Page 65 of Sighs By the Sea

“So fix it,” Miranda says, her eyes narrowed. Rubbing the back of my neck, I sigh before striding over like a kicked puppy to where the boys are gathered. They’re trying to pull back the spring on the Nerf gun. Unsuccessfully. “Uh, Drew?” I ask. His head turns my way. I take a knee next to him. “Sorry, I’m your Uncle Gray. Can I, uh, help?”

He nods and hands the Nerf gun over. Not to brag, but I easily cock the plastic weapon and hand it back. Only to be immediately shot in the throat. My hand flies up, grabbing at the skin dramatically. It did hurt, but not much. I cough out and let myself fall to the ground. The boys are cheering. Matty slaps his brother’s back. “You did it, Drew!” TJ yells, then grabs the bottom of his shirt and rips it off over his head before roaring like some sort of adorably psychotic lion.

I keep my composure, pretending to be vanquished. But my God, it’s hard. These kids are hilarious. George would love all this chaos. Matty is the first to jump on me, but the other two quickly follow. One of them knees my balls as they try to stand on my limp body. I groan, but manage to keep myself from the slew of curse words that want to fly out.

“Is he dead?” TJ asks, poking my face.

That’s my cue. I spring to life, finding sides to tickle before the boys scramble away. Laughing, I sit up to see that every single one of my family is staring at me, each with their own smug expression.

“Welcome home, Uncle Gray,” Tilly says. A wide smile breaks out across my lips. It feels good to be home. Now, if I could only manage to figure my issues out with Maggie, and I think I know the perfect way.

Maggie

Outside my house, I’m standing at the curb, fighting the urge to run back inside. I know Grayson is probably cleaning up, stalking around my place like a wolf tending his den. It’s sexy as hell—and it might be the last time I get to see him. After today, I might be alone again. No Gray. No George. Just me and a messy, empty home. I take one last glance over my shoulder, but before I can do anything, Harry pulls up next to me. With a final, longing look, I climb into his car. As soon as the door shuts, Harry’s voice fills the air.

“Morning, Margaret. You look like shit.”

“Fuck off, Harry.”

He lifts both hands in mock surrender. “No jokes today, got it. Donuts are in the back if you want one.”

I rest my forehead in my hand. “I can’t even think about eating right now.”

“Long night?”

“You have no idea.”

“Tell me about it.” His voice softens with genuine concern. “I’ve been told I’m a good listener.”

I let out a small laugh. “By who? Your dog?”

“Humor an old man,” he says with a grin, trying to coax me into opening up.

I take a deep breath and launch into the problem at hand. As I talk, Harry’s brows draw lower and lower.

“Fuck, Margaret.”

“Yeah, that about sums it up.”

We’re on the freeway, heading toward Skid Row. Thankfully, traffic is light. Harry shakes his head. “The guy’s wife disappears for four years, only to show up now, possibly linked to a hit. Yeah, donuts won’t fix that.”

“No kidding.”

He exits the freeway and heads toward a soup kitchen parking lot. A security guard waves us in after seeing Harry’s badge.

As we get out, Harry leans against the car, rubbing his hands together. “Here’s what you do: confirm it, then tell him.”

I nearly roll my eyes. “Thanks for that brilliant insight, Harry.”

He chuckles, drawing a glance from the security guard. I wince, lowering my hands, and Harry quickly calms down. “Okay, okay. But seriously, I can come with you if you want.”

That’s sweet, and I can’t help but smile. Harry has always been there for me. From the moment I stepped into the detective gig five years ago, he’s played the role of best friend and surrogate father. But telling Grayson is something I need to do myself.

Grabbing the three dozen assorted donuts from the back seat, we start down the sidewalk. Every person we pass is offered food and asked if they know where Suze hangs out.

After two hours, the donuts are gone, but we have an idea. Everyone who knows her says she’ll be at the clinic for her methadone.

We make our way toward the place, passing hordes of homeless people. The stench of urine and unwashed bodies lingers in the air. It’s upsetting, the smell of despair and lives given up on. I hate coming down here. When we reach the clinic, I scan the line of people waiting for their meds. And then I see her.

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