Repressed

  Repressed

  An Ash Park Novel

  Meghan O’Flynn

  Copyright 2016

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Opinions expressed are those of the characters and do not necessarily reflect those of the author even though she totally digs men who sing to her and might have fallen in love with her husband at a karaoke bar. (I told him it was because of his package, but both were impressive, not gonna lie. Shh, don’t tell him.)

  No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, scanned, or transmitted or distributed in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopied, recorded or otherwise without written consent of the author. Even if you sing me a song. Stealing is bullshit.

  All rights reserved, including the right to sing karaoke. Loudly. I apologize in advance.

  Distributed by Pygmalion Publishing, LLC

  IBSN (electronic): 978-0-9974651-5-0

  For my husband

  who would probably try to get me back if I went missing. But don’t pay the kidnappers too much, honey. I can gnaw my arm off or something. So really just offer them half the price of a new arm, and if they let me go, we’ll come out ahead. And we can spend the other half of the “arm money” making decisions at least two thirds as questionable as bartering with a kidnapper.

  Incidentally, my decision to marry

  you was one of my best.

  I love you, babe.

  Contents

  More from Meghan

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Epilogue

  Sneak Peek at Hidden

  Also by Meghan O’Flynn

  About the Author

  There is a demon in my head,

  No angel to confront him;

  With whispers sharp as razor wire,

  His voice becomes my anthem.

  He never sleeps, just watches … and waits for me to break.

  On bloodied knees I scream,

  To loose the monster within;

  But no wail of anguish can erase,

  Teeth like glass in shredded skin.

  And they listen to me scream, waiting for me to break.

  And when my cries have faded,

  He is still, no use to plead;

  And I alone try to recall,

  Why I watch him bleed.

  There I stand, forever alone, waiting for my soul to break.

  “Deep into that darkness, peering,

  long I stood there wondering,

  fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams

  no mortal ever dared to dream before.”

  ~Edgar Allan Poe, “The Raven”

  1

  The house was hushed, steeped in the steely gray of dawn as he made his way to the kitchen and flipped on the lights: the white tile floors, the white cabinets, the light green soapstone, all of it at once harsh and as vital as the pulse in his veins. Each morning it was that split second of jarring blindness that finally connected him to his body. But that connection wouldn’t last. Detective Curtis Morrison was not so much a stranger to his home or to himself—it was his mere existence, the world of men and earth, that seemed utterly foreign.

  Around him the noises of morning murmured to him, less sharp than the light, but just as poignant: the click of the heater, the agitated tapping of a backyard woodpecker, the cat’s gentle mewl, and, as he moved about his morning routine, the hiss of the coffee pot, rising like an ocean wave and cresting over his eardrum. In these quiet moments, before the present caught up with him, he felt he was on the brink of a precipice, a place where if he concentrated hard enough, he might hear hushed voices from another dimension—from the world where he really, truly belonged.

  Telling him how to get home.

  From the cabinet he pulled down Shannon’s coffee mug, the one that read “Arguing with a lawyer may prove ineffective,” and set it on the counter hard enough that the clatter sent the cat skittering from the room. He stilled, staring at the mug. It was his job to be in control. Thinking like a detective was a skill comprising fire and ice—the passionate pursuit of justice and the cool logic of calculated deliberation, all centered on the now. Which was good. The past was hazy at best, and he couldn’t bear to consider what it might have been at worst. The ugliness that lurked in his soul was like a malignant blister begging to burst at the first irritation. Common for cops, maybe; guns and violence and blood were a part of the daily routine. Few remained unscathed.

  Breathe. Connect. Center.

  Morrison padded upstairs to the bedroom where Shannon sat against the upholstered headboard with their daughter, Evie, both wrapped in the blue comforter to ward off the late spring chill. The entire room felt as if it were swaddled—cozy. Shannon said the colors reminded her of the sea. And if the room was the sea, she was a siren, waiting for him as the first rays of sunlight filtered through the curtains and bathed her blond hair in reddish-gold. She raised her hand to block Evie’s face from the glare, and he set Shannon’s mug on the wooden end table next to her, squinting briefly at his own hands. He knew they were his, yet he’d not have been surprised to learn they’d belonged to someone else all along. Perhaps common for other cops. Perhaps not.

  He sat beside Shannon and ran a hand over her thigh, over her leg trapped inside the cotton shell of the comforter.

  “What’s up, Iron Man?” Shannon’s voice was still hoarse with sleep. She put her hand over his fingers, still resting on her shrouded knee. “Ready to go catch some bad guys?”

