he couldn’t count them all. He’d realized something else, too. Rose could still affect him in ways he thought he’d put behind him.
He didn’t understand why, either. They had opposite philosophies, opposite goals, opposite everything. Not for the first time, he found himself wondering how they’d ever fallen in love, much less lived together. Now they faced this dilemma.
The songs were dead wrong—love wasn’t all you needed.
…
Midnight came and went the following day before Rose finally fell into bed. She hadn’t seen Santos since he’d come to her house, but she doubted he had left Aqua Frio. He never gave up. Everything was always instantly clear for him, too. She examined every little detail and even after she had all the facts, she would continue to wonder. All he cared about was the assignment. He’d been that way when they’d both been cops, and things obviously hadn’t changed.
The lights in her bedroom had only been dark for a short time when her phone shrilled. She had the receiver in her hand before the first ring finished. “Renwick.”
“You’ve got a domestic situation at the Royal Trailer Park.” An independent service in Presidio took over their 911s when Lydia’s shift ended, and the bored voice grated on Rose’s sensibilities. She had argued against the idea, but the county commissioners wanted to save every dollar they could. She wondered how long ago the call had actually come in.
“Address is 2405 Crown Circle. Caller states strange noises were heard in the yard, possible peeping tom, not sure. See the woman at number two-thirty-two.”
Rose hung up and reached for her pants. She’d been to that particular address before and warned the man and woman living there to tone down their arguments. It sounded as if they’d done just the opposite. The couple, young and poor, had three little kids. The children had watched from the trailer’s window with scared brown eyes as Rose had counseled their mother and father on the previous call.
Her threat to call Child Protective Services had seemed to work; both of them had looked stricken at the possibility of losing their children. She really hadn’t expected to hear from their neighbor again, but now here she was, heading toward the trailer park.
Seven minutes later, she turned off the street and drove slowly down the gravel road lined with mobile homes. A few sparse cedar trees claimed spots along the rutted drive, but most of the landscaping involved faded plastic toys, rusted out trash cans, and cars that looked like nothing but a prayer would make them start. Usually the west Texas night smoothed out the rough edges, but that wasn’t the case here. The thick darkness that surrounded the place felt heavy and foreboding, like a blanket she couldn’t throw off.
Rose could sense a bad situation as well as the next cop, and something definitely felt wrong. Her nerves jumping, she moved her right hand to her holster and checked her weapon before gripping the steering wheel again. The residents in places like this were faded, rusted, and worn out, too. Just like the boy with the gun, when folks felt trapped, they reacted as instinctively as an animal did.
A chorus of crickets fell silent as the car rolled to a stop. The home was dark and quiet, like the ones on either side. Glancing at the notes she’d jotted down, she checked the number to make sure she had the right place. There were no street lights—since there was no real street—and she had to turn on the small flashlight she carried.
As soon as the light came on, her rear windshield exploded.
She ducked with a curse, a shower of glass pellets raining down on her back and shoulders as the gunshot echoed in the silence. Reaching for her weapon as she went down, she had the pistol out and in her hand before the sound could even stop. A moment later, she was sliding into the floor well of the vehicle, yelling into the radio she’d snatched going down. “This is Sheriff Renwick. Officer needs assistance! Send someone to Crown Circle. I’m under fire.”
She twisted onto her back and tried to think it out. The shooter had to have been behind her to make the shot—the glass had flown into the vehicle—but was he still there or had he moved?
Her answer came without any warning, the front windshield blowing out next.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she covered her head with her arms as the shattered glass peppered her. This time she