CHAPTER THREE
David Hunter rubbed the back of his neck, something he always did when he was stressed out.
His son, Louie, was being a brat, complaining about oatmeal for breakfast again. As a single father, the buck should’ve stopped with him. And yet the kid was getting as bad a mouth as he’d once had, at that age.
Seven a.m. phone calls were never a good thing, in his line of business. This one had been from Special Agent in Charge Pembroke—his boss. Something about a murder. A kid. But damned if he could register a single word, with his son, carrying on about the raisins in the bowl looking like dead bugs.
“Hold on,” he spoke into the phone. He looked at Louie. “Just . . . deal with it. Pick them out if you have to!”
He started to step out of the kitchen when Louie crossed his arms
