Текст книги "Missing Dixie"

Автор книги: Caisey Quinn

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

17 | Dixie

“HE MADE BAIL. I had to call a bondsman,” I tell my brother over the phone. For the first time I’m grateful that Katrina Garrison got arrested during Austin MusicFest and I knew what to do because I’d gone with Gavin to bail her out.

“They’re going to charge him with assault,” Dallas says evenly. “He has an attorney from . . . previous stuff. I just talked to her.”

“Previous stuff?” After seeing the side of Gavin I saw tonight and now this, I feel like maybe I don’t know him at all. Maybe he’s always kept a part of himself hidden from me and I’m starting to understand why.

“Long story. And one he should tell you.”

I sigh. Bro code. Those two have always kept secrets from me for as long as we’ve known each other and, frankly, it’s getting old.

“According to the arresting officer, Carl regained consciousness in the ambulance and said Gavin had assaulted him before. Do you know anything about that?”

Dallas sighs loudly and I know I’m not going to get an answer.

I huff out a breath right back. “Look, I know you have the nursery to finish, and Robyn probably needs you, but I . . . I can deal with getting him out I just . . .”

“I’ll be there in under an hour. Promise.”

“Thanks, Dallas.”

“Hey, Dix?”

“Yeah?”

“Gavin’s hands . . . are they majorly fucked-up?”

It takes me a second to realize why this is even an issue worth discussing at a time like this. Musicians have to be careful with their hands, especially if they use them to make a living. They can be as important as any instrument.

We have only one more week until the battle, but if Gavin’s fingers or knuckles are broken, he won’t be a part of it.

“There was a lot of blood, D,” I whisper, closing my eyes and trying not to remember that terrifying look in his eyes as he pounded on Carl. I was able to get Liam out of the way but just barely. “I don’t know if it was his or Carl’s.”

My voice wavers at the end because the last few hours have been a complete draining nightmare.

Watching Gavin brutally attack another human being like that, watching the cops cuff him and put him in the back of the car, getting Mrs. Lawson to keep Liam while his dad is in the hospital. It hits me all at once when the adrenaline rush wears off and I am emotionally and physically exhausted.

As much as I know in my heart what Gavin did was wrong, I saw Carl hit Liam, saw the way Liam cowered in fear, and honest to God, I wanted to pummel the son of a bitch myself. I was torn between pulling Liam away and cheering Gavin on. Not sure what that says about me.

“Okay. Don’t worry about that right now. I’ll take him to get an X-ray when they release him. See you soon.”

I mumble goodbye to my brother and drop heavily into a metal folding chair. When we disconnect our call I see the time on my phone. It’s nearly one in the morning. I’ve been here for over four hours and I have no idea when they’re going to let him out.

“Here, sleepyhead,” I hear my brother’s voice say from beside me. “Drink this.”

I blink myself out of the nightmare I was having about Gavin being arrested only to find it wasn’t a nightmare at all. I’m still at the county jail but at least Dallas is here now. And he has coffee, good coffee from the all-night donut shop next door and not the crappy weak kind they have here.

He looks as tired as I feel and like he could use a shower and a shave.

“Sorry you had to come all this way,” I tell him. My voice sounds like that of a transvestite phone sex operator. Not that I know what they would sound like but I imagine it would be close to how I sound right now. I make a mental note to add that to the list of backup careers.

“Don’t be. I would’ve been super-pissed if you hadn’t called me.”

I give him a pointed look that he doesn’t seem to understand. “I caught a glimpse of the arresting officer’s computer screen while I was giving my statement. Gavin’s record was pulled up. This isn’t Gavin’s first rodeo and guess whose name is always on the bailed-out-by line?”

Except once. One of the times Gavin’s mom’s name was typed in, which makes me wonder if he owed her last time and that’s why he drove all the way here from Austin. I couldn’t decipher the exact things he’d been arrested for because they were in number codes but considering I never knew he’d gotten arrested, it hurt to see that he was in the system at all, regardless of what each time was for.

“It’s complicated, Dixie Leigh,” Dallas says before taking a long drink from his own coffee cup. “You were in Houston for most of it.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “The two of you are eventually going to tell me exactly what happened while I was gone.”

Dallas averts his gaze from mine.

“Dallas Walker Lark, I am serious. If we are going to do the band thing, for real, like one hundred percent all in, this keeping stuff from me for my own good has got to stop. Period.”

He nods and takes another drink. “So you’re still good with that? Giving it another shot and going all in?”

