Pamela Tracy - Broken Lullaby

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To Patricia Osback—my sister-in-law, a terrific

writer, a dedicated mother and a valued friend—

who took me to the small town that became Broken

Bones in my imagination and spawned three books.

Thank you for answering all my questions. And to

Auralie Stegall—my aunt, a terrific keeper of family

memories—who welcomed me to the family and

introduced me to the Osback history.

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Four days, eight hours, twenty-two minutes.

That’s how long it had been since Mitch Williams pulled the trigger and killed a man.

Two days, five hours, twelve minutes.

That’s how long Mitch had been holed up in the isolated cabin he’d purchased on a whim almost six months ago. Thanks to the locale, he hadn’t had any visitors.

He didn’t want any visitors.

But he had one now.

The whrrr of an engine and the crunch of tires had left the road and headed up Mitch’s drive. He did what he always did when he heard an unexpected noise. He checked to make sure his gun was nearby. Then, he got mad at himself.

He couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t treated his gun the way he treated his wallet and watch—as items to always have either on his person or nearby. His watch was on his wrist. His wallet was on the nightstand by the bed. His gun? His gun was in Phoenix, tagged as evidence in an officer-involved shooting.

He was the officer. He’d done the shooting.

And now he was on administrative leave that the attorney general, Melody Griffin-Smith, kept referring to as a much needed vacation. Unfortunately, Mitch kept hearing the unspoken word permanent before the spoken word vacation.

He slowly stood, leaving the safety of the all-terrain vehicle he’d been tinkering with. Climbing from an old blue truck was one of the few people who just might be able to cajole him out of his funk. If anyone knew about injustice, it was Eric Santellis. Eric had been born into a major crime family, yet managed to turn into one of the most self-assured, content Christian men Mitch had ever encountered—even after serving years in a penitentiary for a crime he hadn’t committed.

Mitch set down his wrench, wiped grease from his fingers and grinned for the first time in days—four days, eight hours and thirty-six minutes.

“I wondered if you’d be here. I still can’t believe you bought this place!” Eric yelled out.

“And I can’t believe you didn’t stop me.”

“Stop you? I think it’s great. A place in the wild is what you need. Especially now. I heard what happened. Man, I—”

Mitch held up a hand. “I’m not at liberty to talk about it.”

Eric nodded and studied the cabin once again. “So, what have you done to the place so far?”

“Not a thing. I think the old sheriff hired a dump truck to come load everything up and cart it off. There’s nothing left.”

“Good thing. My sister used to complain about what a mess this place was.” Eric checked his watch. “She’s due to arrive any time.”

Mitch raised an eyebrow. “You found Mary?”

Eric nodded. “The private detective called last week. He found her in Florida. I’ve spoken to her twice now.”

“What did you say to her?”

“I told her I’d help her, told her that things were different now, told her both God and I loved her.”

It must have been quite a phone call. Mitch didn’t know Mary Graham personally, but if she were a typical career criminal’s wife, not to mention the typical daughter of a local crime lord, she’d be a woman who didn’t trust anybody easily.

Including her brother Eric or God. “She believed you?”

“She says being on the run isn’t healthy for Justin. He isn’t anywhere long enough to make friends. I’ve already spoken with her caseworker. It won’t be easy, but Mary has a few things on her side.”

Mitch managed to keep his expression neutral. He had no sympathy for wives, husbands, mothers, fathers or even children who helped keep criminals in business and on the street. Yes, Eric had turned out to be different than Mitch had expected, but his sister had two strikes against her: not only was she the daughter of a criminal, but also the wife—correction, widow—of one. To Mitch’s way of thinking, Mary probably enjoyed the roles and money that came with being Yano’s daughter and Eddie’s wife.

“I know what you’re thinking, but I think you are wrong about my sister. I’m asking you as a friend, since your cabin is right next door to where she’ll be staying, to keep an eye on her.” Eric’s eyes bore holes into Mitch. “This might be her only chance to make good. Maybe she turned a blind eye to some things that she shouldn’t have, but remember, she was trained from birth. And even with that type of upraising, she never acted as a messenger or go-between. Not for our father, not for her husband. I think we can prove that she can’t be charged with mafia association or as an accomplice to any of Eddie’s dealings. That will leave just the child-endangerment issue and aggravated assault for the way she clocked Eddie after Justin ended up in the hospital. I think that I’ll be able to get her probation or even a suspended sentence. What do you think?”

“You don’t want to know what I think.”

“You’re too hard, Mitch. Not everyone is like you. Will you come with me to meet her, maybe give her a hand with a few boxes so you two get off on the right foot?”

Mitch nodded, then laughed and shook his head. “She’s going to hate living next door to me.”

Eric laughed. “Got that right. You couldn’t possibly be any more establishment.”

“And proud of it.”

He was proud of it and always had been, ever since the first time he’d read about Eliot Ness and then later watched all the cop shows his mother would allow. And that was before his sister disappeared. After that, he’d known exactly what he wanted to do with his life—find missing people. He’d started as a beat cop, finally worked his way to detective, and segued into Internal Affairs. He found lots of missing people; most of them didn’t want to be found.

He turned his attention back to his friend. “Where’s your wife? She’s a much better-looking officer to hang around with than me.”

Eric sobered. “Ruth would have come, but she’s working on a missing baby.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. “You remember José Santos?”

“Sure, great guy, good cop. He died last year after pulling over a kid who’d stolen a car. Kid had a gun.”

“His family is still having a hard time dealing with it. His sixteen-year-old daughter, Angelina, has a little boy now.”