Gwen and Dennis Miller's house was small with white siding and yellow trim along the edges of the roof. Probably a three-bedroom, one-bath home. Dylan pulled into the driveway behind the Miller' old red-and-white pickup. I didn't fret too much about parking the Tiburon at the edge of the yard because a few other parked cars already hugged the curbs in front of other yards. If someone hit my car, they'd have to take another one out with it. It wasn't the greatest part of town, but it wasn't the worst.

I stepped behind Dylan onto the small porch. It was almost nine o'clock, a little late to go question a school-aged girl, but I was with Detective Dylan O'Brien. As if they would get the luxury of complaining about time restraints? Yeah, right. I don't think so, folks.

Dylan knocked on the door, twice. The curtains in the big window next to the door moved aside as someone looked out, then let them fall back. A woman asked who was at the door.

A male's deep voice grumbled. "I don't know, some guy and a gal that looks like one of Bea's little friends."

"One of her friends," the woman asked, "this late?"

"I don't know." I was guessing it was Dennis Miller, the father.

Vanessa propped herself against the white wooden post on the porch, standing in the shadows. I sighed. Why do people assume a short woman is underage? As if I'd asked the question out loud, Vanessa slowly lifted her shoulders.

The door cracked open and a man with steel gray hair and clear gray eyes looked at us. Before anyone could say anything he asked in a gruff voice, "Who are you?"

"Mr. Miller?" Dylan asked politely.

The man looked him up and down. "Yeah? What do you want? Bea's not here." He glanced at me.

I folded my arms over my chest.

"Mr. Miller." Dylan drew the father's attention back to himself. "I'm Detective O'Brien and this is—"

I stepped forward. "Preternatural Investigator and Paranormal Huntress Camila Cabello. You said your daughter isn't home?"

The man kept the door cracked a few inches and gave me a disbelieving look. "That's a mouthful, girly. If you're looking for ghosts you won't find them here."

"It's Ms. Cabello and I'm not looking for ghosts. I'm looking for Beatrice Miller."

His eyelids flickered so quickly that I didn't know if Dylan had caught it.

"We need to talk to you about your daughter," I said. "Do you know where she is?"

"No. She left around five thirty and hasn't gotten home yet."

"Denny?" a woman called from the other side of the door. "Denny, who is it?"

Dennis looked over his shoulder and raised his voice. "No one important."

"Have they heard from Bea?" There was worry in her tone.

"No," he said sternly, then ignored her. "What d'you want?"

"Mr. Miller." Dylan kept his voice nice and even. "Do you know where your daughter is?"

He opened the door a little wider, speaking in a defensive tone. "No, I don't. What do you want with her anyway?"

"We need to talk to her," I said again. "You have absolutely no idea where your seventeen-year-old daughter is at this time of night?"

I found it hard to believe loving and caring parents would let someone so young run around after the sun went down. I let him see my disbelief and took another step forward, letting my wolf rise just enough that the power washed from me and flooded the area. He flinched slightly and Dylan tensed. Dylan wasn't a sensitive, but apparently even non-sensitive humans pick up on energy frequency.

The smell of whiskey hit my nostrils like something old and sour.

"How much whiskey have you had tonight, Mr. Miller?"

"Little lady, what I do in my own damn house is my own damn business."

Dylan said, "May we come inside and speak with you and your wife?"

"No."

"Dylan," I motioned toward the front yard with my head, "a word."

Dylan followed me out onto the lawn.

"What is it?"

"He won't talk to us unless we force him to."

Dylan ran a hand through his hair, which was long enough to cover his ears, making it look tousled. "Suggestions?"

I told him what I had been thinking.

"Stuff 'em and cuff 'em?" Dylan asked. "How can we get him to step out of the house?"

"Leave that to me."

"Mila, don't get hurt. If he's drunk, there's no telling what he might do."

"He's not drunk, but I'm pretty sure his BAC level is over the limit." A few years ago all of the states had passed the.08 per se law, which meant anyone caught driving with a blood alcohol content at or over.08 was considered to be driving under the influence. However, since he wasn't driving we had another option. If we got Mr. Miller to step out of his home, especially in a fit of anger directed at me, Dylan was within his rights to cuff the son of a bitch and stuff him in the back of the police car for public intoxication.

"From what I smell, it is," Vanessa said coolly.

I jumped. "Don't do that." Why the hell did these vampires always sneak up on me? You'd think being a lycanthrope I would hear them, but no. I was getting sick of them springing up like vampiric jack-in-the-boxes and trying to scare the werewolf piddle out of me.

Dylan just looked at her. "You're sure?"

"If I was not sure I would not have said anything."

Dylan stepped back onto the porch. Mr. Miller was still in the doorway, watching us.

