Family Affair: A Smokey Dalton Story: Smokey Dalton, #8

COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

FAMILY AFFAIR

Copyright © 2012 by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

First published in Subterranean Online, Fall 2009.

Published by WMG Publishing

Cover and Layout copyright © 2012 by WMG Publishing

Cover design by Allyson Longueira/WMG Publishing

Cover art copyright © 2012 by Childhood/Dreamstime

Smashwords Edition

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental. This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Start Reading

Table of Contents

About the Author

Copyright Information

THE SMOKEY DALTON SERIES

in order:

Novels

A Dangerous Road

Smoke-Filled Rooms

Thin Walls

Stone Cribs

War At Home

Days of Rage

Street Justice (March 2014)

Short Stories

Guarding Lacey

Family Affair

I KNEW the day had gone bad when the white woman in the parking lot started to scream. I turned in the seat of my mud-green Ford Fairlane, and watched as Marvella Walker and Valentina Wilson tried to soothe the white woman. But the closer Marvella got to her, the faster the woman backed away, screaming at the top of her lungs.

We were in a diner parking lot in South Beloit, Illinois, just off the interstate. Valentina had driven the woman and her daughter from Madison, Wisconsin, that morning.

The woman was a small thing, with dirty blond hair and a cast on her right arm. Her clothing was frayed. Her little blond daughter—no more than six—circled the women like a wounded puppy. She occasionally looked at my car as if I was at fault.

Maybe I was.

I’m tall, muscular, and dark. The scar that runs from my eye almost to my chin makes me look dangerous to everyone—not just to white people.

Usually I can calm people I’ve just met with my manner or by using a soft tone. But in this instance, I hadn’t even gotten out of the car.

The plan was simple: We were supposed to meet Marvella’s cousin, Valentina Wilson, who ran a rape hotline in Madison. The hotline ran along the new Washington D.C. model—women didn’t just call; they got personal support and occasional legal advice if they asked for it.

This woman had been brutally raped and beaten by her husband. Even then, the woman didn’t want to leave the bastard. Then he had gone after their daughter and the woman finally asked for help.

At least, that was what Valentina said.

Marvella waved her hands in a gesture of disgust and walked toward me. She was tall and majestic. With the brown and gold caftan that she wore over thin brown pants, her tight black Afro, and the hoops on her ears, she looked like one of those statues of African princesses she kept all over her house.

She rapped on the car window. Val says she can make this work.

She said that with so much sarcasm that her own opinion was