By Kathleen George
A homicide sends a baby into foster care and drags a detective right into a feverish hunt for justice
Nadal watches for weeks earlier than he first ways the boy. it doesn't matter what Maggie Brown says, he’s certain Matt is his son, and a boy should still comprehend his father. After their first war of words, Maggie must have run. She must have hidden her baby. yet she underestimated the fellow who was her lover. With self-righteous selection, Nadal is going to her residence. He calls for to spend time with the boy. whilst she refuses, he reaches for a knife.
By the time murder detective Richard Christie arrives at the scene, all that is still of Maggie Brown is a bloodstain at the ground. The killer has vanished, and Matt is just too scared to recollect whatever yet his mother’s worry. As Christie appears for the killer and Maggie’s pals struggle to maintain Matt out of the arms of kid prone, Nadal watches the inside track and waits. A boy can be together with his father. He’s going to get his son.
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Additional resources for A Measure of Blood (Richard Christie, Book 7)
I knew who his referred to—her late husband, the ghost I’ve learned to accept and even, at times, embrace. The ghost never leaves. I’m not sure that he ever should, though there are times I wish he would and of course that’s a horrible thing to think. “They—I mean, both sets of grandparents—want us to move out there. So we can be near them. ” I nodded because I didn’t know what else to do. ” “Family. His parents need to be part of Jack’s life. They can’t handle the cold weather up here anymore.
She asked. I hesitated. She put a hand on my arm. ” I did. And then she said something I never saw coming: “We’re not forever, Myron. ” A group of kids rushed past us. ” A ref blew a whistle. A horn sounded. ” Jack, bless his little heart, appeared around the corner. We both snapped out of it and smiled toward him. He did not smile back. Usually, no matter how awful he’d played, Jack came bounding out like a born-again puppy, offering up smiles and high fives. Part of the kid’s charm. But not today.
It’s like your hair color or your height or your hearing. It just is. And I’m not even talking here about the years of training I did to improve my body and to learn how to fight. But that’s there too. Coach Bobby did the predictable thing. He stepped in and threw a wild roundhouse. A roundhouse isn’t an effective punch against a seasoned fighter. You learn quickly that when it counts, the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. You are better off throwing blows with that knowledge.