Текст книги "Hold On"

Автор книги: Kristen Ashley

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Текущая страница: 24 (всего у книги 35 страниц)

Chapter Eighteen

It’s Just Merry

Garrett

Early Wednesday Morning

Garrett woke up to his phone ringing.

On his stomach, alone in his bed, he reached a hand to his nightstand and tagged it.

He looked at the cracked screen, made another mental note to go out and get a new one, and took the call.

“Yo, Mike,” he greeted.

“Sorry, man. Call out.” Mike sounded just as drowsy as Garrett, meaning he’d been woken too. “Homicide.”

Fuck.

Garrett pushed up and reached out to his light.

Homicides in the ’burg were rare.

Death happened all the time. Accidents. Disease. Old age. Suicide.

But homicide, not so much.

The ’burg was too small to have units dedicated to specific crimes. This meant the ’burg’s detectives bought cases on rotation no matter what they were.

Garrett had been on the job a while. All the men in the bullpen had been on the job a while.

But he felt it was safe to say none of them had been on the job long enough where they took a homicide in stride.

It wasn’t the gruesomeness of death.

It was that his job was not the kind of job that at the end of the day, you were filled with joy. Or energy. Or anything.

Except, if you closed a case, you got a high off of your part in bringing justice.

Luckily, those highs were huge and they made the job worth it.

Homicide didn’t give you that. Not ever. Not even if you caught the killer.

It was too final. There was no going back. No coping.

It was just done.

The bad guy had to be caught. He had to be punished. You busted your ass more than any case you had to see to that.

But the only thing a successful takedown offered was closure to those left behind.

And that didn’t mean shit.

“Meet you at the scene,” he muttered unenthusiastically.

“Text you where,” Mike replied in the same tone.

“Right.”

“Later.”

They disconnected and Garrett’s phone sounded again the second his feet hit the floor as he pulled his ass out of bed.

He looked at Mike’s text and texted back his ETA considering shower time, dressing, and getting to the location.

He was there before Mike even though Mike’s house was closer. Then again, Garrett didn’t have a woman in his bed to slow things down, even for a morning kiss.

This reminded him that day was the day Cher’s time was up on making a decision.

Ryker was MIA. Even Tanner couldn’t get a lock on him.

This did not make Garrett happy and it made Tanner worried.

Without Ryker to explain, none of them had any idea what Jaden Cutler had to do with Carlito Gutierrez—Ryker being their usual informant on all things Carlito—or what Robert Paxton had to do with either of them.

And Colt having a conversation with Ryan the day before didn’t shed any light on the situation either. Ryan had been on the job for approximately two hours before Cher spotted him. He’d planted his bugs but hadn’t heard anything since Cutler hadn’t returned home.

A mystery.

And cops didn’t like mysteries.

But all this going down on Cher’s street, Garrett really didn’t like this particular mystery.

He approached the address Mike texted and saw uniforms at the scene, crime tape already up. Marty, plus Marty’s new partner (a rookie), Abe, and Adam were milling around. Ellen, Adam’s partner, wasn’t, which meant she was likely talking to a witness somewhere.

It was early. School and work traffic hadn’t even started, so the scene was deserted except for police presence.

And the scene was right at the mouth of a cul-de-sac in a lower-middle-income development that had been so hard hit by the recession the country was just pulling itself out of, half the houses in the development were abandoned, and they looked it, or they were for sale, and that didn’t look much better.

Empty was empty. There was a feel to it, and no matter what it was that was empty, it didn’t feel good.

Garrett parked, got out, gave a chin lift to Adam and Abe, then moved toward Marty, who had seniority over all the uniforms, and he was closer to a blue Ford Fiesta, the lone car parked on the street. Also the scene of the crime.

“ME’s on his way,” Marty announced when Garrett got near. “Ellen’s inside with the lady who called it in. Mike comin’?”

“Should be here soon,” Garrett muttered, his eyes on the driver’s side of the car. “Fuck,” he whispered.

It was a woman.

He hated homicide because he was a human being.

But he hated it worse when it was a woman.

