One million thanks to Jackie for all her knowledge on legal jargon.
Hi all! This is my first serious attempt at any sort of fanfiction so reviews and comments are GREATLY appreciated! I'd love feedback about how I'm doing with the characterization and everything.
Just a brief note, Emma is 17 and Killian is 19, both living in Boston. Killian is finishing up his training and is hoping to venture into becoming a Detective. I'll get to the M rating eventually.
Happy reading!
David's knock on the door is authoritative and swift, once, twice, three times. Killian stands next to Detective Nolan, the man he's been shadowing for the past few weeks. He somehow managed to get permission to follow a detective around as part of his police training. He is discrete about wiping the sweat off his hands on the back of his black uniform pants. It is his first time on the scene responding to an emergency call with David instead of just listening to what happened.
This one is a domestic violence case in a rather upscale part of the city, the brownstone flanked by mums and sunflowers in rich purples, golds, and reds. The navy blue door has an elaborate silver address number with a charming wooden plaque hanging below it that reads "Boothe." The two men stand on the steps of the brownstone and wait with guarded stances – feet apart, eyes forward, David's hand resting on his weapon and Killian a fraction of an inch behind him – for the door to open.
"I'd never guess a place like this would be where a domestic violence call would come from," Killian murmurs aloud.
"Get used to it. Unfortunately social rank doesn't stop people from committing acts of injustice against each other." David's voice is somber and Killian nods in understanding.
The door opens, illuminating the men in a thin rectangle of yellow light from the entryway.
"Can I help you?" the man asks, a slight Italian accent lilting his speech. His face is etched with time, deep wrinkles on a face that would look kind if Killian wasn't already biased from the call. He had answered the phone to a whispered sob that hit his heart in the same place he'd been aching from for the past three years.
"Good evening," David starts. "We're sorry to bother you this late but we are here in response to a string of robberies that have been reported in the neighborhood. Mind if we come in?"
"Yes, yes of course come in." The man opens the door wider in accommodation and David steps in first, Killian close on his heels.
"I'm Detective Nolan and this is Officer Jones."
"I'm Marco Boothe, please come in." David and Killian exchange a sidelong glance and the two take a step further into the entryway. The hall is narrow, made smaller by the dark navy on the walls. An old cherrywood staircase is to the right of them.
"Mr. Boothe, have you heard anything about the robberies that have been going on?" David asks.
"No, not that I can recall. I am a craftsman, I spend most of my time at my workshop down the road."
"Have you seen anything out of the ordinary around the neighborhood? Especially at night?"
Marco takes a minute to reply, his gaze flicking between both men. He lands on Killian and a smile lights up his face. "I have a boy that looks your age," he says.
Killian nods in response, but keeps his mouth shut. When he realizes he can't talk his way out of the question, Marco fumbles to answer. "I haven't seen anything strange, no. Just the usual around here."
"And what's the usual around here?" David smiles, a devastatingly charming smile that could make even the coldest criminal feel inclined to answer his questions.
"This is a family neighborhood, Detective. You've been around the block a few times, I'm sure you know what usual is for a place like this."
"Can we ask you what you did tonight, Mr. Boothe?" Killian asks.
Marco flicks his gaze to Killian again. "I was working on a project with my son."
"Did that upset you?" David asks.
"I beg your pardon?"
"While you were working on your project," David says, gesturing to the sawdust that covers Marco's jeans. "Did something happen that upset you?"
"I don't understand your question, Detective."
David drops the charming act. "We're actually here because we received a complaint of a domestic disturbance, and it's not the first time. Tell me about that." He turns his head to look at Killian and gives him a firm nod, an indication that he's to canvas the area. Killian steps away from the now tense conversation and heads down the hall.
The entryway opens up to a kitchen and dining room, with a second staircase at the far right of the space. Killian gives the room a quick scan, notes the boiling water on the stove and the chopped onions on the counter. There's a round table the color of dark chocolate at the far end of the kitchen, with five matching chairs. One of the chairs has fallen sideways.
He glances over to the staircase when he hears footsteps. A brown haired woman with a laundry basket in her hands stops when she gets to the end of the platform and meets Killian's gaze.
"Oh, hello," she says, a bit flustered. "Can I help you?"
"I'm Officer Jones, I'm here with Detective Nolan." Killian takes a few slow steps forward, his gaze sweeping over the woman for any signs of visible injuries. "Care to tell me what you were doing tonight, ma'am? Mrs. Boothe I presume?"
"Yes, call me Sarah." Killian watches as her gaze shifts away from his, to the boiling water behind him, to the laundry basket, and to the hallway entrance. "Just some housework. I'm finishing up the laundry and starting to make soup for tomorrow. My son is sick and he wanted soup." Her accent is there like her husbands, but is much less noticeable.
"Is it just you, your husband, and your son?" He does one more once over and from what he can see, she seems okay. Her hair is brown, streaked with silvered tell-tale signs of her age. She is slight and wears jeans and a pink tee shirt, a grey sweater covering her arms. Her face doesn't give away any signs of her age save for the lines around her amber eyes. She gives a slight shake of her head.
"No, we have a girl we have temporarily taken in from the foster system."
Killian nods. "Mind if I continue my look around upstairs?"
