Page 1 of Sergeant O'
Prologue
Jade
The fluorescent lights over the nurses’ station gave off a low hum as I went through Dr. Weaver’s instructions for the three patients still in the ER at the start of my seven p.m. shift.
Cade Freeman, standout quarterback for Haven Springs High, was in Room One with his family, pending the MRI results after he’d taken a helmet-to-helmet hit at summer practice.
Nancy Ryland was in Room Two with an inflamed gallbladder, waiting on a surgical consult, and Mabel Carroway’s oxygen levels were being monitored in Room Three after a steroid treatment for a COPD flare-up.
It was a nice, slow night.
I squeezed my eyes shut tight the second the thought crossed my mind. Iknewbetter than to tempt fate like that; that was a surefire way of asking for trouble.
And five minutes later, as if right on cue, in walked six-feet, two inches of Trouble with a capital T, wearing a Haven Springs police uniform with sergeant’s stripes and a cocky-as-hell grin as he escorted a man in handcuffs to Room Five.
Brian O’Shaughnessy.
The guy every girl in my high school had crushed on—myself included. Fortunately, I went off to college and grew up before returning to Haven Springs. Unfortunately, while I was gone, I’d had to learn the hard way that guys like Brian O’Shaughnessy were fun to look at but were not to be touched.
Under any circumstances.
Even if they flashed their panty-melting smile my way.
After blowing out a cleansing breath, I grabbed my tablet and headed toward Room Five. The police department had decided to commandeer that particular room—something about “five-oh”—so we left it empty unless we were at capacity, which had only happened once in my five years working the ER.
The Third of July Incident, as it was now known, was a textbook example of why fireworks and men full of testosterone and alcohol should not mix.
Enough said about that.
I walked in the room to find a man with road rash on his arms, hands, and knees, handcuffed to the bed, and announced my presence with what I hoped sounded like a professional tone. “Good evening, gentlemen. What”—I made a show of looking the handcuffed man over from head-to-toe—“do we have here?”
Brian answered, nodding toward the man. “Hiya, Sunshine. Tommy had a painful lesson in why it’s a bad idea to run from the popo. The jail won’t take him until he’s been medically cleared.”
“I see. And what is your chief complaint, Mister—?”
Tommy finally spoke. “Smith.”
Brian snorted. “Dude, I already took your fingerprints, remember? I know who you are. Plus, I went to school with your sister, dumbass. You look just like her.”
I studied the man for a minute, then saw what Brian was talking about.
“Tommy Mahon. I know your sister, Darcy, too. She was in my grade.”
“Fucking small towns,” Tommy muttered in disgust.
Brian snarked, “If you’re going to continue your life of crime, you should probably consider moving to the city. Once you get out of prison, that is.”
Tommy’s eyes got big. “Prison?”
“Do you think they send people who steal cars to summer camp?”
“I didn’tstealit. I borrowed it without permission.”
“I think your definition of ‘borrow’ isslightlydifferent than mine. But you should try that defense in court; see what the judge thinks.”
Tommy just hung his head, and I stepped in a little closer.
“Can you tell me where it hurts?”