I nod. “You know I am. But on two conditions.”

Dallas’s eyes lighten a shade. “Name ’em.”

“One, you and Gavin have got to come clean about everything. Everything and anything I missed or that has been kept from me.”

Dallas’s eyes go dim. “Dix, I know you think that would help. Women typically do seem to assume they need every detail of every event ever, but trust me, there are things you are truly better off not knowing. Especially when it comes to Gavin.”

I want to argue, but I can’t unsee what I saw tonight. So maybe he has a point.

“But—”

“No buts. I’m sure he plans to tell you the bulk of it, but some details are just that, pointless details and mistakes that don’t matter. You have to learn to accept what he’s capable of giving and not torturing yourself over things that have nothing to do with you.”

“If it has to do with him, it has to do with me,” I say quietly.

My brother puts his arm around me and gives me a light squeeze. “I know it feels that way sometimes, but believe me, even if that’s true, it would kill him for you to know some of the things he’s done at his lowest points.”

“It’s killing me not knowing.”

My brother takes a deep breath and rests his head on mine. “I know, little sister. I’m sorry.”

The clack of heels rings out like gunfire on the tile floor. I glance around Dallas and see her, the owner of the heels and the purposeful walk.

Gavin’s complicated blonde.

She looks entirely too put together for nearly two in the morning with her white silk shirt and black dress pants. I can’t be sure because I can’t see the bottoms, but I’m almost positive her heels are Louboutins. Robyn has a similar pair.

“What is she doing here?” Maybe it’s exhaustion or sleep deprivation, but seeing her here now confuses me to no end.

“Her name is Ashley Weisman. She’s his attorney.”

She looks too young to be an attorney, but whatever. And the way she was behaving with Gavin the night I first saw him at the Tavern sure didn’t look like an attorney-client relationship to me, unless there are extra attorney-client privileges I don’t know about.

I can feel my anxiety amping up as we watch her confer with an officer at the front desk.

When she walks over toward us, my heart pounds harder with each noisy step she takes. “How in the world did he afford her?”

Dallas closes his eyes as if I have asked a question far too complicated for him to answer. “It’s—”

“Do not say ‘complicated.’ I am serious,” I warn him. “It’s not a hard question. Lawyers cost money. She looks expensive. Gavin is not exactly rolling in cash.” I slow my speech to an intentionally drawn-out speed. “How. Did. He. Pay. For. Her. Services?”

He tries to look away before I see it, but Gavin is right. My brother and I do not have any type of poker face to speak of. We wear everything we think and feel right there for the world to see.

What I just saw makes my stomach clench and my chest ache. I can already smell her expensive perfume from where I’m sitting and she’s not even all the way to us yet.

“She hardly seems like his type,” I grumble under my breath. But then maybe I don’t know Gavin’s type. Maybe she’s exactly his type.

He said he loved me.

Over and over actually. I tried not to make a “thing” of it because he can be twitchy when it comes to emotions, but he said it.

The corners of Dallas’s mouth quirk up slightly. “She isn’t. Believe me.”

Ashley the Expensive Lawyer who apparently accepts sexual favors as payment makes a beeline for Dallas.

“Mr. Lark,” she says with alert green eyes. “I’m Ashley Weisman. We spoke on the phone earlier. Thank you so much for calling me.”

“No, problem. Thank you for coming out so late.”

I have a childlike urge to kick her in the shin.

“I’m Dixie,” I say slightly louder than necessary while stepping between them and shoving my hand at her. The surprise is evident on her face. “And now that we’re all acquainted, can you tell us how much longer it will be until they let him go?”

“Ah, yes. The piano player. From the bar,” she says as if the words taste bad in her mouth. “I remember.” It’s clear she’s sizing me up and I make a point to not shrink in her presence.

Dallas looks confused by her statement and I attempt to mimic his expression. “Glad I made an impression. I don’t recall having met you.”

A twinge of annoyance creases her delicate features but I just smile. Once upon a time I was intimidated by women like her. Polished. Professional. Sophisticated in ways I could and would never be. But after the Mandy Lantram Experience, I have realized that we are all just human beings and that each of us has our own kind of beauty and our own flaws.

“Yes, well, I don’t think we ever officially met. Gavin doesn’t typically do well with introductions.”

She knows what he typically does or doesn’t do well with?

“And how do you know him, exactly? Gavin, I mean.”

Ashley glances at Dallas and I dare him with my eyes to so much as give a slight shake of his head to deter her from answering. He looks away as if suddenly captivated by an immensely intriguing vending machine in the corner.

