Page 72 of Fatal Pattern

Barclay moved closer, his presence filling the room. “The boy attacked his parents, then went after his sister. She hid in the closet. He crawled under the bed with the murder weapon when he heard your sirens.”

The narrative was insane. Impossible.

He opened his mouth to object, but Barclay’s attention had already shifted to Damien, who stood frozen in the doorway.

“Sullivan. Get that kid out of there. Bag the weapon.”

He expected Damien to object, but he didn’t move. His skin blanched gray, eyes fixed on some middle distance. Not a word. Not a shake of the head. Nothing.

If his partner wasn’t standing up for the kid, then Stryker would. “Sir, that’s a four-year-old child. A victim. He’s terrified.”

Barclay stepped in hard, chest nearly brushing Stryker’s.

“You are a patrolman who responded to a call.” The commander’s breath was hot in Stryker’s face, carrying the stench of coffee and cigarettes. “You will hand your preliminary notes to Officer Sullivan. You will not speak to anyone else about what you think you saw in this room. Do I make myself clear?”

“Sir, I—”

“This family’s tangled up in things way above your pay grade, King. The boy—he’s dangerous. Unstable. Best outcome for this child is if he disappears into the system where he can get the help he needs.”

Stryker locked his fists at his thighs, blood surging fast, body begging for action. One strike, one shove, and he could clear the rot out of this room. But Barclay’s words jammed him where he stood.

“You’ve got a future, King. Don’t burn it. This is bigger than one family circling the drain.”

Barclay drove his hand down on Stryker’s shoulder, not friendly. Ownership. Control. Fingers drilled into muscle, hard enough that he’d carry the mark into tomorrow.

“This is mine now,” Barclay said. “You’re done here.”

Behind them, Damien had dropped to his knees beside the bed. “Come on out, son. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

Stryker heard the boy’s terrified whimper, the sound of feet scuffling against hardwood as Damien dragged him from his hiding place. The knife struck the hardwood, bounced once, then spun flat with a metallic ping that hung in the air.

“Mommy!” The boy’s scream cracked the air, sharp as glass. “I want Mommy! Mommy!”

Stryker turned, muscles coiled, but Barclay shoved him down the hall. “Walk away, King. Now. That’s an order.”

He heard the threat in Barclay’s tone. The kind of threat that promised more than a write-up or lost stripes.

Damien locked his arms around the kid, absorbing the wild fists hammering his chest. The boy clawed and twisted, shouting, “Victoria! Where’s Victoria?”

Damien caught one tiny wrist, folded it into his palm, holding him steady. “She’s safe. She’s going somewhere safe.”

This wasn’t right. None of this was right. Barclay’s fingers dug into his shoulder blade, the grip promising consequences that stretched far beyond this blood-soaked house.

Right and wrong had died the moment they’d crossed this threshold.

Barclay finally released his grip, stepping back with a satisfied nod. “You did good work tonight, King. The department won’t forget it.”

The bedroom door swung shut with a solid click. Whatever truth was in there stayed locked with the dead.

Stryker stood frozen in the hallway. His fingers curled hard enough that the nails cut his own palms, the only thing keeping the shake out of his hands. His vision blurred, and he caught the tear with his thumb before it could fall. Stryker King did not show weakness. Not to them, not to anyone.

His boots were heavy on the hardwood as he walked toward the front door. The other officers barely glanced up. Just another night. Just another case.

He pushed through the door into the humid Florida night. The red and blue lights of the patrol cars washed over him, painting the world in colors of emergency and order. The cops, the paramedics, the neighbors standing in the street and peering from their windows. He didn’t see justice. He saw a machine. A machine that the department’s chain of command controlled.

Two bodies lay cooling in that bedroom. Parents who would never see their children grow up. A little girl sat in an ambulance outside, probably still rocking, still silent, with nothing but a caseworker between her and a lifetime of foster homes.

She would spend decades trying to outrun this night. The nightmares would follow her through every placement, every new bed, every attempt at normal. And her brother. What would they do to that terrified little boy? Lock him away in some institution where the truth would die with him?