This one young. Too fucking young.

Then again, they always were.

“Far’s I can see, she took three. The one to the throat did it, though,” Marty said.

He was right. She had a bullet hole in her thigh, one in her chest, but the one in her throat had left a stream of blood down her chest—so much blood, it had pooled in her lap.

GSWs meant blood, obviously, but not that much blood.

The shooter hit an artery.

Good news, she bled out in seconds.

Bad news, she bled out at all.

Shooter also did her from above. She was a mess, but he could see the angle of all the entry wounds. She was in the car, the shooter either standing outside it and he was tall, or he’d shot down from another vehicle.

Her seatbelt was on, but her car was wheels to the curb like she’d parked, not like she’d been done on the go.

“Shot through the window,” Garrett muttered, observing the glass littering her hair and clothes.

“Yup,” Marty said.

His eyes scanned the interior of the car and Garrett saw her purse on the floor, stuff that was supposed to be in it not, since it was on the floor and on the passenger seat. He also saw the key in the ignition.

That meant she hadn’t had time to get the belt off. Window up, she hadn’t rolled it down to chat with someone she knew in the early morning dark.

Either she was coming to this location or going, but the purse told him whichever way it was, she was doing it in a hurry. Either she threw the purse in and the shit inside scattered or she was driving fast and erratically and the shit inside scattered.

Garrett heard a car approach and twisted to see Mike pulling up.

He lifted a hand to Mike and turned back to Marty.

“Got an ID?”

“Yup, though haven’t touched anything,” Marty told him. He jerked his head to the house the Fiesta was parked in front of. “Woman in there is her sister. Says vic’s name is Wendy Derian. Didn’t get more from her ’cause she was freakin’ out, shoutin’, carryin’ on. Ellen’s with her, hopefully calmin’ her down.”

“You catch anything from her?”

Marty shook his head. “Nope. Except a lot of cursing and ‘I knew its.’”

Garrett felt his spine straighten. “‘I knew it?’”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m hopin’ Ellen’s calmin’ her down so she can explain what she knew.”

“Fuck, a woman,” Mike said as he approached.

Garrett looked to him to see his partner’s eyes on the car.

“Sister’s inside, Mike. She called it in. Take in what you gotta take in, then we’ll go talk to her,” Garrett said.

Mike nodded, moved closer to the car, and Garrett gave his attention back to Marty.

“Crime scene comin’?” he asked.

“Yup.”

“Neighborhood’s gonna wake up. Not much population but word travels. Might be a good idea to get another cruiser out here,” Garrett instructed.

Marty nodded and turned to Abe. “Yo. Get dispatch to send another cruiser.”

“Gotcha,” Abe replied quickly, immediately jogging to their vehicle, having been keeping his distance from the Fiesta.

Garrett eyed Abe a beat, trying to remember when he started and what had gone down since.

His first homicide.

Abe was a gung-ho guy. Not even twenty-four years old and raring to go. Couldn’t wait to put his mark on beating back crime in the ’burg. Was always volunteering for everything, was there early for his shift, happy to work late. Marty thought he was hilarious, which was Marty’s way of not finding him annoying.

He was not gung-ho now. With a dead woman in a Ford Fiesta, he was subdued, watchful, quiet, and helpful.

That was what homicide did to a rookie. Knocked the cocky superhero shit right out of you.

“When he’s done callin’ that in, Marty,” Garrett said quietly to the veteran cop. “Might be a good idea you start him canvassing. See if anyone saw anything. Heard anything.”

Marty nodded.

“I’m good,” Mike said. “Let’s go in.”

Garrett and Mike moved to round the Fiesta, both of them turning their head to watch as the ME van pulled up.

They didn’t stop walking. They made it to the door of the house, Garrett knocking even as he looked around the cul-de-sac.

One house, windows boarded up. One house, lawn hadn’t been mowed all summer, obviously deserted, bank notices of foreclosure still posted to the door. One house in decent shape, for sale sign out in front of it.

This house, the only one occupied.

Ellen opened the door, jerked her head to the side to indicate they should come in, but she didn’t speak.