"Oh, no, please they have work tomorrow and are very tired. They're already in bed." She walks past Killian, to the closet that opens up to reveal the washer and dryer.
"It's protocol, Mrs. Boothe. You're welcome to accompany me upstairs." He heads towards the landing and Sarah stays where she is in the kitchen.
The stairs lead to an upstairs hallway where the other staircase is noticeable at the end of the hall. Paintings of Italian countrysides and cityscapes line one wall, and black and white family portraits line the other. Killian makes note of only three people in all of the photos. Marco, Sarah, and a boy who he is assuming to be their son.
Killian can hear David's voice ghost upstairs from the front of the house. The hallway has four doors, two on either side. The first door is the bathroom. Killian peeks his head in, looks around for any signs of struggle. He knocks on the next door, cracked open revealing only the blue illumination of a television. When no one responds, Killian takes it into his own hands to push the door open. The television is turned on, but muted. The room is empty, the bed covers drawn back as if someone had just gotten up. There are sports trophies on the dresser, a gaming system, and an old looking antique clock in the far corner of the room. The desk is clear of anything except for an old typewriter and a stack of papers. Killian briefly thumbs through them, notices they all seem to be works of prose or poetry and steps out of the room.
Killian's next stop is a closed door on the other side of the hallway. He gives a firm knock and waits for the knob to turn.
"Who are you?" the boy asks. His mousey hair is pushed off his face, his cerulean gaze guarded as he pulls the door open a bit more once he takes note of Killian's uniform. He hasn't shaved in a few days, and his black tee shirt shows his arms to be mark free. There is, however, a relatively new looking slash along the right side of his jaw.
"My name is Killian Jones, I'm a police officer with the Boston Police Station. We're responding to a call and I've been instructed to check on the members of the household. That's a pretty nasty looking injury you've got there, mate."
"I ride a motorcycle, had a pretty bad fall the other day. The name's August. Marco and Sarah are my parents. I didn't realize you could be a cop if you aren't an American citizen."
Eyebrow raised, Killian says, "I'm as much a citizen as you are. I've been here for a while." August nods and steps aside, beckoning for Killian to step further into the room. He nods back, and the first thing he notices is that this room is much less lived in than the one he was just in. There are two pieces of furniture in the room, a day bed against the windows and a dresser. The dresser drawers are thrown open, clothes hang out of the drawers and litter the floor. There's a half packed duffle bag on the edge of the bed.
He noticed the girl's presence as soon as he stepped into the room, but knew he had to take inventory of what was around him first. He finally focuses on her, her flaxen hair pulled back in a ponytail, strong jawline and sharp, elegant features. Her emerald eyes catch in the light and shine with a look he recognizes immediately. One of her eyes has begun to swell, there are scrapes on her arms caked with dried blood, and the black framed glasses in her grip have shattered lenses.
Killian feels his mood change immediately. Anger begins to simmer though his veins, a low hum beneath his skin that has his ears reddening and his pupils dilating. His fingers itch to reach out and examine her injuries, but he sticks to the script.
"Care to tell me what's happened here?"
"She's my sister," August's says. There's a knife-edge to his voice that sets Killian on even higher alert.
"Lass?" He prompts.
She looks up at him after a silent minute, her eyes focusing on his face instead of on her destroyed glasses. But she still remains quiet. The only sounds in the room are the voices that rise from downstairs, a heated argument in Italian echoing through the air vents. August closes his eyes, runs a frustrated hand through his hair and drops his head back toward the ceiling.
"Emma –"
"Shut it, August," she snaps.
"Emma, is it?" Killian asks, taking a step forward. This close he's able to see that the swelling is a bit worse than it was from afar, and it sends a fresh batch of anger brewing in his fingertips. His hands ball into fists, clenching and unclenching for a minute until he regains his composure. "I'll ask again, love. Care to tell me what happened?" Again, her gaze meets his and his breath catches in his throat. He's not quite sure what to do, she's injured and obviously out of sorts, and all he can remember while under the scrutiny of her deep sea green gaze is that he's supposed to get the cold hard facts from the witnesses, that they're here on a domestic abuse call, that someone's been hurt and that someone is sitting directly in front of him.
He wants to hurt whoever did this to her.
"How old are you, Emma?" he ventures.
"Seventeen." Her prompt answer surprises him, and he keeps pressing.
"How long have you been here?"
"Three months."
"Is this the first time this has happened?"
"The first time what's happened?" The two stare at each other, eyes locked, bodies tense with their own thoughts.
"The bruising on your skin, does it happen often?" Her answer is a whisper so quiet that he's not sure if he imagined it.
"Yes."
He knows he can't get any more out of her without David. David needs to hear what happened and David needs to be the one to make the arrest. But when she continues talking, he doesn't try to stop her.
"It was Marco."
"Emma –"
"August," she sneers, standing up with such urgency it knocks Killian back a step. The look they share screams of shared secrets, and the pang of jealousy that shoots through Killian surprises and confuses him. Emma turns to him, and she has to tilt her chin up a bit to meet his gaze. "Marco Boothe did this to me. He shoved me to the ground and attacked me."
Killian beckons for her to follow him out of the bedroom, but it doesn't go unnoticed when August reaches into Emma's top drawer and pockets a folded piece of paper.