Owen King was a man without a badge, for the first time in over ten years. He missed the weight of his shield at his hip and the counterbalance of his service weapon. Knowing what his purpose was, should anything go wrong.

Without that shield, who was he?

What was he doing with his life?

What was the point of it all?

He’d wanted to do the right thing, but what about when doing the right thing meant breaking the rules Owen had sworn to uphold? What then? He was lost, and despite knowing the answer to all his problems wasn’t at the bottom of this pint glass, he was still searching for it there.

“You sure you should drink that much?”

The hair on the back of Owen’s neck rose. He froze for half a second while Blake, his former partner, slid onto the stool next to him. The rest of the guys in their ragtag group were coming in, chatting, giving Ian shit over getting shot last week. It was their way of showing they cared. Usually, Blake only showed up on trivia nights, which meant he shouldn’t be here. Not now, and not when Owen would rather be left alone.

“It’s one beer,” Owen said in lieu of anything better. Used to be, before the accident, no one knew Owen better than Blake. These days, they were strangers.

“It always starts with one.” Blake grimaced and pulled the card with tonight’s specials closer. “You doing this fundraiser Andre’s setting up?”

“What else do I have going on?” Owen sipped his beer and peered sideways at the man he’d called his best friend. Ever since that night, that one stupid accident, he’d become someone else. A person Owen didn’t recognize.

They’d been working a complicated homicide. Checking out a lead for one murder, they’d uncovered the suspects and their hostage. They’d given chase, but one of the perps and the hostage had died. Hit and run over, by the second hostage. Owen and Blake had shifted from the murder investigation to collecting evidence. They’d begun the usual rote questions, while patrols searched the area for the other driver.

He’d thought their day couldn’t get any crazier.

Owen could remember the moments leading up to it with crystal clarity. He’d asked a woman who’d been jogging in the park for her account of what happened. Blake had just parked their cruiser to block traffic and was pulling out cones and tape from the trunk to block off the scene. He’d heard the squeal of tires, he’d turned—and at that exact moment—everything changed. A drunk driver hit the cruiser and Blake was trapped between the two, his lower leg nearly pinched off just below the knee.

It was a night burned into Owen’s mind forever. He’d thought with sheer willpower and determination he could haul Blake back to who he used to be, but maybe Blake didn’t want to be that person anymore. Whoever he was now, Owen didn’t know him.

“If we’re going to keep doing this prince act, I’d like to get something that fits, you know? That costume shop shit is itchy and smells worse than the locker room.” Blake braced his forearms on the table and turned toward Owen. His eyes were clearer, more focused than they had been as of late. The shadows were gone. He almost looked like the man Owen had grown to know over the years doing patrol together, working their way up to homicide with the same goals in mind.

“You know there’s a life after the badge, right?” Blake leveled his serious gaze at Owen.

“I’ll be back to work soon.” Just a suspension. He needed to hold tight to those words. He’d be back to work, the badge on his hip, before the end of the week. Wouldn’t he?

“I heard your new partner threw you under the bus.”

“Who told you that?” Owen tightened his hand on the pint glass. If Blake was no longer talking to Owen, the guy who’d been his best friend, who was Blake talking to?

“Sally in records.” Blake grimaced. “She doesn’t like what’s-his-face.”

Jordan, Owen’s partner since Blake’s retirement. They hadn’t gotten on well the few times they’d met. Jordan was no Blake, that was for sure. Sally, the mistress of records, was something of a mother hen to Owen and Blake. Her son had been around their same age when they’d begun at the department in patrol. Owen shouldn’t be too surprised she wouldn’t let Blake go. In fact, he should have seen that coming.

“I didn’t know you were still talking to Sally,” Owen said.

“She doesn’t give me a lot of choice. A lot like you.” Blake tossed a glare Owen’s way. “Besides, her son’s anniversary is coming up in a few weeks. You know how she is.”

Shit.

Owen had forgotten, in the wake of everything going on. To say that life hadn’t settled down much in the last six months was an understatement. But something like the death of Sally’s son wasn’t the kind of thing Owen should have forgotten.

“I’ll have to stop by and see how she’s doing,” Owen said.

“She’d like that. So, Jordan’s a dick?”

“He was covering his ass.” Owen clenched his teeth together.

“You’re a homicide detective. You could be a little cynical.”

“You’re cynical enough for both of us.”