Garrett opened the storm and he and Mike went through, following Ellen into the living room.

As he went, he took in as much as he could.

The place was nice. Clean. Furnished a helluva lot better than Garrett’s condo.

Pride there.

Pride in taking care of a house that the owners were probably so upside down on, it’d take decades to get right side up.

Pride in the travels the occupants had taken to Disney World, Atlantic City, the Sears Tower, and more, these declared through the snow globes, plastic banks, and other cheap souvenirs displayed throughout the home.

Also pride in family. Framed pictures everywhere and more shoved into the edges of the frames or propped up against them. Pictures that held the image of the woman pacing the room. Some men. Other women. Relatives. Friends.

And pictures with the woman sitting dead in a pool of her own blood in a compact car at the curb.

Garrett took in the woman pacing. She was still in her pajamas. The family resemblance was unmistakable. Dark hair. Curves. Olive skin. Fine features. But definitely older, at least by a decade. Wendy Derian appeared to be in her late twenties; this woman was in her late thirties or even having hit her forties, and she took care of herself like she did her house.

She didn’t stop pacing when they hit the room.

She also didn’t stop muttering. “Knew it. Fuckin’ knew it. Knew it with that dickhead. That dickhead douchebag. That dickhead douchebag asshole loser. Fuckin’ knew it.”

She might know whatever it was she was muttering about, but she had no clue Garrett and Mike had joined her and Ellen, that was how far she was in her head.

And her anger.

Which meant the grief hadn’t hit her yet.

This was unusual. It had to have been over an hour since she called it in. Grief was mighty. It typically powered through the initial anger easily…and quickly.

This was also good. It was difficult to get statements from sobbing, hysterical people.

Angry people let it all hang out.

Garrett looked to Mike to see Mike’s eyes on him.

“Ms. Derian,” Ellen called. The woman jerked to a halt and turned narrowed, pissed off eyes on Ellen. “This is Lieutenant Garrett Merrick and Lieutenant Mike Haines of the Brownsburg Police Department. They’re here to ask a few questions about this morning.” Ellen turned to Garrett and Mike. “This is Marscha Derian.”

“Thanks, Ellen,” Mike muttered.

Garrett caught Marscha Derian’s dark brown eyes, held them, and communicated with his own.

So when he said unemotionally, “We’re sorry for your loss,” even though it didn’t sound it, she might understand he meant it.

“Yeah,” she spat. “Me too.”

She didn’t understand he meant it. Nothing was penetrating her rage.

“Would you like to sit down? Get a cup of coffee? If you don’t have a pot going, we can make one,” Mike offered.

“No, ’cause, see, got three brothers, another sister, and my mom and dad, which means I got a shit-ton of calls to make today and I’m not lookin’ forward to any of ’em,” she bit out. “So I just wanna get this done and want you to get that shit,” she tossed a hand toward her front window, “outta here.”

That shit.

Nope, the grief hadn’t hit her yet.

Either that or she and her sister weren’t the best of friends.

Garrett and Mike exchanged another look, then both of them pulled out their notepads and pens.

“Okay, then, Ms. Derian, we’ll get to it,” Garrett started, flipping his open. “Officer Fink says you called it in. Did you—”

“Heard the gunshots but didn’t know what I was hearin’,” she cut him off to declare. “Never heard nothin’ like that. Was sleepin’, it woke me up, and I just laid there. Just fuckin’ laid there, wonderin’ what the fuck that was.” She shook her head. “Nothin’ happens around here anymore. Only got four neighbors left on this street, so things are quiet. Couldn’t figure out what that noise was. So I just laid there.”

Garrett and Mike didn’t move even as her last declaration made her face change, her entire demeanor change.

Anger leaking out.

Shock coming in.

This would be followed by the pain.

“You here alone, Ms. Derian?” Garrett asked quietly.

She shook her head sharply like she was shaking herself into shape, and she focused on Garrett. “Yeah.”

“You give Ellen a name of someone she can call so you got someone you trust close?” Garrett asked.

“I’m good,” she declared.

