertain.
Shane leans into the top of the car, his face annoyed but playful. If I’m honest, it’s what he looks like pretty much all the time. He’s only a year younger than me, and we’ve been partners for the last five years, both of us making the switch from street cop to homicide detective at the same time. As such, we’ve fallen into the usual work/friend/practically-married-because-we-spend-so-much-time-together rapport. He’s the person I trust most in any given situation, and yet I consider throwing him in front of a bus every time we see one. We click, but we clash. Anytime you see someone for more than sixty hours a week, it’s bound to come with ups and downs.
“No. I’m not sure,” Shane says dryly. “I just directed us out to some random-ass house in the boonies of south Nashville for the hell of it, Dom. In fact, thanks for pointing it out so I can rectify it.”
“Just checking, dude,” I answer with a chuckle. “Don’t get your panties in a twist.”
“Hannah May, 615-250-5555,” he clarifies like a smart-ass. “This is the Ruby Cocklover’s house.”
I nod, shutting my door before climbing the concrete steps to the pale-yellow front door. I raise a fist and knock, and Shane comes to a stop beside me, his hands in his pockets and a toothpick in the side of his mouth.
He chews on it a little loudly, and I eye him, blinking rapidly. Him and that fucking toothpick. I swear it’s constant.
He pulls the toothpick out and sighs, and the door swings open in front of us.
In its opening is an older woman with dark hair in a loose bun and a smattering of wrinkles that puffs up the skin beneath her eyes. Her style is more country club than downtown floozy, and falling in what I’m estimating to be her fifties, she’s not at all what I was picturing to match the voice of “Ruby Cocklover.”
I doubt she’s the woman we’re looking for, but what the hell do I know? I didn’t think this would be the house either.
“Yes? Can I help you?” she asks, and I’m even more convinced she’s not Hannah May. Her voice is rougher than the soft hum from this morning’s strange-as-fuck call. Still, with Ruby Cocklover as a fake name, it’s not beyond the scope of reality that she’d have used a fake voice too.
After exchanging a quick wide-eyed glance with Shane, I hold out a hand and introduce myself. “Yes, ma’am. My name is Dominic Dunn, and I’m a detective with the Metro Nashville Police Department. This is my partner, Detective Shane Maddox. We were hoping to have a word with Hannah May,” I explain. “We have a few questions about a case we’re working on. Does she happen to live here?”
“A case?” the woman questions, her eyes a little unfocused as she looks between the two of us.
“Yes, ma’am,” I answer politely, knowing how off-putting it can be to have a couple of police officers show up unexpectedly at your door. “Is Hannah May here, by any chance?”
“Hannah?” she asks, stepping outside and pulling the door partially closed behind her, mouth downturned in worry now. “What do you want with Hannah?”
“We’re just looking to have a quick chat with her,” I answer. “Nothing to worry about. Is she here?”
“Hannah’s here, all right, but she’s a twelve-year-old girl,” she says then, shocking the shit out of me and Shane alike.
The two of us look at one another before turning back to the woman on the stoop. “Hannah May is twelve?” I ask, and the woman nods.
“Yes. My Hannah is twelve, and I’m her mother, Sherry May. What is this about? Is she in trouble?”
My throat feels tight. I’ve told a lot of people a lot of messed-up stuff over the years, but telling this woman that we think her twelve-year-old daughter might be working for a sex hotline somehow feels ten times worse than any of that.
Shane, sensing my discomfort, steps in for me. “Hannah May, right? That’s your daughter?”