  Nope, not ready. He released her and pulled his guitar onto his knee, relishing the cool of the strings—more familiar than any part of his body. Shannon squeezed his bicep, Evie smiled at him, and suddenly all was right with the world, whether he truly belonged to it or not. They couldn’t see the sorrow through his smile, and there was a pleasure in that—not in the hiding, but in the knowledge that they were safe from the pain he carried, the secrets that remained etched on his gut like scars from a jagged blade. Here, with Shannon and Evie, he was just Daddy. Some days he could almost convince himself that he had never been anything else.

  While Evie gurgled at him, he strummed and sang: “I loved you from the first, baby, baby girl …” By the time he rode into the second chorus, Evie was squealing with delight and Shannon was laughing, stroking Evie’s head like they were actors in a sappy holiday commercial. But that peaceful tranquility hadn’t been
easy for her, not lately.

  He strummed the final notes of the song and set the guitar beside the bed, then walked downstairs with Shannon to the living room past the white and gray couch Shannon had insisted they buy because it didn’t remind them of her ex-husband or of Morrison’s bachelor years. He hadn’t argued—his pre-detective days were fraught with a wildness he had worried he'd never tame. These days he felt more domestic, but that didn’t make him less of a liar.

  Or less of an addict.

  Shannon touched his shoulder. “You okay?”

  “Yeah.” He wasn’t worried about himself. The bottle of antidepressants on the dresser was some comfort, a safeguard against him coming home to Shannon crying in the kitchen with her hands over her ears, Evie in her crib wailing. “I can’t do this” she’d said that night. “I want to drop her at the fire station.”

  Maybe they should have expected it—she’d had some depression after her surrogacy with her brother’s child. Morrison had assumed that episode was related to Shannon going home from the hospital alone while baby Abby went to live with her fathers.

  He’d been wrong.

  Morrison tried to force the memory from his brain, busying himself by pouring fresh grounds into the coffee maker—one more pot, enough to top Shannon off and keep Petrosky alert and focused for whatever the day had in store.

  “You ready to deal with your partner all day long?” Shannon asked from behind him, as if reading his mind.

  He turned and made a silly face at Evie and her cherub cheeks grew wider as she grinned back at him. He tickled her foot and met Shannon’s eyes: ice blue and collected … but concerned. About him. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” he said, forcing a smile.

  “Good. You need to get back to work. A month off is long enough.”

  “Tired of me harassing you, eh?”

  “I didn’t mean it that way.” She shook her head. “Sorry.”

  “No sorries here, Shanny. Just love.” He kissed her cheek. “I’ll be back around lunchtime so I can meet the candidates.” He poured the coffee into two stainless steel mugs and refilled Shannon’s when she held her cup out to him, the inscription already marred with a streak of drying coffee.

  “Really, I can handle nanny interviews. I’ve only got two this afternoon.” She sipped, then set the cup down when Evie kicked and almost spilled it.

  “You didn’t let me in on the last ones. You met them at a coffee shop.”

  “I didn’t want you to scare them off.”

  “I’m not scary!” He stuck his tongue out at Evie to prove his point. Evie tried to kick him too.

  She rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. When it comes to your daughter, you get this ‘don’t you dare fuck with her’ look.”

  Morrison frowned, but he pulled Shannon close and put his other hand on Evie’s back. She was right. He’d have spent all his time cross-examining the potential candidates and scared the good ones off. Interrogating them. Petrosky would have been proud. Shannon would have been pissed.

  “I love that you love her, Morrison.”

  She had never called him “Curt”—he’d been “Morrison” when she’d fallen in love with him. “I love you too, you know,” he said.

  “I do.” She kissed his neck, the highest she could reach. He brushed his lips against her cheek, then over Evie’s downy head, inhaling talcum and milk and something sour and ripe that he should maybe take care of before he left. But even if he offered, Shannon would yell at him to get out anyway. And no one in their right mind started the day fighting with a lawyer.

  “Go to work,” Shannon said. “I’ve got shit to take care of.” She pulled herself from his arms and peeked at Evie’s bottom. “Literally. Besides, you know you miss Petrosky. Might as well stop and grab him some donuts. He’s going to make you go later anyway.”

  “Already got him a granola bar.”

  Shannon smirked. “Oh, he’ll love that.” She glanced at the clock. “I have to get ready too. Meeting Lillian at the park for an hour early this morning since she’s going to meet Isaac for lunch.” Isaac Valentine was a good cop and an even better friend with more goofy jokes than Morrison and a brand-new scar on his cheekbone after a run-in with an agitated burglary suspect. Valentine was also married to Shannon’s friend Lillian. Even their kids were besties—Valentine was convinced Evie and his son Mason were going to get married one day and officially make them “one big milk chocolate family.”