Mike entered the conversation. “Please give Ellen a name of someone she can call so you got someone close.”

Marscha Derian sucked her lower lip between her teeth and bit it.

Then she looked at Ellen, who was hanging back, and gave her the name and number of someone to call.

Ellen took notes, and the minute Marscha was done talking, she stepped out of the room.

“You heard the gunshots,” Garrett prompted quietly.

“Shoulda known,” Marscha declared.

“Known what?” Mike asked.

She looked to Mike. “Wendy, she likes the bad boys. Always did. Got suspended from high school twice because of shit her boyfriends were into. And yeah, I said boyfriendzzzzz.” She emphasized the z’s as well as her statement even though neither Garrett nor Mike questioned it. “Went from one loser to another. Not only never learned, they just got worse.”

“Are you saying you’re aware that your sister was associating with someone you considered dangerous?” Mike asked.

“Uh…yeah,” she answered with heavy sarcasm. “She was associatin’ with a lot of fuckwits that I considered dangerous. So did my brothers. My other sister. Our mom and dad. All her decent friends. And by associatin’, I mean suckin’ their dicks and takin’ their shit.”

Christ.

“Maybe we should get to the gunshots you heard. Then we’ll move on to the people Wendy spent time with,” Garrett suggested.

“Nothin’ to say about those shots since I’m a goddamned idiot. Heard that shit. Just laid there. Just laid there while someone was shootin’ my sister outside my goddamned house.”

“If you haven’t heard the sound of gunshots before, it isn’t unusual that you wouldn’t immediately know what they were,” Mike assured.

“I shoulda known,” she retorted.

“Because the company Wendy kept?” Mike pressed.

“Because the company Wendy kept,” Marscha spat.

“Outside the gunshots,” Garrett cut in. “Did you see anything? Hear anything?”

She looked to him. “I heard bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Four times. I heard ’em all. They were loud. Woke up laid there. Then it hit me, got up, went to the window, looked outside. Saw Wendy’s car, the lights on, nothin’ else. She’d been out all night. Didn’t tell me where she was or when she was comin’ home. Just told me yesterday she was goin’ out and then she left. Saw her car and it finally hit me what those sounds were. Ran out there. Saw her sittin’ there, starin’. Car was on. She was in it. Just sittin’ there, bleedin’ and starin’.”

Marscha Derian was now shaking.

Garrett edged slightly closer, urging carefully, “Think you should sit down now, ma’am.”

She needed no further encouragement. She shuffled back until her calves hit the couch and she plopped onto it.

Garrett looked toward the entryway and saw Ellen there. She nodded.

A friend was on the way.

“We’re sorry to make you go through this,” Mike said. “But we have to get all this down.”

Marscha was staring at the carpet. At Mike’s words, she slowly tipped her head back and looked at him.

She was losing focus. The pain was pushing through. It was going to hit any second.

They needed to get everything they could before she succumbed.

“At this point, what did you do?” Mike asked.

“Stupid,” she whispered.

“What was stupid?” Mike pressed.

“I turned off her car,” Marscha answered.

Fuck.

“Did you touch anything else?” Garrett asked.

Her head slowly swiveled his way and then she shook it.

“Ran inside, called nine-one-one,” she told him.

“You go back out?” Garrett queried.

She shook her head again. “The operator kept me on the line. Told me to stay inside.”

“Good,” Garrett muttered.

Mike took over. “Is there someone in particular she was associating with that you have concerns about?”

“That’d be a long list,” she shared. “Though, most recent, even though he’d ended things with her a week ago or whatever, is Jaden Cutler.”

Again, Garrett’s spine shot straight, but this time his stomach also turned just as Mike’s gaze cut to him.

It took a lot, he tried, but he didn’t succeed in keeping the harsh out of his voice when he turned back to Marscha and asked, “Jaden Cutler?”

She was way too far gone to process the harsh in his voice.

“Most recent dickhead douchebag asshole loser that Wendy associated with. Also the worst of the lot. Totally. And it was him that broke up with her. Kicked her ass out. She was livin’ with me but also livin’ in hope he’d take her back. Can you believe that shit?”

