Love You More: A Novel

“Done.”


“I love them,” Shane whispered. “I’m a fuckup, but I love my family. I just want them to be okay.”

My turn not to talk.

“I’m sorry about Brian, Tessa. Really, didn’t think they’d do that. Didn’t think they’d harm him. Or go after Sophie. I never shoulda gambled. Never shoulda picked up one fucking card.”

“The name, Shane. Who killed Brian? Who took my daughter?”

He studied my battered face, finally seemed to wince. Then he nodded, sat up a little straighter, squared his shoulders. Once, Shane had been a good cop. Once, he’d been a good friend. Maybe he was trying to find that person again.

“John Stephen Purcell,” he told me. “An enforcer. A guy who works for guys. Find Purcell, and he’ll have Sophie. Or at least know where she is.”

“His address?”

Slight hesitation. “Take off the cuffs and I’ll get it.”

His pause was enough warning for me. I shook my head. “You never should’ve harmed my daughter,” I said softly, bringing up the Glock.

“Tessa, come on. I told you what you needed to know.” He rattled his cuffed wrists. “Jesus Christ, this is crazy. Let me go. I’ll help you get your daughter back. We’ll find Purcell together. Come on …”

I smiled, but it was sad. Shane made it all sound so easy. Of course, he could’ve made that offer on Saturday. Instead, he’d informed me to sit down, shut up, and oh yeah, he’d be by in the morning for my beating.

Good Brian. Bad Brian.

Good Shane. Bad Shane.

Good Tessa. Bad Tessa.

Maybe for all of us, that line between good and bad is thinner than it ought to be. And maybe for all of us, once that line’s been crossed, there’s no going back. You were who you were, and now you are who you are.

“Shane,” I murmured. “Think of your sons.”

He appeared confused, then I saw him connect the dots. Such as cops who died in the line of duty received death benefits for their families, while cops who went to jail for embezzling funds and engaging in criminal activities didn’t.

As Shane had said, he was a fuckup, but not a total failure.

Good Shane thought of his three sons. And I could tell when he reached the logical conclusion, because his shoulders came down. His face relaxed.

Shane Lyons looked at me one last time.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

“Me, too,” I said.

Then, I pulled the trigger.


Afterward, I drove the cruiser out of the driveway and onto the street, eventually pulling in behind a darkened warehouse, the kind of place a cop might go if he spotted suspicious activity. I climbed into the back, ignoring the stench of blood, the way Shane’s body still felt warm and pliable.

I dug through his pockets, then his duty belt. I discovered a scrap of paper with digits that resembled GPS coordinates tucked beside his cellphone. I used the computer in the front seat to look up the coordinates, then wrote down the corresponding address and directions.

I returned to the backseat, uncuffing Shane’s hands, then placing his duty belt back around him. I’d done him a favor, shooting him with Brian’s Glock. I could’ve used his own Sig Sauer, raising the possibility that his death was suicide. In which case, Tina and the boys would’ve received nothing.

I’m not that hard yet, I thought. Not that stone cold.

My cheeks felt funny. My face curiously numb.

I kept myself focused on the business at hand. The night was young yet, and I had plenty of work to do.

I moved around the cruiser and popped the trunk. State troopers believed in being prepared and Shane did not disappoint. A case of water, half a dozen protein bars, and even some MREs lined one side. I dumped the food in my duffel bag, half a protein bar already stuffed into my mouth, then used Shane’s keys to open the long metal gun locker.

Shane stocked a Remington shotgun, M4 rifle, half a dozen boxes of ammo, and a KA-BAR knife.

I took it all.





37


Bobby and D.D. were halfway to Trooper Lyons’s house when they heard the call—Officer down, officer down, all officers respond …

Dispatch rattled off an address. D.D. plugged it into her computer. She paled as the local map appeared on the screen in front of her.

“That’s right by Tessa’s house,” she murmured.

“And Trooper Lyons’s,” Bobby said.

They stared at each other.

“Shit.”

Bobby hit the lights, floored the gas. They sped toward the address in utter silence.


By the time they arrived, ambulances and police cruisers had already bottlenecked the scene. Lots of officers milling about, no one really doing anything. Which meant only one thing.

Bobby and D.D. climbed out of the car. The first officer they came to was a state trooper, so Bobby did the honors.

“Situation?” he asked.

“Trooper Shane Lyons, sir. Single GSW to the head.” The young trooper swallowed hard. “Deceased, sir. Declared at the scene. Nothing the EMTs could do.”

Bobby nodded, glancing in D.D.’s direction.