Don't Cry by Beverly Barton Page B

He glided his hand down her neck, across her shoulder, and opened his palm to cup one breast.
    Right now, he needed to forget. He needed to lose himself in this beautiful, loving woman. There would be time enough later that evening to tell her about the unidentified skeletons of two toddler boys. Skeletons that might be the remains of his son Blake and her son Shane.
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    The minute J.D. entered police headquarters, he spotted his daughter. She rose from the chair where she sat alongside a tattooed, nose-ringed boy with scraggly brown hair and a surly expression.
    When a uniformed police officer said something to her, Zoe cried, “But it’s my father. Please, let me tell him what happened.”
    The officer nodded. Zoe came running toward J.D. and hurled herself at him. Instinct took over and he put his arms around her in a comforting, fatherly way.
    â€œI wasn’t drinking,” Zoe told him. “I swear to God, I wasn’t drinking. Not even a beer.”
    The young officer, who looked all of twenty-five, lean, blond, and clean-cut, walked over to J.D. “Special Agent Cass?” He offered J.D. his hand. “I’m Officer Karns. Ryan Karns.”
    â€œYeah, I’m J.D. Cass.” He shook the man’s hand. “So, what’s going on here?” He glanced from Zoe to Officer Karns.
    â€œYour daughter isn’t under arrest, but we had to hold her, of course, until a parent could pick her up,” Karns said. “The boy she was with was speeding not two miles from here, and when a patrolman tried to pull him over, he raced off doing close to a hundred. Lucky for him and your daughter, he didn’t wreck.”
    â€œDawson just panicked, J.D.” Zoe grabbed his arm. “He’d been drinking a beer and he didn’t want to get a DUI. That’s why he ran.”
    J.D. glowered at his daughter.
    â€œWhatever possessed you to go off with that boy?” J.D. glanced at the sulking young hunk who glared back at him.
    â€œDawson’s my boyfriend,” Zoe snapped angrily.
    â€œLike hell he is. You’re fourteen. You’re not old enough to have a boyfriend.”
    When she opened her mouth to protest, J.D. gave her a warning stare and said, “Not another word out of you.”
    â€œYoung lady,” she mumbled under her breath.
    â€œIs my daughter free to go?” J.D. asked Officer Karns.
    â€œYes, sir, she is.”
    â€œNo, damn it, I won’t leave without Dawson.” Zoe planted her hands on her slender hips and shot her father a challenging glare.
    â€œYou’ll leave,” J.D. told her. “Either under your own power or thrown over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Your choice…young lady.”
    â€œI’m afraid Dawson isn’t free to go,” Officer Karns explained. “Not only was he speeding, but he was driving under the influence, endangering himself and others. He failed the breathalyzer test. He had a BrAC of 0.09.”
    â€œHe was just drinking beer,” Zoe told them, adamant in Dawson’s defense.
    â€œWhatever he was drinking doesn’t matter,” J.D. informed her. “A reading of 0.08 is considered intoxicated, and the number drops even lower for anyone under the age of twenty-one. Dawson’s sixteen.”
    â€œWe’ve contacted Dawson’s parents. They’re out of town, so we’ll be holding him at the Hamilton County Juvenile Detention Center until they get back in town.”
    When J.D. refused to help Dawson, Zoe began mouthing off again, threatening all sorts of outlandish things. The wayward teen was his parents’ problem, not J.D.’s. He had enough trouble with Zoe.
    In the middle of his daughter’s tirade and just as J.D. was at his wits’ end, he heard a calm, soothing female voice ask, “Is there anything I can do to help?”
    â€œEvening, Dr. Sherrod.” Officer Karns’s shoulders drooped wearily, as if he,