"Mr. Miller." I returned his stare unwavering. I detected something almost criminal in it, something that said he didn't mind hurting people. "We really need to speak with you and your wife. If you care for your daughter at all, you'll talk to us."

"Bullshit," he said. I heard his wife's slightly panicked voice from somewhere beyond the door. "Denny," she said, "just talk to them, please? Just talk to them!"

"Shut up!" he yelled, turning his upper body away from the door. I had a moment to assess the situation, a second to sense the tension in the air and to realize what he was about to do. Dennis Miller turned on his wife. I heard her footsteps hesitate, felt her uncertainty fluttering in the air. His beefy arm came back into view a second before he hit her.

"Dylan," I said impatiently.

"Mr. Miller!" Dylan's voice rose, trying to get the man's attention.

The door slammed shut, but even with the door closed Dylan had to have been able to hear Mrs. Miller sobbing and saying, "Denny, please don't!"

I didn't need supernatural hearing to know what was about to happen. Dennis yelled, "I told you to stay out of this, you ungrateful bitch!"

There were sounds of struggle on the other side. I heard a soft thud like a body hitting the tiled floor.

Dylan tried to open the door, hit it once, and yelled, "Dennis Miller!"

"Vanessa," I said.

"Yes?"

"Would you do the honor?"

"I'd love to." Her response was almost a growl.

I touched Dylan's shoulder and he jumped. "Move it or lose it, O'Brien."

"What?" he asked as I pulled him to a corner of the porch.

Vanessa wrapped one hand around the doorknob, bracing her other hand against the door. She pushed her body forward and the door creaked; a little more pressure and the hinges cracked as they snapped. I moved away from Dylan and the corner, slipping up behind Vanessa and pressing along the wall beside the door. I reached under my coat, pulling the Pro.40 free of its holster in a practiced draw and flicked the safety off with my thumb, holding the gun in a teacup grip.

Mrs. Miller was crying and her husband screamed as glass shattered on the tile. Vanessa looked at me and I nodded. She gave one last nearly effortless push, turning her body into it from the hips up, enough to angle the door so when it fell, it didn't hit anyone. I swept into the room. Mr. Miller was on top of his wife, his fist pulled back, ready to strike.

"Dennis Miller," I said.

His wild eyes flicked to me, gray and furious. If he thought anger would scare me, he was wrong. There are only a few things worse than a wife beater. If he wanted to fight fire with fire, he was looking at it. I didn't try to hide my rage. I let the son of a bitch see it while I pointed the gun directly at his fist, struggling to keep my shields in place and to resist the desire to drop my weapon and rip his fucking throat out. "Mr. Miller. I suggest you get the fuck away from your wife or you'll be missing something."

"You know how to use that thing, girly?"

"What do you think?" I sighted down the barrel, standing in a Chapman stance. Straightening my right arm, I locked it in place behind the gun. My left arm was bent slightly at the elbow, pulling back to provide tension. It's a woman-friendly stance and doesn't rely as heavily on upper body strength as the Weaver. A lot of people naturally fall into a comfortable stance when they first start learning how to use a gun.

He scoffed at me. "You won't shoot me. You don't have the balls."

I glared at him. "Are you willing to test that theory against a .40 caliber semi-automatic weapon?"

"Mr. Miller," Dylan said, weapon drawn and aimed. "Move away from your wife and slowly put your hands on the top of your head."

Denny boy didn't look very happy. His fist trembled where it was still curled in the air, poised for a strike. Dylan had his gun trained on the back of the man's head.

"Which path do you choose, Mr. Miller? The easy way or the hard way?" I asked.

Slowly, his fingers uncurled. Out of my peripheral vision I could see Mrs. Miller covering her face with her arms, trying to protect herself. The points of her elbows stuck up in the air and she was sobbing now. We had to get the bastard off her without all hell breaking loose. Oh, I could've dropped the gun and gone for him. I could've picked him up and thrown him across the room, but how was I supposed to explain to the cops that I effortlessly sent a man three times my size flying into a wall? Somehow, I don't think I could write that off as normal.

"Lace your fingers on the back of your head," Dylan commanded.

Mr. Miller did what Dylan told him to do and glared at me.

I felt Vanessa move behind me like some ghostly shadow but didn't turn to look. "Get up," I said, "slowly. Keep your fingers laced."

Once he got to his feet Dylan holstered his gun and moved in. He jerked the handcuffs off his belt and slapped them on Mr. Miller's wrists, then read him his rights. I turned the safety back on, holstering my gun.

