“Rose” is a difficult name for a police officer. It sets up an assumption that fails to describe any part of my nature, conjuring an image of a tiny gray-haired woman. I am neither tiny—standing at 5’8”—nor gray haired, and I am more prickly thorns than soft petals.

My workday begins at 3 pm with a strong cup of coffee. It won’t be the last one because I don’t stop until 11 pm. That’s best case scenario. All hell can break out at 10:59 pm, and then I’m stuck until the whatever-has-gone-wrong has been handled and the report turned in.

After coffee and shower, I put on my bulletproof vest and then my uniform, which consists of pressed and creased dark navy shirt and pants, lace-up combat boots, and leather gun belt crammed with my gun (duh) and safety holster, extra bullet clip, handcuffs, flashlight, collapsible baton, pepper spray, and police radio. All that stuff weighs at least 10 pounds and takes up pretty much my entire waist, making riding in a car, which I do for hours at a time, an exercise in discomfort.

Then there’s the hair. I’m cursed, or blessed, with lots of it, dark, wavy-curly and the definition of the worst kind of hair to tame into regulations. I could cut it, but I fear that would be akin to releasing pandemonium. The weight of the length—just past shoulder blades—keeps it from exploding into Phyllis Diller territory. So I have to pull it back and force it into a bun, which requires additional equipment in the form of multiple clips and pins.

I race to work in order not to be late for roll call because there is a particular sergeant who would like nothing better than an opportunity to chastise me in front of my fellows and put a notation into my file. Not everyone has made it to the 21st century enlightened about women working in a male-oriented world. To make it worse, I have a reputation of not welcoming personal overtures. In the language of policemen, that makes me either gay or frigid. I am neither, but that’s none of their business.

My partner and training officer, Paul Nix, is a handsome kind of guy in his way. Almost a decade older, he’s solidly built, just shy of 6’, with a disaster of red hair and pale blue eyes that see right under your skin, at least my skin. He’s the quiet type, stingy on positive feedback, but he has my back, and I do my damnedest to have his.

Assuming Paul passes me at the end of this shift, today is my final day on a training car, my last official day as a rookie, although I will culturally be a rookie for years. That’s just the way the PD is. You have to earn respect and acceptance.

To be honest, I have mixed feelings about graduating off the training car. The esteem everyone holds for Paul shelters me from some of the chaff, but on the other hand, I’m eager to be off training wheels. I became a cop in my hometown of Birmingham, Alabama thinking it was temporary because it was available and I needed a job, but to my surprise, I love it. I’m happy not being confined to a desk and four walls. I like being the one called on when the shit hits the fan, taking a bad guy off the street, helping an elderly woman feel safe in her neighborhood, and watching children clamor around Paul for the candy he hides in his pockets and the chance to flip on our patrol car’s blue strobe lights. I love the special camaraderie of people whose lives depend on each other.

Okay, maybe I don’t literally love everything. Some things stink—working vehicle wrecks in the rain, picking up a drunk who’s peed himself, entering a dark warehouse looking for a possibly armed burglar. But its all part of it. I’m addicted to the adrenaline rush when the ordinary turns into the extraordinary.

But I have no idea the “extraordinary” that is coming at the end of this shift and how everything I thought I knew about who I am and even the nature of reality will come into question; how I will have to face the personal nightmare of every cop; and how tomorrow, when I wake up, everything will be different . . . .

Giveaway: Leave a comment below for your chance to win a print copy of House of Rose. U.S. entries only, please. The giveaway ends November 16, 2018. Good luck everyone!

You can read more about Rose in House of Rose, the first book in the NEW “Magic City” mystery series.

Rookie patrol officer Rose Brighton chases a suspect down an alley. Without warning, her vision wavers, and the lone suspect appears to divide into two men–the real suspect, frozen in time, and a shadow version with a gun. Confused by what she’s just seen, but with no time to second guess it’s meaning, Rose shoots the real suspect in the back.

Forced to lie to detectives, she risks her job and her life to discover the shocking truth of who she really is–a witch of an ancient House, the prey of one powerful enemy, and the pawn of another.

House of Rose, set in the Deep South city of Birmingham, Alabama, is the first book of the Magic City Stories.

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Meet the author
T.K. Thorne’s childhood passion for storytelling deepened when she became a police officer in Birmingham, Alabama. “It was a crash course in life and what motivated and mattered to people.” Both her award-winning debut historical novels, Noah’s Wife and Angels at the Gate, tell the stories of unknown women in famous biblical tales—the wife of Noah and the wife of Lot. Her first non-fiction book, Last Chance for Justice, the inside story of the investigation and trials of the 1963 Birmingham church bombing, was featured on the New York Post’s “Books You Should Be Reading” list. In her newest novel, House of Rose, murder and mayhem mix with a little magic when a police officer discovers she’s a witch. T.K. loves traveling, especially to research her novels, and speaking about her books and life lessons. She writes at her mountaintop home near Birmingham, often with two dogs and a cat vying for her lap. Connect with T.K. at tkthorne.com.

All comments are welcomed.