Logan
Chief of Police
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The scent of gunpowder and stale coffee clung to Logan Robinson like a second skin. It was the perfume of his kingdom, the Chief of Police’s office, a space as orderly and unforgiving as the man himself. Framed commendations lined the walls, each a small monument to a case closed, a criminal put away. On his polished mahogany desk, a single photograph sat in a simple silver frame: Angel, smiling brilliantly on his arm, and beside them, Grace, his real daughter, glowing with the kind of effortless beauty that money and doting could buy. Jason was conspicuously absent from the picture. He hadn’t been in many lately.
Logan leaned back in his leather chair, the groan of expensive hide a familiar sound. Eight years. Eight years since he’d scrubbed the contamination from his house. Eight years since he’d watched that girl—Raewyn—drive away with that man, Adrian Blackwood. He remembered the look on her face, a mixture of fear and a hurt so deep it almost looked like peace. He’d dismissed it then, just as he dismissed the memory now. It was a necessary amputation. A cancerous growth removed before it could spread to the vital organs of his family.
A knock on the door broke his reverie.
Come in,he rumbled, his voice a low gravelly instrument. Grace entered, a whirlwind of designer perfume and youthful entitlement.