Free The 9th Girl by Tami Hoag

it,” he said, getting to his feet.
    “Again?”
    He shrugged, unconcerned with the phone or the lie. He shoved up the sleeves of his jersey, displaying a blue-inked sleeve of tattoos on his left arm. A tat artist’s masterpiece, the work of art ran from shoulder to wrist, depicting an epic battle of good and evil, complete with a horned demon and an avenging angel.
    Nikki always wondered which character represented Speed. The conclusion she inevitably came to was both. Working undercover narcotics, Speed Hatcher’s world was gray with the rot of moral ambiguity. He was both the good guy and the bad guy, depending on the scenario, depending on the point of view. He had always been too comfortable with that dichotomy. What made him so very good at his job made him equally bad at being a husband and a father.
    “I smell chili,” she said, choosing diplomacy. “Hungry, R.J.? Or have you guys spent the whole afternoon eating junk?”
    “Both,” R.J. said, tossing the Nerf ball back to his father.
    “Where’s Kyle?” she asked, turning for the kitchen.
    “Who cares?” R.J. crabbed. “He’s a jerk.”
    “He went to a friend’s house,” Speed said.
    Nikki turned back around. “And you let him?”
    “Sure. What’s the big deal?”
    “R.J., please go wash up for dinner,” she said pointedly.
    Her son rolled his eyes. “Are you guys gonna have a fight already? Jeez, Mom. You just got here.”
    “We’re not having a fight; we’re having a discussion,” Nikki said. “And not in front of you, so as not to further warp your perception of male-female relationships. Go wash up.”
    Father and son exchanged a glance and a shrug that clearly said, Women. What can you do? R.J. bounded up the stairs.
    Nikki put her full attention on her ex, giving him a meaningful look as she stepped across the hall into her small home office. He followed, rolling his shoulders back like a fighter getting loose before the bell. She closed the door behind him.
    “Did you truly not get my messages?” she asked. “Kyle was in a fight last night. He’s got half a concussion. How could you just let him go?”
    “What was I supposed to do? Arrest him?”
    She thought her eyes might burst from her head at the sudden rise in her blood pressure. Her jaw hurt from biting back a flood of angry words. “Did you speak to him?”
    “About what?”
    “Oh my God, I want to hit you in the head with a brick,” she said. “I don’t know what would be worse—believing you’re a flip asshole or believing you really are just that obtuse.”
    Speed rolled his eyes. “Jesus Christ, Nikki, he’s a fifteen-year-old boy. He got in a scrape. It’s not the end of the fucking world.”
    “He lied to me about it.”
    “Did you miss the part where I said he’s a fifteen-year-old boy?”
    “Kyle does not lie to me. He didn’t inherit your comfort with it, thank God,” she said. “He lied to me about what happened. I believe he lied to me about where he was when it happened—”
    “Have you checked his story out?”
    “I’ve been at an autopsy all afternoon.”
    “And your vic is going to get more dead while you take the time to make a couple of phone calls?”
    Nikki gasped. “Don’t you dare give me a hard time about making a phone call! You can’t even be bothered to answer when I leave you a message that your son is in trouble. And don’t give me that bullshit story about losing your phone. I called every number you have. Why don’t you just say you don’t give a shit?”
    “You overreact to everything, Nikki! A kid gets a fucking hangnail and you’re texting me with the 911! So he got in a scrape. So he got popped. So he hit the kid back. So what?”
    “Thank you for reminding me yet again why I’m not still married to you. You don’t get this at all, do you?”
    “I guess not. Never mind that I was a fifteen-year-old boy once.”
    “You’re still a fifteen-year-old boy,” Nikki argued. “That’s half the