Page 12 of Surrender

Mrs. Kramer raises her finger to interject, but her husband places a hand on her back and turns her away.

“Does Whit—Miss Thompson know the cops have been called on her?” I ask once they’re up the stairs and out of earshot.

Hunter shakes his head. “No. I didn’t know if I should warn her ahead of time. I thought maybe you could do something.”

“I’ll give her a heads-up.”

I graze the receiver as the front door swings open. Sutton and Silas Stone saunter in, hands sliding into the edges of their black police vests.

“Morning, Jack,” Sutton, the older of the two, greets with a tip of his chin.

“Hey, guys. Sorry you’ve made the trip out.”

“It’s not a problem,” Sutton replies, walking toward the stairs. “What room is she in?”

“Hold on.” I move around the desk to intercept them. “I’ve already handled it. I think you’ve made a wasted trip.”

Sutton’s eyes narrow as he looks over at me.

Silas interjects. “What you do with your guest complaints is your business, Jack, but we have to look into this one.”

I feign ignorance. “Why? It’s a simple noise complaint. I’ve handled it.”

Silas shakes his head. “The complaint was for child abuse.”

Fuck. I was hoping Mrs. Kramer didn’t actually relay their speculative assumption to the dispatcher. “The baby was crying. Probably because it’s in an unfamiliar environment. I don’t think that warrants an investigation, do you?”

“You willing to bet on that, Jack?” Sutton asks. We lock eyes. I grew up with the Stone brothers. Silas is best friends with my brother Corjan, while Sutton is one of my oldest friends. He knows all about us Powell siblings and our pasts. Which means he fucking knows the answer to that.

A tense silence stretches between us, broken by my acquiescence. “Let me go first and explain.”

Sutton shakes his head. “You know I can’t let you do that.”

My pulse quickens as Whitney’s face swims in my consciousness. The guilt must be evident because Sutton places a heavy hand on my shoulder.

“We’ll be as quick as we can.”

“I’m coming with you,” I mutter as a hot, angry flush tears up my neck. I don’t know why I care, but the thought of ambushing this woman and her kids doesn’t sit right in my gut.

“Stay out of the way,” Sutton orders and leads us up the stairs.

He raps on her door sharply, a loud chorus of knocks impossible to ignore. Tense seconds tick by while we wait for an answer. After about thirty seconds, he knocks again.

Shuffling and murmured voices filter through the oak wood before the door swings open.

My heart fucking sinks at her appearance.

The vibrancy from yesterday is nowhere to be found. Whitney’s golden hair is a mess, twisting around her face in a disordered fashion. A frown tilts her alluring mouth. Purple bags mar the pale skin beneath her lashes, making her honey-colored eyes stand out in stark contrast.

Her knuckles blanch where tense fingers curl around the door.

She drags her gaze through the uniformed men before her eyes lock on mine. They flit away just as quickly.

“We received a complaint about your children crying. May we come in?” Sutton asks.

“I’d rather you didn’t. We had a rough night, and I was hoping—”

“That wasn’t a question.” Sutton cuts her off. “Please. Let us in.”

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