“Yeah, but I’m not your partner anymore. I’m not there to even out your eternal optimism.” Blake pressed his lips together.

Didn’t Owen know it?

He and Blake balanced each other. Owen couldn’t help but see the best in people. Blake wasn’t as forgiving.

“That a new leg?” Owen asked the question before he could think better of it.

Blake held out his left...foot wasn’t the right word. The last prosthetic Owen had seen Blake wear was foot shaped. This, whatever he was wearing now, was something else.

“I’m a blade runner now.” Blake turned the prosthetic this way and that. “I had a PT jogging session earlier. I think the nurse just likes to watch my ass sweat.”

Owen let out his breath. These days, he never knew what might set Blake off. Tonight seemed to be a good night. Like it always used to be.

“Who are we missing still?” Andre pitched his voice over the general noise of the bar.

Soon enough, they’d launch into discussion about costumes, songs, dance choreography, how to proceed with the whole prince routine. Surprisingly enough, everyone was still on board with it. Andre had even started feeling out their core group about adding more guys, like Vito and some people Andre knew. Owen had figured a few of the guys would drop out, but they’d surprised him. It was good for Owen to do something, be busy again. The prince gig was at least a thing that made people happy.

“Hey?” He leaned over to Blake. “Want to do—”

His phone, lying on the table, flashed the name Kierra/Quinn Schaeffer.

That name never ceased to make his heart skip a beat. For a few reasons.

“Are you dating sisters?” Blake asked.

“Quinn is Ian’s sister’s best friend.”

Owen had never met a pricklier woman in his life, and yet he liked her. She had a special spark about her that made him smile when he shouldn’t. Quinn would probably rather Owen stay out of her life, but her eight-year-old sister had decided Owen was her personal bogeyman-slayer. Something was going on with the little girl, his gut said so. Which was why Owen answered whenever she called.

It was kind of late for Kierra to be calling him about the monsters under her bed, wasn’t it? Quinn didn’t speak to him unless it was strictly necessary, which meant she wasn’t the one calling.

“Kierra, sweetheart, shouldn’t you be—”

“The monster is in the house.” The little girl’s voice trembled.

The noise in the bar faded away.

Is in... Present tense.

“Kierra, where’s your sister? Where’s Quinn? Do you see the monster right now?” Owen slid to his feet and took a step toward the door. The Schaeffer’s house was just a few blocks away. He could run there faster than he could get to his car and drive there.

Something banged in the background. A voice that wasn’t Kierra’s screamed.

Quinn.

“Owen—”

“Kierra? Kierra! Run! Keep running. I’m coming to get you.”

Quinn yelled in the background.

“I’m coming, Kierra.”

Owen glanced up.

Everyone at the long communal table was silent. Staring at him.

“Call 9-1-1. Someone’s breaking into the Schaeffer house.” Owen bolted for the door.

Chairs scraped against the worn floor and feet pounded the hardwood behind him.

“Move,” Blake hollered at the people coming in through the side door.

Nearly the whole group spilled out onto the sidewalk.

They all knew the Schaeffer girls, because Quinn was friends with Ian’s twin, Chloe. Every one of them had shared dinner at the Kelly house with Quinn present and laughed at Kierra’s antics.

“I can’t leave Quinn,” Kierra wailed into the phone.

“Get under Quinn’s bed, Kierra,” he yelled into the phone. “Lock the door. I’m on my way.”

Owen pumped his arms, praying they made it in time.

He’d had a bad feeling about this, ever since the princess party when he’d met Kierra. She’d told him there were monsters outside her window at night and that sometimes they tried to get inside. He’d looked into her haunted gaze and known that something bad was going to happen. Since then, whenever Kierra called, Owen came, because she needed a prince to scare the bad things away. He’d wondered...but there was never any evidence. It was always her fears, things that she thought had happened, never something in progress.

Sharp screams pierced the night from the cell phone in his hand.

He had to run faster.

The cool night air had tears streaming down his cheeks.

Owen sprinted, Blake at his side.

What if they didn’t make it in time?

He darted in front of a car crossing the street, cut through the yard of the house on the corner.

Owen vaulted the yard fence of the house at the end of their darkened street, the thick tree branches blocking out even the starlight overhead. He fought against his urge to call out. He wanted to catch the bastards, not scare them off.

“Circle around this side,” Owen gestured at the white house with dark windows halfway down the street.

