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Josie watched Drake’s lips thin as he regarded his fiancé. He hadn’t let her out of his sight since they arrived in the ER. Josie had submitted to a perfunctory check before abandoning her curtained-off area to locate Trinity. Her sister had been in Sylvia’s burning house longer so the attending ER physician was admitting her for the night for observation. She’d been moved to an intermediate area that had recently been opened for patients transitioning from the emergency department while they waited for a bed to become available on one of the medical floors upstairs.

“I’m serious,” Trinity said. “There’s no reason for all of you to stay.”

Drake sat in a chair beside her bed, one large hand resting over hers. It had been years since Trinity was kidnapped by a serial killer called the Bone Artist, but Josie knew that as far as Drake was concerned, it might as well have been last week.

“I’m not leaving,” he said, reaching over to adjust the nasal cannula resting on her upper lip. “Obviously.”

Trinity leaned into his touch and eyed their parents, Shannon and Christian Payne. They’d only recently moved to Denton from their long-time home two hours away in Callowhill, Pennsylvania. Josie loved having them so close. They’d rushed to Denton Memorial the moment they found out that their daughters had been caught in a fire. Josie couldn’t imagine the memories it must have brought back from when she and Trinity were infants. They’d been robbed of so many years together. A lifetime. It had all started with a house fire.

Shannon put a hand over her chest. “Trinity Payne, I hope you’re not talking to us. There’s no way I’m leaving my children after they almost died. In a fire, no less.”

Christian smiled, winking at Trinity when Shannon wasn’t looking. “She is clearly fine, Shan. She’s only here for observation. One night. We should let her get some rest.”

Trinity’s head swiveled in Josie and Noah’s direction. They stood side by side, leaning against a supply cabinet. “Why are you both here? Where’s Wren?”

A tiny knot of anxiety formed at the mention of Wren’s name. It had been hours since she and Trinity had been brought to the emergency department. It was now late afternoon. Although Noah had called Wren to let her know what was going on and make sure Erica took her home and stayed there with her, they hadn’t been in touch with her since.

Guilt gnawed at Josie’s insides. They’d gotten caught up. Josie had been given a clean bill of health but she’d wanted to stay with Trinity and Noah had wanted to stay with Josie. Leaving Wren alone. Suppressing a curse, she took out her cell phone and fired off a text apologizing to Wren for how long things were taking and asking how she was doing.

“She was out with Erica today,” Noah answered. “They’re home now. Erica will stay with her until we get there.”

“You should get home to her,” Shannon said, looking back and forth between them, doing absolutely nothing to quell the feeling of dread building in Josie’s belly.

Before she or Noah could respond, a knock sounded at the door, followed by a familiar voice. “I’m looking for Miss Payne.”

Josie and Noah’s colleague, Detective Kyle Turner, stood in the doorway, all six foot plus of him filling the frame. In one of his many neatly pressed suits, he looked more like an attorney than a police officer. While Josie, Noah and Gretchen usually wore khakis and polo shirts for comfort while on the job, Turner chose the more formal option. The only thing unkempt about him was his wild curly hair. He strode inside, smiling at Trinity.

“Glad to see you’re alive and well.”

Immediately, he rounded the bed and shook Drake’s hand. Josie still got whiplash when it came to Turner. When he interacted with Trinity, and occasionally other people, he was sweet, respectful, even gentlemanly, and yet at work he was a complete and utter dick. In fact, Josie still had him saved in her contacts as Douchebag.

Their beloved colleague, Detective Finn Mettner, had died in the line of duty two and a half years ago. After searching for nine months, their Chief had hired Turner. From his first day he had gone out of his way to be an asshole whose mission in life seemed to be pissing off Josie and one of the other members of their team, Detective Gretchen Palmer. For a year and a half, he’d excelled at being lazy—writing half-assed reports and turning them in late. He’d frequently disappeared in the middle of shifts, and he scrolled on his phone more than a middle schooler with unlimited screen time. Worse, he’d been a sexist, misogynist pig who made inappropriate remarks, called Josie “sweetheart” or “honey” and insisted on calling Gretchen “Parker” when he knew damn well her last name was Palmer.

He’d brought out the worst in Josie and Gretchen who, try as they might, failed to take the high road a good percentage of the time. Noah, as their supervisor, had instituted a jar system. Operant conditioning, he’d told her. Each of them had jars on their desks. Every time one of them insulted the other, they had to put a dollar in that person’s jar. Needless to say, Josie and Gretchen’s jars were usually bursting while Turner’s only ever had a few dollars in it at a time—unless Gretchen was in a particularly foul mood.

Trinity gave Turner a genuine smile, filled with the kind of warmth that she usually only reserved for loved ones and people she respected deeply. The two of them had had a connection before he came to Denton—one they’d at first refused to reveal. “Kyle, it’s so good to see you! How’s your family?”

A shadow crossed his face briefly. “Um, good, yeah.”

Last month, Josie had finally uncovered the nature of that connection, along with several of Turner’s other secrets. His estranged wife and their daughter had been kidnapped. Josie had been tasked with doing a deep dive into all things Kyle Turner. What she’d found was the opposite of what she’d expected. He was a loving father and he’d been a devoted husband until the marriage disintegrated. After growing up in a household rife with domestic violence, he’d frequently helped women trying to escape their own hell, all in secret. In fact, he’d enlisted Trinity’s help getting a woman and her daughter safely away from a stalker, leveraging the sources she’d accumulated in her career. That was how they’d known one another.

To this day, Josie was grateful the thing between them hadn’t been romantic.

Her sister must have seen her face screw up because she gave Josie a warning look before turning her attention back to Turner. “How about you? How are you doing?”

Turner scratched at his beard. The fingers of his other hand drummed against his thigh. “I’m good. Quinn would say”—he turned to Josie, mischief in his eyes—“what did you call me? ‘Subpar?’”

“I said your reports were subpar,” Josie clarified. “Which they are.”

Noah’s elbow knocked gently against her ribs. She checked her phone. No response from Wren.

“Still not getting along, I see,” said Trinity.

“He can’t take constructive criticism.”

“Because you don’t deliver it as constructive, Quinn.”

This was how it had been for the past month. They bickered and got on each other’s nerves and Josie couldn’t seem to stop herself from getting sucked into his petty shit. She wasn’t sure what she had expected after saving his family and figuring out that his asshole, misogynist, sexist behavior was just a façade to keep people from getting close to him, but Turner still made her want to throat-punch him on a regular basis. Only now, his raging douchebaggery was toned down a bit. She was starting to figure out that getting people riled up and starting trouble wasn’t part of his façade. He was an unapologetic pot-stirrer.