Cross Her Heart (Bree Taggert #1)(6)

She finished her water and stood. “I’m going home.”





CHAPTER THREE

With a flicker of apprehension, Matthew Flynn rang his friend’s doorbell a second time. Once again, chimes sounded inside the small ranch-style home. But no footsteps approached the door.

Justin should be home. He should be expecting Matt to pick him up for his Narcotics Anonymous meeting, as he had every Tuesday night for months.

At Matt’s side, his German shepherd, Brody, whined. Matt glanced down at the dog. Brody’s ears were up and his posture stiff.

“What is it, boy?”

Brody whined again and pawed at the concrete stoop. A former sheriff’s department K-9, Brody had sharp instincts honed by years of training and practice. The dog barked once. Normally, he was happy and excited to see Justin. His tail should be wagging. His posture should be relaxed.

Something was wrong.

Matt might not understand the signals, but he trusted his dog. Brody’s senses of smell and hearing were far superior to any human’s. And he always seemed to have a sixth sense as well. When they’d been a working K-9 team with the sheriff’s department, Brody had saved Matt’s ass more times than he could count. Matt had learned the hard way that he could trust the dog more than he could most people.

He swallowed a lump of pure bitterness. Three years ago, a shooting had ended both their careers. Matt wished the way his future had been ripped out from under him could be described as simply as it had been summed up in the press release. The reality had been anything but. He knew he had to let go of his anger. The sheriff had sent Matt and Brody through the wrong door of a warehouse, and they’d been caught in friendly fire when deputies exchanged shots with a drug dealer. Whether the former sheriff’s actions had been deliberate or accidental didn’t matter anymore. The man was dead. But letting go of his resentment was proving harder than Matt anticipated.

He opened the storm door and tried the wooden door, but it was locked. Backing away from the door, he scanned the front of the house. Justin’s Ford Escape sat in the driveway. A FOR SALE sign was displayed in the windshield. Justin would not be driving for a long time. Four months before, he’d been arrested for driving while ability impaired by drugs. As a second DWAI offense, the charge was a class E felony in New York State. Justin’s wife had asked him to move out. Since then, Justin said he was committed to staying sober and earning back her trust, but there were days when all he talked about were his failures. He battled depression along with his addiction.

Concerned, Matt backed away from the door, his breath fogging in the freezing January night. The exterior and interior lights were on. Justin was on a tight budget. If he wasn’t home, the house would be dark.

Matt pulled out his phone. Twenty minutes ago, he’d sent Justin a text, letting him know he was on the way. Matt had been running a few minutes late and hadn’t waited for an answer before leaving his house, but now the lack of one felt wrong. Justin usually sent back a thumbs-up. Matt sent a new message. I’M OUTSIDE.

A minute ticked away with no response.

There was only one thing to do. Matt had to go in.

He’d known Justin since they were kids. His friend had been on a downward spiral, set off by a car accident, chronic back pain, and a subsequent addiction to OxyContin. Justin had fallen apart, but he seemed determined to get his life together. Matt would do everything he could to help, including driving him to NA meetings and breaking into his house if there was even a slight chance that his friend could be in trouble.

Possible scenarios ran through Matt’s head. Addiction relapse and suicide were among them.

“Come on,” he said to the dog as he turned away from the house, but Brody didn’t immediately follow. The dog focused on the door and whined again. The sound he made was plaintive, high-pitched, and barely audible. “We’ll try another door.”

Obedient but clearly reluctant, Brody followed him around the side of the house. Their footsteps crunched in the ice-crusted snow. The patio door was a glass slider, and it was open. Matt stuck his head inside. The den and kitchen were at the back of the house. The kitchen was empty but brightly lit. Two open cans of Coke sat on the counter next to a pizza box. In the den, a couch and coffee table faced the TV. Light flickered from the TV mounted on the wall. A local news station played on the screen.

Where is Justin?

Worry snowballed in Matt’s gut. As if channeling his master’s anxiety, Brody dug into the snow that had drifted against the base of the slider.

“Yeah, no worries, buddy. We’re going in.” Matt pulled a leash from his pocket and snapped it onto the dog’s collar. Then he stepped into the kitchen. A few clumps of snow fell from his boots. He wiped his feet on the mat and led Brody inside, leaving the door open behind them.

The shepherd panted and paced at the end of his leash. Matt brought him to heel with a single German command. “Fuss.”

“Justin?” he called. Nothing moved. The tiny house felt eerily still. Brody pulled toward the hallway that led to the bedrooms. Matt held him back as he strained at the end of his leash.

The dog whined again. Matt flipped a light switch in the hall. The laundry room and bathroom were empty. Matt peered into the spare bedroom, which contained only a stack of boxes Justin refused to unpack, claiming the move was temporary.

Brody pulled harder.