“He’s a friend. And a client when necessary,” she informs me with a smug grin. “Which seems to be quite often here lately.”

“Yes, well, as I said before, thanks for coming out so late,” Dallas repeats. “And were you able to get them to let him go tonight?”

She returns her attention to my brother and tucks a thick piece of her hair behind her left ear. “Unfortunately, due to his probation and the violent nature of the crime, he is required to stay for twenty-four hours.”

My heart sinks like a stone to the pit of my stomach at the thought of him sleeping in a cold, lonely jail cell tonight. “So they won’t let him out until tomorrow around eight or nine P.M.?” The night has been such a blur, I’m not even sure what time he was booked.

“Correct. But sometimes with shift change they let folks out a little early. If you’re coming to pick him up, I’d come around six or six thirty. Of course I’d be happy to—”

“We’ll be picking him up,” I announce. “No need for you to come all this way again.”

Likely sensing my tone, Dallas pipes up with another question. “What about his hand? Is there a way to get him any medical attention for it tonight? Did you tell them he was a musician?”

“They allowed him to have a splint and an ice pack. I’m afraid that’s about all that’s available at this facility.”

My brother nods. “That’s better than nothing, I suppose.”

She smiles warmly while handing Dallas a business card from her purse. “Here’s this if you need anything, anything at all.” Her eyes are slightly tighter when she turns to me. “You witnessed what happened, correct?”

I nod. “I did. Carl had clearly not known Liam had been coming to my place because he was out of the truck, slapping him and trying to shove him inside the cab before . . . before Gavin stopped him.”

Her mouth purses and she appears contemplative for a few seconds. “Well, that’s good—not that he was mistreating his son but that you saw the abuse. Although I wish there had been another eyewitness that would be willing to verify your statement. Clearly you have a bias in Gavin’s favor so that might prejudice your statement a bit. The ADA might not care about the defendant’s girlfriend’s interpretation of events. I know how they think. I know several of them personally.”

I feel my eyes narrow. I backed down with Mandy Lantram. Too bad for this chick I’ve grown up a lot since then. I am a reliable and credible witness, dammit. “I’m sure you do—”

“Need to get going home before it gets too late. Have a good evening, Ms. Weisman.”

Dallas nods to dismiss her but she stays put. “Please, call me Ashley.”

“Have a good evening, Ms. Weisman,” I say evenly, meeting her eyes. “Thank you for your help.”

“It’s my job. You do the same.”

“Will do,” Dallas says.

Once she’s out of earshot, I hold out my hand. “Give it.”

“What?”

“Her card. Give it to me.”

Dallas frowns. “Okay.” He hands me the sleek black card with white and silver print. “So now, what do we do about Gavin?”

“First, you go home and get some sleep. You look dead on your feet.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“It’s true. Go get some rest and I’ll stay here and hassle them a little more about maybe checking on his hands. If he’s injured badly we’ll have to cancel the Phi Kap gig and save his strength for the battle. I’ll come home soon and crash and we can come back tomorrow evening and pick him up.”

We hug goodbye but when I pull EmmyLou into my driveway I sit for a few moments, reliving the fight I never saw coming.

I wish I’d asked Dallas the question I need the answer to the most.

After everything, after Gavin is out of jail, after I demand they come clean about the year I was in Houston and everything is out in the open . . . then what?

18 | Gavin

“SHE CANNOT SEE me like this, Dallas. I mean it.” I’m gripping the phone tightly and my right leg is bouncing so rapidly I look like I’m having withdrawal symptoms.

He nods on the other side of the glass. “I know. But listen, the situation with your attorney and Dixie facing off . . . It’s like I said before, either you’re going to come clean about the past or it’s going to get out ahead of you. You need to talk to her. Soon.”

I nod several times. “I will.”

“She says she’s not doing the battle or moving forward with the band until we come clean about everything. I don’t think she’s kidding.”

“I don’t think she is, either.” I bite a loose piece of skin off the side of my thumb. “And I don’t know if she’s going to be able to go through with it if she knows everything. Especially after what she saw last night.”

He doesn’t say anything right away but his demeanor changes dramatically and I know he wants to cuss. “What she saw, Gavin, was a child abuser get what he deserved. Stop beating yourself up already. Speaking of beatings, how’s the hand?”

My eyes drop to the swollen, bruised, and scabbed-over knuckles on my right hand.

“Still attached.”

