The Forgotten Child by Lorhainne Eckhart (latest ebook reader .TXT) 📖

Deputy Marcus O’Connell took another swallow of Suzanne’s favorite local stout and wondered how his sister could drink the stuff. He’d never taken to heavy dark beer, preferring lighter lagers, and he was drinking it now only because she’d ordered two and slid one over to him just after he got there. Now, she was making her way over to one of the firefighters, Lieutenant Toby Chandler.

“Stop staring at them,” said Sheriff Osbert Berry, Bert for short, who was sitting on the same stool at the end of the bar where he always sat, nursing the ale on tap. Marcus hadn’t known he was paying attention.

“I’m not staring. I’m observing. There’s a difference.” He leaned on the bar, having to glance back over his shoulder to Bert, who seemed to have packed on a few more pounds as of late. He already had a hefty frame for a man in his sixties, and it appeared he hadn’t shaved in days.

“Bullshit, Marcus,” Bert said. “You’re staring them down with that look you have that makes everyone nervous. She’s flirting, blowing off steam. Let her have some fun, and remember, son, you’re talking to the man who wrote the book on staring down numbskulls whose asses you want to kick. I trained you. I know you better than anyone.”

For a second, Bert smiled almost fondly over at Suzanne, who he still couldn’t believe was making eyes at Toby. Why couldn’t she see that his only redeeming quality was the fact that he showed up for work? His sister was one of the best firefighters in Livingston, and if push came to shove, it would be her Marcus wanted saving his ass, not the asshole she was making eyes at.

“I mean, look at him,” Marcus said, “the way he looks down at her with that flashy plastic smile he puts on for every girl. Why the hell can’t she see the guy’s a player, shallow, got nothing going for him? Lost count of the number of times I’ve told her to look anywhere else. She’s been with the department longer, yet he got the promotion to lieutenant last week. Give you three guesses as to why he got it and not her.”

He dragged his gaze back down the bar as his sister tossed her hair over her shoulder and shrugged, flirting. He had to look away. The sheriff was softly chuckling under his breath, then polished off the pint in front of him and gestured to Ken, the bartender and owner of the Lighthouse bar, a silver-haired former golden-gloves fighter and someone else he had to keep an eye on.

“What, you mean just because he’s a strapping young white man who has the same last name as the former chief?” Bert said as Ken slid him another pint. He nodded in thanks, then lifted his gaze to Marcus, who was counting the number of pints he’d downed—five or six, he thought. “Take a look in the mirror, son. Some could say the same about you.” Bert’s blue eyes were bloodshot with the sorrow that seemed to be a part of him now, so many months since he’d put his wife in the ground.

“Seriously, what the hell does that have to do with anything?” Marcus said. “I’m fucking good at what I do, and I didn’t step over anyone or have anything handed to me. Doors weren’t all that open for me, if you recall.”

In fact, he was one of the six O’Connell kids, the brood who had been known as walking trouble—the kind of reputation their mom had warned them would be forever burned in the townsfolk’s minds. He had frequently found himself in trouble as a kid, so much so that Bert had taken to picking him up immediately whenever someone did something, just to save time tracking him down. Constantly being one step from juvie had made him pick up on the kinds of things everyone else missed. Whether at accidents or crime scenes, he now had a sixth sense, just knowing who had done what before anyone could even make notes or grab a coffee. Maybe he just knew exactly how someone living a life of crime would think. If he didn’t know the who, he just about always knew the why and the how.

The sheriff lifted his hand to stop him. “Just making a point is all, Marcus. You think I don’t know all that? Well, what I know doesn’t matter. People forget all that when shit hits the fan. We’re not all balanced and politically correct