PROLOGUE

(Expletives altered on public page)

From the instant you take that first slug in the torso, you realize it finally happened. You’ve been shot and it’s bad. In this business, you knew it could happen sooner or later. 

But it doesn’t stop there. As you try desperately to drop from the line of fire, the next bullet pushes you back up, because these are .45 slugs. And at this range, even your vest isn’t going to save you from a few broken ribs. Or worse.

So you give up trying not to fall and you reach for your sidearm and try to lean left as you drift to the floor, shooting with your right hand, hoping desperately to connect with a couple of shots before you hit the deck and black out. 

Or the shooter puts one in your head. 

UC dick Case Parker knew what he did. And what he didn’t do. There were no shades of gray. Well, maybe a little. She was a stunner. But he was only doing his job. And guess what, he did it damn well. Some say too well. Some say lines were crossed. 

That he found her on a stripper pole in the Bronx did not matter one f**king bit, because boy was she good. Best CI a cop could have stumbled on. Turned out, stripping for two grand a night was her loss leader. She had the goods on everyone, right up to the mayor’s desk.

Actually on the mayor’s desk, in fact. 

The case was going to earn him a gold shield. No doubt about it. Did he cross the line with her? Of course he did, it was his job, he was undercover, he had to convince her. Just like she had to convince her johns. One hand washes the other. 

But only one soul on this filthy little dink of a rock in the entire frigid universe could have known how things were gonna turn out and it wasn’t Case Parker. 

Does it bother you now, asshole? Two years on and all it cost you? Standing here alone on this empty rig in the ocean, still pretending to be a police officer? 

“F**k yes it bothers me! It f**king kills me!”

It should, you f**k. It should bother you all the way to Hell, because that’s where you’re going. 

“I did what I could! I did my best!”

Your best? Your best?! If that was your best, you got what came, you s**t cop.

“How could I have known who she is!? Nobody could have known! Nobody!”

 And you call yourself a detective. 

“You play the hand you’re dealt.”

Do you even listen to the whining swill that pours out of your mouth? The stench of your sins follows you like a nuclear cloud, Case Parker. You’re just lucky you did the right thing and fled. Coward. 

“F**k you. Leave me alone. I’m finished beating myself up.” 

For now, anyway. 

It was late. He was drunk. The rig was awash in frigid waves, the deck was too slippery in those damn loafers. And he for sure had a broken rib, lower right side. Hopefully just badly bruised. 

He tucked his chin to his throat, placed his left arm across his chest to buttress the rib, and battled his way back toward the living quarters, the bite mark on his left shoulder glowing purple as a beet, his teeth chattering from the frozen wind, and images of what he’d seen that night refusing to give him peace. 

F * * k e d. 

Those six letters summed up Parker’s entire life to date. 

A howling gust of wind, the slick surface, and a sudden stab of vertigo shoved him to the edge. As he fell toward the darkness below, his hand flicked out and caught the pipe he had dropped the bolt into just that morning at Sam’s smug urging.

Go ahead. It won’t harm anything. Every man has an urge to drop something into a deep hole. Isn’t that what she said? 

F**ked.

He hauled himself back onto the deck surface and crawled to the living module.  Crying like a baby all the way.

* * *

“Before we move any further into our business discussion, I’m required by court order to inform you that I’m a registered sex addict. If this bothers you, then we can terminate our discussion now and I fully understand.”

This is what she said to Case when they had a scheduled video convo about him hiring her for a case requiring her street connections. Danny would be close to a year old by now, so this was around two years ago, just after he joined the force.

Of course his mind said to him, Is this a joke? Am I being punked? A beautiful woman has to inform me she’s a sex addict before we can talk any further? This is a joke, right? 

Instead, he responded, “I understand, Ma’am,” not knowing whether he should feel sympathy for her condition, or joy that he had apparently arrived in heaven. He was young back then. Twenty-one. What did he know. 

So they talked. Obviously, he could not hire her because of her, uh, situation, and its complexities related to her compelling image, voice, obvious intelligence and great sense of humor. But mostly because he could not focus on the conversation, because he’s a visual thinker and his brain kept assaulting him with distracting images, thoughts, questions, as her red lips blew out a smoky voice that was a cross between Lauren Bacall and Marilyn Monroe.

Anyway, that’s how they met.

And after an exhausting interview process, he and Charlotte got married. And had a kid. Shocking it was just the one. But he was a busy cop, fixed on making that gold shield. 

A year later she and the kid were both dead and he was a suspect. But he had a gnawing suspicion about who actually killed them.

And of course it sounds crazy to him now, but Charlotte wasn’t who she claimed to be. And the killing probably was sort of a mercy thing, looking back on it. Or not.

So who forced her to do it? 

But he needn’t worry about all that ancient history. Because his suspicions were about to be confirmed by the woman who didn’t belong on this rig. The woman whose voice sounded a helluva lot like Charlotte’s.