Dallas frowns. “I’m serious, man. Between worrying about whether or not Dixie’s going to bail because of your bullshit or if your hand is going to be functioning by Friday night, I am stressed the fuck out.”

All I can do is give him the “sorry I’m such a major fuckup” look that I have to give a lot of people that I disappoint.

The officer standing behind me gives the two-minute warning.

Dallas appears to be doing a sort of deep-breathing thing Robyn probably makes him do.

“You okay, man?”

“Yeah, just trying to get centered,” he tells me.

“Centered, huh? How’s that working out for you?”

He smirks. “Scale of one to ten, how centered do I seem?” He rakes his free hand through his hair and my honest answer is negative fifteen.

“Five. Give or take a few.”

Dallas shakes his head. “Sometimes I think I should just call Robyn’s uncle and see if he needs me to play backup guitar for his Elvis act.”

I open my mouth to make a joke, but then I remember something important—something that kept me awake all night other than the sweat– and urine-scented mattress I had to try to sleep on in a six-by-eight cell.

“Wait,” I say when the officer taps me on the shoulder, meaning I have thirty seconds left. “I need you to do something for me,” I say to Dallas.

“I know, man. We’ll be back in a few short hours to pick you up. Your attorney said it could be as early as six or as late as eight thirty.”

I want to laugh at Dallas because, God love him, I’m not scheduling a fucking manscaping appointment. I’m in jail. They can let me out—or not—whenever they feel like it.

“Right. No rush because paperwork and all that takes a while. But that’s not what I need. I need you to tell Dixie to call Sheila Montgomery at Child Protective Services. Sheila can make sure Liam doesn’t have to go back to his abusive father even once he’s out of the hospital.”

Dallas whips out his pen and the small notebook he keeps in his back pocket for song lyrics. “Shee-La Mont-gum-er-ee,” he says as he writes each syllable. “Got it. Anything else? Need one of those prepaid cards for food or money for vending machines or—”

“Time’s up,” the officer behind me announces and there’s a click. I shake my head to his last question. I can’t hear the rest of what he’s saying but he shows me the notebook where he wrote the social worker’s name and I feel a few ounces of relief.

At least maybe that kid can get the kind of help I never could. Maybe someone will stand a chance of being better than what I’ve become.

“Garrison, you’re up,” a booming voice calls, sending my name ricocheting off the cell walls.

I fell asleep sitting up on the bed because I couldn’t bring myself to lie on it.

Having grown up with a junkie for a mother, I can handle going without food. I didn’t touch anything that was served through the slot in the cell door because I know a few guys who work at this particular establishment and they’ve told me some disgusting shit that has been done to food. But I cannot handle the feel of filth. I grew up in it and I hate it. I need a shower more than I need air right now. I also want to shave my face before I see Dixie but I know she’s going to be out there as well as I know my own name.

I shuffle in line with the other guys heading to where we pick up the meager personal belongings we came with. I give my name and Social Security number to an African-American female officer who looks tired as she practically tosses a large Ziploc bag at me. Next is the paperwork part and I have to sign that, yes, I will appear in court on the determined date that will be sent to me by mail, and yes, I understand the conditions of my release.

Next is the bathroom, where I toss this ugly orange jumpsuit into the designated bin and put back on clothes that are partially covered in dried blood. Most of which isn’t mine.

Great.

Filthy and blood-covered. Nothing says working on reformation and redemption like that particular combination. Naturally it would be my “Drummers Hit It Harder” T-shirt that I happened to be wearing when I nearly beat a man to death.

Basically I am karma’s bitch right now.

Once I’ve changed, I wash my hands, splash some water on my face, and tuck my wallet into the back pocket of my jeans along with my folded-up pink and yellow release papers and dead-as-hell cell phone.

I exit the bathroom and show my ID at the final desk.

Walking out in the dingy gray waiting area would be a relief if she weren’t standing there looking so delectable as she argues with the officer at the front desk.

“It’s after ten. His attorney said eight thirty at the—”

Dixie stops midsentence when she sees me.

“Hey. There he is,” Dallas calls out. He stands and strides over to me looking as worn down as I feel.

“Barely,” I answer honestly.

Dixie hangs back but I can see every emotion she feels playing on a steady loop in her eyes.

Happiness. Concern. Longing. Confusion. Doubt. And the worst one of all.

Fear.

I don’t know if she’s afraid for me or afraid of me.

I can’t stand the thought of it being that second one.

As the three of us walk to the exit, I give her the most comforting smile I can manage and meet her eyes when I say, “Hey, Bluebird. I meant to write while I was locked up but they wouldn’t give me a pen.”