Blake and two of the other guys edged into the darkness. They were quick, silent and deadly. Most of the guys had some sort of military service or badge time. They knew what they were doing without further orders.

Kierra had said the monster was in the bathroom. That was on the other side of the bungalow.

Owen ducked around the porch and reached for his gun—that was no longer there. Because he was suspended, and without a badge, carrying a firearm wasn’t a great idea.

He crept around the side of the house.

No movement.

No screams.

Pease, let them be alright...

Yellow light shone through a window—the bathroom window.

“Kierra?” he called out.

Owen jogged to the window and peered through the busted-out glass. Fragments littered the windowsill and the sod outside.

“Kierra, can you hear me?”

Something crashed inside the house.

Fuck this. He was going in.

Owen braced his hands on the window frame and hoisted himself to. The shards of glass cut into his clothes, tearing at him, but he pushed on. He grabbed the porcelain top of the toilet and edged into the hall.

“Where is the key?” a man growled.

“I—I don’t know what you’re asking for. What key?” Quinn’s voice wavered.

Owen edged into the hall. He could hear the guys outside, circling the house.

A big guy had Quinn by the shoulders, her back up against the wall. Her cheek was swollen and red, eyes wide. Her bedroom door, the first on the hall, was shut. With any luck, Kierra was in there hiding and not seeing this.

Owen took a step.

The ancient wooden floor creaked.

The man let go of Quinn and turned toward Owen. The black-knit ski mask bulged oddly, tufts of facial hair protruding out of the holes.

Owen stepped and swung.

The big man swerved, dropped his shoulder and rushed Owen, driving him back against the wall.

Quinn screamed, the sound piercing the calm of the night with the blood-curdling quality that only a woman could hit. The toilet top hit the floor. Owen and the would-be-attacker grappled. The guy got hold of the front of Owen’s shirt and swung. Owen twisted, the blow glancing off his jaw.

“Hey—in here!” Blake yelled from the rear of the house.

“Fuck,” the masked man roared.

He shoved Owen back into Quinn. She wasn’t retreating, she was closing in with the toilet top in her hands. The porcelain crashed to the floor again. He tripped over her feet, wrapped his arms around her and twisted. They went tumbling to the floor, Quinn’s weight driving all the air out of Owen’s body. His head hit the wood and for a moment everything went black.

A heavy boot kicked him in the side. The masked man charged past, banging out through the front door.

“Blake, he went out the front,” Owen yelled. His head pounded.

“Oh my God,” Quinn said.

Owen clutched her to his chest, listening to the sounds of the others in pursuit, the rev of a car engine and the multiple expletives.

“Did—they catch him?” Quinn’s face was drained of color.

“I doubt it, but maybe someone got his license plate.” Owen squeezed her arm.

Quinn glanced down at him, eyes wide, as though she just realized where she was. In her house, on top of him, in the hall.

“Oh my God.” She scrambled to her feet and backed away.

Owen groaned and pushed up.

Damn, he was going to have a bump on the back of his head.

The door to Quinn’s room creaked open.

“Owen?” a watery, little voice called out.

“Oh, Kierra, baby.” Quinn rushed to the door and wrapped her arms around the little girl. “Everything’s going to be okay.

Owen did a visual once over.

Her clothes were in place. Her face turned toward him wasn’t red, no tears, no sign of trauma.

Kierra was safe. Unhurt. She’d gotten away before anything could happen. Quinn, on the other hand, wasn’t so lucky.

“Owen.” Kierra wiggled out of her sister’s arms and threw herself at Owen.

He caught her, cradling the petite child to his chest.

They’d made it in time. Barely.

“Everything’s going to be fine,” he whispered.

Quinn stood with her back against the wall, eyes wide. Her shirt collar was ripped and angry red marks indicated some sort of impact on her face and throat, but she was otherwise unmolested. It wasn’t a best-case scenario, but it wasn’t the worst either.

He squeezed Kierra a little tighter.

Blue and white lights bathed the front of the house. The cops were there, right on time.

Owen had always thought the monsters were after Kierra. That, as sick as it was, the little girl was the target. But if tonight was any gauge to go by, it wasn’t the little Schaeffer sister the monsters of the night wanted.

It was Quinn.

What was so important she couldn’t give it up to protect her sister? What was so valuable someone would risk a home invasion to get it?

At least now he knew he was right, not that the knowledge was comforting. Someone really was after the Schaeffer sisters.