“Outside of disliking him, do you have any reason to believe he was a danger to your sister?” Mike asked.

“He’s just a danger,” she declared. “Mean as a snake when he’s in a bad mood. Up his own ass, thinkin’ he’s God’s gift when he is not. Man doesn’t work, but he’s got money. How is that? How do you not have a job and have money?” she asked.

“I know several ways, Ms. Derian, but do you know this Jaden Cutler was involved in anything that might lead to what happened to Wendy this morning?” Mike pushed. “Did she say anything to you? Did you hear her say anything to anyone else, for instance, on the phone? Did Cutler say anything in your presence?”

“No. But you got the experience I got with Wendy and her parade of losers, you just know.”

She had nothing.

Fuck.

“Did Wendy ever talk to you about Cutler, his acquaintances, or the people they spent time with?” Garrett asked, hoping like fuck she’d mentioned Carlito Gutierrez.

She hadn’t.

“No,” Marscha stated and tossed out a hand in irritation. “This is all I was to my sister—a crash pad when she ditched one of her losers, or when one of her losers beat her up or cheated on her and she thought she’d teach him a lesson by takin’ off only to go back, or when one of them decided it was time to move on so they dumped her. She was dumped, she didn’t take a lot of time finding a replacement because, apparently, she couldn’t exist without a healthy dose of asshole in her life.”

Garrett braced when she finished her litany and instantly looked to the front window.

It was going hit.

Now.

“Guess she couldn’t,” Marscha whispered. “Couldn’t live without it. Couldn’t live with it.”

It was then the tear fell. Just one, down her cheek to hit her pajama top.

Then she dropped forward. Face in her knees, her back bucked in a way that looked painful, and her sob tore through the room with such force, it felt like a physical thing.

They’d get no more and both Garrett and Mike had long since learned that when it hit, two cops hanging around, watching or attempting to ease a pain that had no relief other than time, was unwelcome and unwanted.

Their job was to catch the bad guy.

Garrett was already on the move.

Mike was too.

“You’ll stay with her?” Mike muttered to Ellen.

“Yeah, Mike,” Ellen muttered back.

“Favor, Ellen,” Garrett said. “She’s got any info on Wendy’s friends—names, numbers, anything—get those down. We’ll also need access to the rest of the family after Marscha gives them the news. Yeah?”

Ellen nodded.

They exited the house, but Garrett did it with his hand inside his jacket, going for his phone in his pocket.

“Need two minutes,” he said to Mike as he moved off the front walk into the yard and not toward the vehicle at the curb, which was now surrounded by five cops, the ME, and Jake, their crime scene guy, who was taking pictures. There were also neighbors. They were hanging back on a sidewalk across the street, but they were there.

“Bet you do,” Mike murmured, moving down the walk toward the scene.

Mike, obviously, was in the know about Ryker, Ryan, and Jaden Cutler.

Garrett stopped in Marscha Derian’s yard, engaged his phone, and slid his thumb on the screen, vaguely annoyed that today would not be the day he’d have time to get a new phone.

But most of his attention was on what he was doing, not his phone.

It was also not on the beginnings of a homicide investigation.

He put the phone to his ear.

She was busy getting her kid ready for school. The phone not close. Whenever he called, or even texted, if her phone was close, she answered right away.

This time, it was answered after four rings.

“Uh…boss, school doesn’t start for an hour,” Cher said in greeting, her voice warm and filled with humor. “Can’t confirm I dropped my kid off safely just yet.”

“Get somewhere that is not close to your boy,” he ordered.

“What?” she asked, no longer sounding warm and amused.

“Get somewhere where Ethan can’t hear this discussion.”

She didn’t reply and he knew she didn’t because she was doing as she was told.

He also knew she was there when she asked, “Is everything okay?”

“Wendy Derian was murdered this morning, shot three times.”

Cher said nothing for a beat before she said softly, “I don’t know who that is, Merry.”

“She’s Jaden Cutler’s recently ex– and very recently deceased girlfriend.”

“I don’t know who that is either.”