The hint of a smile pulls at the right side of her beautiful mouth. “Got you some dinner. It might be cold, but it’s got to be better than whatever they had.” She produces a Jimmy Johns bag that I know will contain my favorite, a Vito sub, no onions, extra cheese, and heavy on the dressing. I can see a couple of bags of chips inside, too, and I want to wrap my arms around her or kiss her to say thank you but I know it wouldn’t be an okay thing to do right now.

It’s just a sandwich and yet knowing that she cared about me like that, that she took time out of her life to get my favorite one, and that she’s paid attention over the years to how I like it . . . it does something to me. They say a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach and they might be on to something. Whoever the hell “they” are.

“You need anything?”

“Just this sandwich and a shower and I’ll be a new man.” Or closer to being one, anyway.

We reach Dallas’s truck and I open the door for Dixie. She climbs in and my eyes drop to her ass. Blood shoots to my dick, waking him as I remember taking her from behind. I want to kick my own ass right now. Here she is being so kind and sweet to me after everything I’ve done and I’m acting like a man who just did a yearlong stint in the state pen, not an overnight at county.

Swallowing hard and trying to think of fluffy bunnies and other non-erection-inducing images, I get into Dallas’s truck and face forward for the entire drive.

“You should probably eat something, man. You look pale as fuck and like someone backed over you with their car.”

Leave it to Dallas to give it to me straight.

“Well, I didn’t win the cell block modeling competition, so you’re probably right.” I reach into the bag and pull out the chips. Once I’ve opened the bag, I offer it to Dixie and she shakes her head.

“I already ate. Thanks, though.”

Her voice sounds strange. Strained somehow.

“You okay?” Despite my self-imposed ban on checking her out, I turn and examine her for signs of distress.

She avoids my eyes and a heavy weight settles onto my chest.

Maybe I’ve finally done it. Maybe seeing what she saw has finally shown her who I really am, and I didn’t even intend for it to happen.

“I’m fine,” she says quietly. “Tired.”

I call bullshit. Dixie Lark is not a good liar. Fine is typically not a word you want to hear in the female vocabulary. Ever.

Dallas glances over at our exchange and I decide to save it for when we’re alone—though I’m not sure when that will be. I have a lot of explaining to do, a good bit of begging, and probably some down-on-my-knees apologizing.

Tension and anxiety twist my insides into a complicated knot and I decide it’s best to hold off on the sandwich while riding down a bumpy road in a pickup truck.

Dallas puts on his left blinker to head toward the highway and Dixie puts her hand on his arm.

“He’s going to the house. With me.”

Huh.

I don’t know that I’ve ever seen her tell Dallas what to do. And technically she’s telling me what to do, I suppose, but I do not feel at all inclined to argue. Except . . .

“I kind of need a shower. And clean clothes.”

“You can borrow some of mine,” Dallas says evenly as he drives on past the left turn.

“Okay. Thanks, man.”

Dallas kind of grunts out his version of “you’re welcome” and we continue to their house in silence.

When we pull into the driveway, I expect all three of us to get out and go inside but Dallas leaves the truck running.

“You’re not staying?” Dixie asks him as she climbs out.

I watch their exchange, feeling a little like a voyeuristic third wheel and a lot like something is being discussed silently between them.

Dallas shakes his head. “I’m not. I’ve been away from Robyn for long enough.”

“That’s a five-hour drive, Dallas,” Dixie reminds him, sounding unhappy about his leaving us alone.

He grins and nods. “I’m aware of this. I’m good. I’ll text you when I get home.”

“I don’t have to stay if Dallas isn’t,” I tell Dixie quietly. The last time we were here alone, I was a monster of epic proportions. I can understand why she wouldn’t be too thrilled for a sleepover.

Her eyes are tense when she looks up at me. There is so much there.

Dixie Lark in the daylight is beautiful. The sun seems to seek her out specifically and beams of light shoot off her skin and hair as if she were an ethereal creature come to life just to stand in sunshine. But at night?

At night her eyes gleam and moonlight turns her skin into a color that I have never seen on anyone else. Her ink paints a beautiful portrait on her delicate skin and it makes me wish I could draw or that I had a decent camera so I could capture the way she looks against the stark darkness of night.

“I want you to stay,” she says, barely loud enough for me to hear over the rumble of Dallas’s truck engine. “Please.”

I have to close my eyes for a second because watching her right now will send my dick the wrong message entirely.

