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Back Deception Cove
Chapters (78)
  1. Cover
  2. Title Page
  3. Copyright
  4. Dedication
  5. Epigraph
  6. Prologue
  7. One
  8. Two
  9. Three
  10. Four
  11. Five
  12. Six
  13. Seven
  14. Eight
  15. Nine
  16. Ten
  17. Eleven
  18. Twelve
  19. Thirteen
  20. Fourteen
  21. Fifteen
  22. Sixteen
  23. Seventeen
  24. Eighteen
  25. Nineteen
  26. Twenty
  27. Twenty-One
  28. Twenty-Two
  29. Twenty-Three
  30. Twenty-Four
  31. Twenty-Five
  32. Twenty-Six
  33. Twenty-Seven
  34. Twenty-Eight
  35. Twenty-Nine
  36. Thirty
  37. Thirty-One
  38. Thirty-Two
  39. Thirty-Three
  40. Thirty-Four
  41. Thirty-Five
  42. Thirty-Six
  43. Thirty-Seven
  44. Thirty-Eight
  45. Thirty-Nine
  46. Forty
  47. Forty-One
  48. Forty-Two
  49. Forty-Three
  50. Forty-Four
  51. Forty-Five
  52. Forty-Six
  53. Forty-Seven
  54. Forty-Eight
  55. Forty-Nine
  56. Fifty
  57. Fifty-One
  58. Fifty-Two
  59. Fifty-Three
  60. Fifty-Four
  61. Fifty-Five
  62. Fifty-Six
  63. Fifty-Seven
  64. Fifty-Eight
  65. Fifty-Nine
  66. Sixty
  67. Sixty-One
  68. Sixty-Two
  69. Sixty-Three
  70. Sixty-Four
  71. Sixty-Five
  72. Sixty-Six
  73. Sixty-Seven
  74. Sixty-Eight
  75. Acknowledgments
  76. Discover More
  77. About the Author
  78. Also by Owen Laukkanen

But Shelby hadn’t played along. No matter how hard Harwood knocked, or how loud he called her name, the girl wouldn’t cooperate. And Harwood had looked back to the street and Dale’s cruiser, and to Joy’s big Suburban, and he could feel Dale’s eyes on him, and Cole’s and Joy’s, too, and he’d known his men were waiting on him to do something. He’d known Joy wouldn’t tolerate failure.

Damn it.

“Last chance, Shelby,” he’d hollered through the door. “We’re coming in, girl, whether you like it or not.”

Still no response. Shadows shifting in the house, light flickering beyond the curtains, onto the front lawn. Harwood felt movement behind him, Dale coming up to join him. “Are we doing this, Kirby?”

“I guess we are,” Harwood replied, and Dale stepped back, drew his weapon, and Harwood reared up and put his boot to the door.

The door gave in easy. It was cheap, the lock cheaper, the wood splintering inward without resistance. Harwood kicked again, sent the door swinging clear of the threshold, saw Shelby’s living room, and the kitchen beyond, but no sign of the girl.

And then he heard the shot.

Damn, but it must have whizzed right over his head. Harwood swore, threw himself off the front stoop, landed in Mama Walker’s old garden, something thorny and brittle. Dale was somewhere on the other side of the stoop, a similar predicament, and behind Harwood lights were coming on in the few neighboring houses still occupied, faces appearing in windows.

Harwood drew his sidearm. “God damn it, Shelby, what the hell are you thinking?”

A little bit of a pause. And then Shelby’s voice, from somewhere within, tougher than Harwood could ever recall hearing before: “I’m defending myself, Kirby. What are you doing?”

“You can’t just open fire on a sheriff’s deputy,” Harwood hollered back. “I mean, shit, you could have killed someone.”

Shelby laughed. “That? Just a warning shot. When I want to shoot you, you’ll know about it. Now, you want to tell me what you’re doing busting down my front door?”

“You know why we’re here, Shelby, you bitch.” Dale, beating Harwood to the punch, master of diplomacy. “You and that piece of shit Winslow stole something from us.”

“Stole what, exactly?” Shelby called back. “Say it nice and loud, Dale, so my mama and my neighbors can hear you.”