“Jaden Cutler is your neighbor, two doors down.”

“Oh fuck,” she whispered.

“Pack,” he grunted. “I’ll go to the grocery store. I’ll buy a fuckin’ skillet. But you and Ethan are in my condo until whatever the fuck is happening is done.”

“Merry, I think—”

Garrett cut his eyes to the Fiesta. “Dead in a pool of her own blood in a goddamned Ford Fiesta sitting at the curb in front of her sister’s house.”

He actually felt her emotion through the phone—horror, a vague sadness for a woman she didn’t know, concern about Merry—before tentatively, “Did this…Cutler guy…have anything to do—”

“Unknown.”

Her voice was a lot less hesitant when she reminded him, “He’s just my neighbor, Merry.”

“He’s a threat, Cher.”

“I—”

“You move in with me, or you move in with your mother, or you move in with Colt and Feb or Vi and Cal. Strike that, your mother’s off the list. It’s me, Colt, or Cal. Pick.”

“Maybe you can come by the bar tonight and we can discuss—”

“Me at the bar with you while Ethan and your mom are two doors down from this guy?”

She didn’t say anything.

“Pick, Cher,” he demanded.

She still didn’t say anything.

“Pick, baby,” he pushed.

“You,” she whispered.

Thank fuck.

“Pack,” he ordered.

“You’re bossy when you’re freaked out,” she muttered.

“I’m bossy all the time,” he returned. “Pack.”

“All right,” she said, but it came out as a grumble.

Garrett drew in a deep breath.

It didn’t release the feeling.

The sour. The fear. The poison.

“Don’t worry about the skillet. I’ll bring one,” she told him.

He closed his eyes and dropped his head.

The fucking skillet.

That was what he needed.

The sour. The fear. The poison. Gone.

“I got shit to do right now. Get you a key. We’ll sort it out later,” he told her.

“Okay, babe.”

“Glad you picked me, Cherie.”

“You think this is it?” she asked.

He didn’t get it. “What’s it?”

“The end of the suckage that seems to infest my life, this time even when I’m not making stupid decisions that fuck up said life and totally have nothing to do with it.”

He lifted his head and put his hand to his hip. “Don’t know, sweetheart. Just know with this particular suckage, I’m gonna be there to make sure you get through.”

She sighed. “Unfortunately, you’re right. I’m a dickhead magnet and I’m a life suckage magnet. This means, that asshole’s just my neighbor, but since I’m in close proximity, whatever his shit is would find some way to stick to me.”

“Lucky you’re not gonna be in close proximity. You’re gonna be in a crappy-ass condo four miles away.”

Some humor was back when she said, “Yeah, lucky.”

“Got a homicide to investigate, brown eyes. Gotta let you go.”

“Okay, honey. Do that shit quick and make my ’hood safe. The Mamas and the Papas are slated to come to dinner this weekend and I’m not sure they’ll dig your pad.”

It was painful, but he had to do it.

So he bit back the laughter that left a different ache in his gut.

“Not a rule, but definitely frowned on to bust a gut laughin’ while standin’ in the yard of a grieving sister whose curb has become a murder scene,” he informed her.

“Oops, sorry,” she muttered. “I’ll curtail my comic genius until a more appropriate time.”

“How about startin’ that now?” he suggested, turning his back on the street so no one could see the smile he couldn’t beat back.

“Right.”

“Get Ethan safe to school,” he ordered.

“Definitely. ’Bye, gorgeous.”

“Later, brown eyes.”

He disconnected, turned, and headed across the yard to his partner, his colleagues, and a dead woman in a compact car.

* * * * *

Forty-five Minutes Later

Before Garrett got in his truck to leave the scene and meet Mike at the station, he stood outside it, watching the ME van rolling away with Wendy Derian in a body bag in the back at the same time their tow guy was hooking up the Fiesta.

He did this with his phone to his ear.

He listened to it ring and he kept hold of his shit as it kept ringing until he got Ryker’s voicemail.