“Listen, I hate to be a dick,” Dallas breaks in, “but we only have a few days until the Phi Kap gig, then the battle, and your hand looks like hell, Garrison.”

Both Dixie and I snap to attention at his interruption of our moment. He’s facing us, leaning forward on his steering wheel and looking like he’s barely resisting the urge to throttle us both.

“More importantly, you two obviously have some major shit to work out and I can tell you both from personal experience, if you can’t find some sort of common ground before the show, there’s no point in even bothering. Either one or both of you will be distracted and we’ll ruin any shot the band has at winning.” He glares for a minute but then his gaze softens. “I love you both and I won’t try and tell you how to live your lives or what I think is the best solution for everyone. But I will tell you that while I understand that nothing can be resolved in one night, I do think it would be a good idea to tell each other some hard truths.” He hits me hard with a pointed stare. Then his tone softens slightly. “Better now than the night before the battle.”

“Good night, Dallas,” Dixie says evenly. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Text and let me know you get home safe, please.”

“Good night, you two,” Dallas answers reluctantly. “Try not to kill each other.”

Dixie rolls her eyes and slams his truck door. Hard.

This is the second time in a matter of minutes that I’ve seen Dixie let Dallas know how it’s going to be. I don’t think I’ve seen that happen ever in my eleven, almost twelve years of knowing them.

I’m still in shock as we head into the house.

Dixie switches the lights on and I stand in the entryway still holding my bag of food and unsure of what to do with myself.

“I’ll get you something to drink,” she says, adding “sit” and nodding toward the couch before she disappears into the kitchen.

I follow her orders like a zombie on autopilot.

Sitting down, I open my sandwich, unsurprised when I realize that she did, in fact, order it exactly as I do.

“Tea or Coke or water?” she calls from the other room.

“Coke is fine,” I answer, knowing I need the caffeine, as this is probably going to end up being a longer night than either of us is prepared for.

Dallas is right. It’s time to tell her the truth.

I just wish it didn’t have to come on the heels of my beating a man in front of her and her picking me up at jail. So much for being the kind of man she deserves.

When she returns with a can of soda, I offer her half my sandwich. Or the whole thing. Or my heart and soul and whatever else she wants.

“You sure you’re not hungry?”

She nods. “I ate earlier.”

“You’re sure?”

She nods again. “Positive. Promise.”

It only takes a few bites until I’ve pretty much demolished the sandwich and another bag of chips. I drain the can of Coke while Dixie sips the one she carried in for herself.

“I left a message for Sheila Montgomery,” she informs me. “But she hasn’t called me back yet.”

“Good. She will. When she does, give her Carl’s name and address and any information you have on Liam.”

Dixie watches me closely. “Okay. I will. And I called the hospital and Carl was moved out of intensive care into a regular room. He’ll be out this time tomorrow or the next day.”

“Where’s the kid?”

Dixie blanches like I’ve hurt her somehow. “Liam. His name is Liam. He’s staying right next door actually, with my neighbor, Mrs. Lawson. She’s nice. A little eccentric and maybe kind of crazy about her cats, but she’s a sweet lady. He’s safe there. And her cookies are probably better than mine.”

She smiles and the tension weighing on my chest lightens somewhat.

“Good. That’s good.”

“So . . . how long do you think Carl has been abusing him?”

I chew my food slowly in an attempt to put off answering.

Right here is the crux of everything that separates my world from hers. She looks at everyone and sees the light in them, the good, the potential. Whereas I see only darkness. The bad. The danger.

“Probably since he was born, Dix. Carl Andrews basically runs the local crack house.”

Dixie pales. “Seriously?”

I nod. “Yeah, babe. Seriously. And by runs, I mean he lives there. It actually is his house.”

Her brow wrinkles as I continue, explaining as gently as I know how to.

“Crack den is a more appropriate term because it isn’t much like a house or a home at all. On the outside maybe. On the inside, these places are gutted. Sparse furniture, usually filthy, and crack pipes and strung-out junkies typically litter the floors and fill the corners.” I stare at my hands while I finish because I can’t bear to see how much pain this is causing her to hear. I’m tainting her worldview, casting my dark shadows on her light. “People come and go. Some looking for a fix, some looking for revenge if they feel they got sold something less than acceptable quality, some so high they don’t even know what they’re doing there, it’s just become a beacon they end up at because they’ve been so many times.”

When I finally look up, she’s shaking her head. “No. No. His house can’t be like that. He has a kid. Surely someone would . . .”