Vanessa and I moved in, helping Gwen Miller get to her feet. Her pale cheeks were wet with tears and mottled with bruises. Bruises crawled the length of her slender arms. If a person could inflict harm on the person he claimed to love, that was truly criminal. I'd been called out on domestic-violence cases when I was a cop and had witnessed far worse than this, but either way you sliced it, it still pissed me the fuck off. And now that I was a werewolf, it was that much worse. I silently thanked Goddess it wasn't close to that time of the month. The full moon, that is.

Dylan was guiding Mr. Miller toward the door when he froze, finally noticing his doorway. A few splinters of wood from the frame littered the white tile.

He looked back at me. "You do that?"

"No."

"Couldn't," he said snidely. "You're just a little slip of a girl."

"I'm not the one in handcuffs, Mr. Miller."

Dylan gave him a shove that sent him stumbling. Dennis grumbled incoherently as Dylan pushed him through the door and to the car. Vanessa was stroking the woman's wheat-colored hair, trying to calm her.

I went to them and touched the bloody bruise under Gwen's blue eye. She didn't even flinch. I guess if you've been hit often enough you forget how. "Gwen, will you do me a favor?"

"What?" Her voice was soft, but her tone was defensive.

"Press charges. You have a teenage daughter to think about and need to get the hell away from this guy. He's dangerous and unpredictable. Will you press charges and get a restraining order?"

"Where would I go? What would I do? I can't leave Denny."

"If you don't leave, you're putting not only your life at risk, but your daughter's, and don't say he hits you every now and then or when he's drunk. You're covered in bruises, probably some under your clothes I can't see," I said with heat, trying to get my point across. "He'll do it again. I can promise you that it will only get worse. I've seen it often enough." I put a hand on her shoulder. "You'll figure out what to do after you take the first step. Just take it and stop letting this jerk push you around."

Her cheeks were damp with tears. "Gwen," I said. "Mrs. Miller, look at me." She did. "You deserve better than this."

Gwen Miller had to be at least ten years younger than her husband. She was a small woman, either in her late thirties or early forties. Her gaze met mine and she nodded. "Thank you," she said, and I had a feeling it wasn't just a thank you for getting her husband off her. I'd told her what she probably hadn't heard in years—that she deserved to be treated better.

I sensed the pain buried deep in the fabric of her soul. It would take every ounce of strength left in her to walk away from him. By mentioning her daughter I hoped I gave her something to hold on to. She would have to overcome her fears and insecurities, and ultimately summon an unwavering amount of willpower. I'd seen women do it, but I'd also seen women return. I prayed to Goddess she found the courage to leave and never look back.

Dylan returned and offered to take Gwen to the hospital, but she refused to go. He took her statement and assured her the cops would do all they could to make sure she was safe tonight. Which meant Dennis Miller would be spending the night in jail.

"You wanted to know about Bea," Gwen said, clutching a Kleenex from the coffee table. "He wouldn't let me tell you this," her voice shook, "but she ran away."

I didn't doubt the truth in her words. "When?"

"Three days ago. I haven't heard from her. She didn't leave a note. Some of her clothes are missing. Denny wouldn't let me call the cops." She sobbed. "He thought I'd call them on him."

"You wouldn't have," I said, "would you?"

She shook her head. "No. No, I wouldn't have."

Gwen Miller was intelligent enough to realize the awful truth. I nodded. If it hadn't been for Dennis' display in front of us, he'd never even be going to jail. Gwen would've just sat back and taken it, thinking she deserved it, believing the lies he fed her. He'd torn her down in more ways than just physical.

"We will do what we can to find your daughter," I told her. "If there's anything else you need to tell us, here's my cell." I handed her my business card.
Lyall Investigations
was written in plain black font. The simple white card contained my last name, title, office number, and my cell-phone number.

Gwen took it, nodding. "I will. If she comes home I'll call you. Why are you looking for her?"

"I'm working on a missing persons case." I told the partial truth. "I don't think Bea is alone. A boy of her age has gone missing, as well. Do you know if Bea was friends with a boy named Jacob?"

"Off the top of my head, no. Bea doesn't share much with me."

"What about any friends or relatives she may have gone to?"

Slowly, she shook her head. Sadness clearly haunted her. "No, Denny doesn't let her have anyone over so I never get to meet her friends from school. We don't have any immediate family here, other than Denny's folks, and Bea's not close to them." As if she felt the need to explain, she said, "Denny's problem runs in his family."

I nodded, sharply. "Thank you, Mrs. Miller."

Heading for the car I stepped over the splinters in the doorway. Gwen would have to call someone to come fix the door. Dylan had spoken briefly about it with her, and she'd assured him she would be fine for the night. Vanessa did the best she could, picking it up and leaning it against the opening. The hinges were shot, jutting out from the door frame. I was pretty sure Gwen could call someone to replace a door at ten in the evening. At least I hoped so. After all, I had asked a vampire to rip it off its hinges.