“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.