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“Deputy.”
“What brings you out at four-fifty in the morning?”
“It was four-thirty-nine when I drove by,” he said. “Caught these two punks looping a tire around the mailbox. I pulled up, tossed their asses in the cab, and locked them in.” He jangled a key between them and grinned. “Then I called it in. You’re welcome.”
A muffled pounding erupted from the cab, drawing Felicity’s attention.
“Hey! Let us out!” one of the boys shouted, his face pressed to the glass.
“You grabbed us, man!” the other chimed in, voice thick with indignation. “You can’t just throw people around like that!”
Felicity’s gaze flicked to Ronan.
He didn’t so much as shift. “I grabbed them by their jackets,” he said evenly, then turned his head and raised his voice slightly. “You’re fine.”
“We’re not fine!” the first boy snapped, rattling the handle. “You locked us in here!”
“And stole my phone!” the other added.
“Hmm. Forgot about that.” He pointed to the device lying on the hood. “One of the kids was filming the other.”
Felicity frowned. “They haven’t figured that the doors unlock from the inside.”
Ronan’s mouth twitched. “No such luck yet. Too worked up.”
“Punks,” she muttered.
A porch light clicked on. The homeowner — Mr. Stanley from the local garage — appeared, shotgun in hand. “What’s going on?” he shouted.
Felicity cursed under her breath and stepped forward, one hand hovering near her service weapon. The last thing she wanted was an escalation. “Mr. Stanley, put the gun away. Everything’s under control.”
“Deputy Graham?”
“Yes, sir. Go ahead and stow it.”
Mr. Stanley leaned the shotgun against the doorframe and shuffled down the path, tying his robe. “What’s going on?” he repeated.
“Just a situation, sir,” she said, nodding toward the tire looped around the mailbox, a thick rope running from it to the truck.
The balding man blinked behind his spectacles as he took in the scene. He peered toward the cab, squinting at the boys inside. “That’s the O’Neil boys.”
Felicity stopped Mr. Stanley from getting closer. “I need you to go inside, sir.”
“But—”
Ronan pushed off from his position, setting the keys in his hand beside the confiscated cellphone. “Do you mind if I wait with you, Mr. Stanley? Figure my truck’s part of a crime scene, so I’m stuck here.”
“You that new fella? The one here for Ruthie and the kids?”
Ronan tipped his chin. “That’s me. Ronan Murphy.” He nodded toward the house. “Why don’t we give the deputy a bit of space, yeah?”
The assumption — and his non-denial of the rumor — hit harder than it should have; a brief, unwelcome pang tightening in Felicity’s chest as she watched the two men walk into the house.
Had things changed between him and Ruth?
And what the hell was Ronan Murphy doing out at four in the fucking morning? She flicked away the unwelcome thought of him coming from some woman’s bed.
Maybe even Ruthie’s.
