By Kathleen George
A homicide sends a toddler into foster care and drags a detective right into a feverish hunt for justice
Nadal watches for weeks sooner than he first techniques the boy. it doesn't matter what Maggie Brown says, he’s definite Matt is his son, and a boy should still comprehend his father. After their first disagreement, Maggie must have run. She must have hidden her baby. yet she underestimated the guy who used to be her lover. With self-righteous decision, Nadal is going to her condo. He calls for to spend time with the boy. while she refuses, he reaches for a knife.
By the time murder detective Richard Christie arrives at the scene, all that is still of Maggie Brown is a bloodstain at the flooring. The killer has vanished, and Matt is just too scared to recollect something yet his mother’s worry. As Christie seems for the killer and Maggie’s buddies struggle to maintain Matt out of the fingers of kid providers, Nadal watches the inside track and waits. A boy may be along with his father. He’s going to get his son.
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Extra resources for A Measure of Blood (Richard Christie, Book 7)
He’d hoped his father might change his mind, so he’d gone to Max to run interference. One last chance. No deal. And no more. Her lashes lowered. ” She leaned forward, and her long, blond hair brushed against his arm. ” Was that so wrong? No, no, he wasn’t the one who’d made the mistakes. That had been the old bastard. She took his beer from him. Enjoyed a long, slow drink. ” Her index finger traced around the rim of the beer bottle. ” Her fingers rubbed over the rim once more. ” Max demanded, fury still heating his blood.
We need the police. They can find Quin! They can—” Get him killed. ” Max let his stare drift around the room, touching on each face, even locking with Frank’s bleary eyes. ” Beth would be the weak link. She was standing there shuddering, as fear raked her body. He’d need to watch her carefully. ” Donnelley’s hesitant voice. ” His green eyes were steady but the lines on his face looked deeper, harder. “They have to give you proof,” Samantha’s hands were on her hips. “If they can’t prove that he’s—” “They were at The Core.
They’d had sex, not long, deep conversations. He shouldn’t give a flying fuck who she wanted to screw. He’d had his fun, and now— I want more of her. Haven’t had enough yet. Samantha stood on her toes, bringing that unpainted, plump mouth close to his. ” His cock jerked. Down, boy. “You’re giving me what I need now. ” In another two seconds, he’d be giving her what she needed, what she was asking for with those big eyes and that husky voice. Her tongue snaked out and licked his bottom lip. Dammit.
A Measure of Blood (Richard Christie, Book 7) by Kathleen George