  Morrison grabbed the stainless steel coffee cups off the counter before he could convince himself to call in sick. “Whether he loves the granola or not, Petrosky will eat it. He’s probably too swamped at the precinct to get any food at all.” He opened the front door and the still-damp air from last night’s storm stuck to his skin.

  “Yeah right. He’s probably busy shoving all the paperwork to the side for you.” Shannon slapped his ass. “Now stop stalling and get out.”

  He forced himself not to look back as he headed to his Fusion, struggling with the coffee cups and his keys and the pressure in his chest that was urging him to stay home.

  2

  The bullpen smelled like old coffee, older paperwork, and dry perspiration, same as it always had. It felt the same too, the dynamic energy of cops running on caffeine and sugar and a rage that always simmered just under the surface. It was anger at the bad guys, probably, or maybe indignation at the cases they hadn’t managed to solve. For every arrest, there was at least one cold case—some douchebag walking free. He gripped the stainless steel coffee mugs tighter, like they were the wrists of an elusive, and definitely guilty, perp.

  Morrison cut down the center of the room, a dozen desks on either side of him, a giant post in the middle making the usable sitting space more L-shaped. He nodded to a pair of plainclothes in suits and ties, one of whom looked familiar—homicide detective—the other with the nervous eyes of a cornered opossum. New guy. Morrison smiled at him and the guy smiled back though his eye twitched.

  As Morrison approached his desk, someone clapped him on the shoulder and he turned to see Detective Oliver Decantor—broad face, broader smile.

  “Heard you were coming back today!” Decantor’s smile was infectious, though Morrison’s chest remained tight, a subtle pressure, but persistent. “I knew you’d eventually get sick of sitting around watching people drool.” He crossed his arms over his barrel chest and winked.

  Morrison snorted, glancing across the room at Decantor’s desk where he kept his files and his celebrity crush of the week. “You’re right, I can always come watch you guys drool over Jennifer Lopez.” But he let the grin creep onto his face. “You’re not nearly as cute as Evelyn, though.”

  Decantor rubbed his chin. “Can’t argue with that.”

  They both turned at Petrosky’s cough, more of a bark. Petrosky didn’t turn toward them, but the set of his shoulders was stiff, like he was listening to their conversation. He was probably just anxious to get his hands on Morrison’s coffee—the precinct coffee was shit.

  “Catch you later, Morrison,” Decantor said, his smile suddenly at half-mast. He stared across the bullpen at Petrosky.

  Morrison nodded to Decantor’s back, then headed for their desks, smack in the middle of the bullpen at the crook of the L. “What’s up, Boss?”

  “Who you yammering with over there?” Petrosky looked like he’d gained a few pounds in the months since he’d walked Shannon down the aisle in place of her absent father. The zipper on his jacket strained over his belly and his jowly face had filled out. Morrison hadn’t noticed it when Petrosky had visited the house, but at work, everything came into sharper focus. Life: constructed of the details you paid attention to.

  “Decantor just stopped by to say hi,” Morrison said.

  Petrosky raised an eyebrow. “Decantor?”

  “I know what you’re thinking. Decantor, like the thing you put mimosas in for brunch. But he spells it differently.”

  “Decant … what the fuck are you talking about? I j
ust thought he was on vacation this week.” Petrosky shook his head. “Brunch. I don’t know what you’ve been doing this month, but I don’t want to hear any more shit about mimosas.”

  “You got it, Boss.” Morrison suppressed a smile, tossed the cereal bar onto the desktop and peered into Petrosky’s empty Styrofoam cup. The coffee dregs were thick and oily. Typical. “Looks like I got back here just in time.”

  Petrosky side-eyed the granola bar. “You trying to get me back on your hippie diet?” He rubbed a hand over his belly. “Don’t need it. I’ve just got a little winter padding.”

  That’s what happens when you replace whiskey and beer with cookies and jelly beans. Hopefully Petrosky’s heart was holding out along with his sobriety. Morrison set one of the cups on the desk. “It’s not winter, Boss, it’s May. You been to a doc lately?”

  “Fuck off, California,” Petrosky said, but his eyes crinkled and his mouth turned up at the corners. He grabbed the mug.

  “Miss me, did you?”

  “With every bullet so far. Not that I’m aiming too hard.”

  It was more than Petrosky would say for most people.