The Bad Parents

THE BAD PARENTS SL HARKER Copyright © 2023 by SL Harker All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. CONTENTS Prologue 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 Epilogue About the Author Also by SL Harker PROLOGUE Detective Sandra Buchanan, a tall woman with a sharp-edged bob, steps out of her unmarked police car and takes in the street around her. Madison Lane. Not the kind of place she usually finds a body. Not among the flawless lawns and draping Wisteria blooms. Not where the houses are set back from the road with long drives curving to the street. The air is heavy with a velvety floral scent. Everything about this place screams privilege. Two or three steps toward the crime scene, and that sweet floral perfume turns rotten. She’s smelled it before. Blood. Even in the hazy early morning it’s easy to spot the body. The deceased is bulky, probably a man, folded over on himself at the end of a driveway. She approaches slowly, noting the smear of blood running across the sidewalk. A tire mark brands the arm, which lies at a wrong angle, twisted and bloody. Sandra stands, placing her hands on her hips, and looks at the road then at the driveway. Why is there no blood in the middle of the street? Did the car come onto the sidewalk to run this man over? Either the driver was completely out of control, possibly drunk or on drugs, or it was a deliberate hit-and-run. A murder. The patrol units’ arrival spurs her detective nature into action. She addresses the officers, directing them to set up a perimeter and search the area for anything that appears unusual. The officers fan out and tape off the scene. She watches them drop numbered cards near blood trails and the lone shoe in the house’s driveway. Sandra studies the shoe for a moment, turning it over carefully in gloved hands. Then she regards the house. One of her officers consoles a weeping woman standing in the doorway. The wife or a neighbor? Definitely the wife, judging by the tears. If that’s true, then this man barely made it out of his driveway before becoming roadkill. How about that for luck? Sandra turns slowly, taking in the street. She feels eyes on her, sees a curtain close hastily over a window, notes the shadows of neighbors lurking behind blinds. And she wonders if here, on this quiet street, in this quiet neighborhood, in this quiet town, perhaps one of the neighbors had a not-so-neighborly reason to hate the man. If someone behind those curtains and blinds hated him enough to want him dead. 1 The door to the bar whooshes shut behind me, and I blink, adjusting my eyes to the dim interior. It’s just after six, but already, patrons perch on wobbly barstools, nursing their beers. Let’s face it, this is a dive. The floors somehow manage to be both sticky and gritty. Stale cigarette smoke lingers in the air. I gingerly pick my way across the room, scanning the booths with cracked plastic upholstery. “Petra!” I turn to see Dawn Lynes half standing and waving to me from a table near the back wall. “We’re over here.” Lifting my hand in greeting, I skirt a few empty tables and settle onto a rickety chair at the table. “Good evening, ladies.” I smile at Dawn and Amy. “So, this place is interesting.” I wipe the sticky table with the edge of my hand. “Do they serve tetanus shots with your drinks?” Amy Winstead, a petite brunette, titters nervously, her eyes flicking between me and Dawn. I don’t know her well, but she’s always been quiet and slightly nervous when I’ve talked to her at the neighborhood barbecues and block parties. It doesn’t help that her four kids are shrieking little whirlwinds and her husband, Miles, is useless with them. He’s one of those “man’s man” types. Too traditional to change a diaper. Brash and raucous, always giving the women smirking winks, like he’s seen them naked. Amy probably finds it hard to be heard in her own house. Between us, Dawn and I have made it our personal challenge to bring her out of her shell. “I know,” Dawn says. “But it’s the closest place. Plus, I can drink as much as I want without any judgment.” She shrugs. “Anyhow, welcome to the first Madison Lane Moms’ evening out. Anybody up for shots? I only have a couple of hours before I need to be back at the office for a meeting.” “Don’t you work at the middle school?” Amy asks softly. “Absolutely. Which is why I need alcohol.” Dawn laughs. She shoves her chair back and struts toward the bar. I glance at Amy. “She’s kidding.” Her eyes widen. “Oh!” “Amy, school shut hours ago, you know that.” I laugh. “Well, that’s why I was confused,” she says. I pat her on the arm, hoping she’ll loosen up soon. “Dawn’s just a tease.” For a while, Amy sits very still. Only her fingers move as she picks at the edge of the table. She pulls them back and folds them into her lap when she notices me watching. “How are you?” I ask. “Is everything okay?” “Oh, um. Fine, I guess.” Her smile