Page 51 of Married to the Enemy

One officer snapped the cuffs around his wrists while the other held his shoulders down. Fuller thrashed uselessly, dirt and rocks digging into his cheek, his voice growing shrill with panic.

Raffe straightened, steadying his breath, and pulled out his credentials. His badge already gleamed in his hand as he raised the leather credentials in his hand. His voice was cool, clipped, and steady, the way it always got when adrenaline surged through him.

“Special Agent Raffe Moretti, FBI.”

Both officers froze, eyes narrowing before one of them gave a sharp nod.

“What are you doing here, Agent Moretti?”

Raffe kept his tone calm. “I’m living here with the owner, her granddaughter, and my foster son, Frederick. I’m the one who installed the security system that flagged the break-in.”

Fuller jerked upright, eyes bulging, fury pouring out of him. “That’s my foster kid, you son of a bitch!” His voice cracked, raw with rage. “You stole those kids away from me and my wife! Now we’ve got nothing!”

Raffe’s temper snapped. “You were just released from jail!” he barked, his voice cutting through Fuller’s rant. “Why the hell are you breaking into someone’s house?”

The officers blinked, stunned by the revelation. “We’ll get him booked again, Agent Moretti,” one of them muttered grimly. “If you need to question him later—”

Fuller interrupted with another furious bellow. “I didn’t do it! It was the weirdo in the treehouse! He’s the one you want!”

Raffe’s stomach turned to stone.

“What treehouse?” one of the officers asked, exasperation sharpening his tone.

Another cop pointed with his chin. “Back of the property line. Neighbor’s tree house, just over the fence.”

Raffe cursed under his breath. He had noticed it. He’d even though yesterday about changing the camera angles. Too late.

In a flash, he was in motion—sprinting across the lawn. He vaulted the stone fence like it was nothing, gravel scraping his palms as he swung himself over.

He saw it almost immediately. Movement in the tree house.

A figure dropped from the rickety structure, landing hard and staggering before breaking into a desperate run.

Raffe didn’t hesitate. He lunged forward, closing the distance in three long strides. He caught a fistful of the man’s shirt and yanked him backward. Both of them went down hard, Raffe’s knee driving between the stranger’s shoulder blades as he wrenched both arms behind his back.

“It wasn’t me!” the man shrieked, his voice cracking. “I didn’t do it! I didn’t—”

Raffe shoved him down harder, jaw tight.

A phone dropped from the man’s hand, its screen still lit. Raffe caught the glow out of the corner of his eye and snatched it up.

The video froze mid-frame—Jim Fuller inside the upstairs bedroom, feathers floating around him like snow, his knife flashing as he shredded bedding.

“Holy hell,” one of the officers muttered, leaning in over Raffe’s shoulder. “These guys are lunatics.”

Another officer climbed halfway up the ladder into the tree house, then recoiled. “Looks like he’s been up here for days. Empty food wrappers everywhere.”

The cop at the base of the tree sniffed and grimaced, his face twisting. “And I think he’s been pissing all over the ground.”

Every officer took a big step back, disgust written on their faces.

Raffe ignored them, shoving Barry Trello upright and handing him off. “Get him processed,” he snapped. “At a minimum, he’s been trespassing, but once you go through those pictures on his phone, I’d wager there could be a number of other charges.”

Both Jim and Barry were dragged to the waiting cruisers, their protests blending together into a chorus of denial. Jim continued to howl obscenities, Barry swore up and down that he was innocent, and the officers were too fed up to listen.

Raffe turned back toward the driveway, his pulse still pounding. He hadn’t realized how much tension had been building in his chest until he spotted Mia sprinting across the gravel toward him.

“Mia—”