“By now, you’ve probably heard that Jaden Cutler’s girl took three. She just rolled away in the back of the ME’s van. You also probably get that this does not make me happy. And I’m guessin’ you get that your continued disappearing act is making me less happy. You know dick about this, Ryker, you better fuckin’ come forward. You got friends. They give a shit. They’d cover your ass on a lot, and you know this because we’ve already done that. But now a woman’s dead.” He drew in breath and finished, “I think you get me.”

He disconnected.

Then he swung into his truck.

* * * * *

Cher

I sat across from Ethan and watched him wolf down three soft-boiled eggs crunched in with saltine crackers, a touch of butter, and some salt and pepper.

Something my mother made me eat when I was a kid that I detested.

Something that I’d tried on my kid when it became clear he liked everything that could be considered food, as long as it had only so much nutritional value.

He loved it. He called it my “breakfast specialty.”

I could make it, but once made, I could barely look at it.

“Kid,” I called.

“Yo,” he said, eyes to his bowl, mouth full and getting fuller since he was shoveling bright yellow, slimy cracker goo in it.

I made a face.

He looked to me.

“What?” he asked.

We had important shit to talk about. I had to get past the egg goo.

“You remember that conversation we had not too long ago about you growin’ up and me needin’ to have a mind to that?” I asked back.

He slouched in his chair, fleeting panic racing across his face as he said, “God, Dad. What’d he do now?”

I quickly shook my head. “No, kid, it’s not your dad. I haven’t heard from your dad since all that went down on the front walk. And like I said then, your dad is not gonna do anything you don’t want him to do, I’ll see to that. But I do have something to talk to you about, and it’ll require me trusting that you actually are growin’ up and I can tell you what’s gotta happen. Then we can talk it out however you need to do that.”

He came right out of his slump, straightening his shoulders and keeping eye contact.

My little man.

“Hit me,” he ordered.

I wanted to laugh or at least grin, but he was being serious and I had to give him that.

“Right, okay, you know that guy who lives down the way that gives off a bad vibe, the one who was bangin’ on Tilly’s door?”

Ethan nodded.

“Well, somethin’ is goin’ down. I don’t know a lot about it, but Merry doesn’t have a good feeling about him and he’s a cop, so his feelings are usually smart to pay attention to. Until he figures out what’s going down, he wants us to stay with him. So, today, we’re goin’ to his place where we’re gonna stay for a while.”

Ethan just sat there.

I did too.

“Is that it?” he asked.

“Well, yeah,” I answered.

He went back to eating, but before shoveling in another load of egg mush, he muttered, “Cool.”

Cool?

“Uh, is that it?” I asked his question.

He looked to me. “Is what it?”

“Do you have any questions?”

“Like what?”

“Like, how long we’re staying with Merry? And the answer to that is, I don’t know, but hopefully not long. Just until that’s sorted.”

“Okay,” Ethan said, then went back to his bowl.

I stared at the top of his head.

Then I asked, “Are you worried about anything?”

He looked at me again. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. Anything,” I told him. “Merry and me haven’t been seein’ each other very long, but this isn’t like we’re moving in with him. And that guy freaked you out. I don’t want you to hold back if something’s bothering you or you have a question you want answered.”

Ethan tipped his head to the side. “Are you and Merry dating?”

I thought that was a weird question because he knew the answer.

Still, I gave him that answer. “Yeah.”

“No, Mom. I mean, are you dating or are you boyfriend and girlfriend?”

It kind of freaked me out my ten-almost-eleven-year-old son knew the difference.

I couldn’t focus on that right then. I had to focus on his question.

Merry and me hadn’t officially had the conversation, but I did feel it was accurate to answer, “We’re boyfriend and girlfriend.”

“So, that guy is bad news. Merry heard about him. His woman is livin’ on the same street, and we’re movin’ in with him until he deals with it,” Ethan declared. “It’s not a big deal. It’s just Merry.”

I stared at my kid again.

Ethan must have misinterpreted my stare because he went on to explain, “If that guy lived close to Feb before Colt married her, Feb would move in with Colt. Same with Vi and Cal. Merry’s like them. So…” He shrugged. “Whatever.”