Page 20 of Sinful Sorrow

Fletch brings a hand up and scrubs it over his face. A tell, I know, that says he’s a dad of a daughter and doesn’t like running these kinds of cases.

“Where is she now?”

“Naomi? She’s in the fridge on level two.”

“No. The infant. Where is she?”

“In the fridge with her mother,” Aubree answers. “We’ll take instructions from Naomi’s next of kin at some point in the coming days. They’ll decide how they want things dealt with.”

“As in,” I murmur. “Two separate funerals and caskets. Or maybe one, and bury them together. Or cremation.” I shrug. “Whatever they want.”

“Will Mason get a say in all that?” Cato turns from the stove, clutching a spatula and speaks, finally, with seriousness in his tone. “I know they weren’t married or anything. But that’s his kid. And give it a few years, and Naomi would’ve been his wife. Does he get a say in the decisions made?”

“Legally?” I question. “No. She was not his wife, and therefore, not her next of kin. And the fetus was not yet a viable human. She never lived outside her mother’s womb. So, in this case, she doesn’t legally actually exist. She’s not his daughter, according to the law. She’s a bundle of cells and skin that belong, technically, to the mother. And the mother’s fate is to be decided by her next of kin.”

“Hopefully he has a decent relationship with her parents,” Aubs asserts. “If they were all friends, and her parents supported what Naomi and Mason had, then they may take his wishes into account. But according to the law… They don’t have to.”

“They seemed to really love each other.” He gently brushes Mia’s hand away when she attempts to reach into the pan. He’s mature and sensible, really. But he hides it behind a larger-than-life attitude and loud voice. “You wanted my take on them, since Mason and Brent are on the team.” He flips a pancake onto a plate to cool and pours the next lot of batter into the pan. Then, while it cooks, he snags a knife and fork from the drawer, and the syrup from the fridge, before setting it all down on the opposite counter and carrying Mia around so she can eat. “They had their own friendship going since before Copeland U. So it’s not like I wandered across and asked to hang with them. But on the court, they’re solid. Mason is a power forward with the body mass to deal with anyone who gets in his way, while Brent’s more of a runabout.”

Curious, Aubree glances over her shoulder. “A runabout?”

“He’s smaller. Not all that skilled with his free throw. Not even great when he’s standing directly under the basket. But he’s fast, so the coach uses him to get the ball from one end of the court to the other. He passes off to me. Or to one of the others. His skill isn’t in scoring. He’s the mule who does a lot of the legwork.”

“Politics on the field,” I murmur. “Yikes.”

“Court,” he chuckles, leaving Mia with a kiss on her head, before he moves back to the stove. “It’s a court, Mayet. Arena would also be a suitable word. Stadium, even.” He points toward me with his spatula. “Not a field.”

“He probably isn’t as cool as, say…” I gesture his way. “The pointer.”

“Point guard! Jesus, Doc. Don’t you ever listen to me when I speak?”

I snort. Payback is often best served with a watchful crowd and an affinity to play dumb, emasculating those who are so rarely made to feel unimportant. “Point guard. Or the power forward, even. Those are the jock-y positions, right? The star of the show.”

“I’m the star of the show,” he rumbles. “I’m the best damn player on that kiddie team. But yes,” he amends, “Mason was next best. As power forward, he was taking care of s-h-i-t on and off the court. He was agile, skilled, and big enough not to let anyone get the drop on him.”

“And Brent was the smaller runabout,” I ponder. “Politics matter, whether it’s at the office or on the basketball oval.”

“Stick a knife in my eye.” Cato goes back to cooking our breakfast like a good little gangster should. “He loved her, though. Mason,” he clarifies. “I never heard him talk any shit when she had her back turned. There was no locker room gossip about him hooking up with anyone else. And when she was around, his eyes were on her the whole time.”

“Like he was controlling?” Fletch asks. “Stalking.”

“Nah, like—” He points blindly our way. “How that puss watches Mayet. It’s love, Detective. He was excited about his baby, and he was planning to marry that girl. He talked about it every damn time he and Brent weren’t actively listening to the coach. He might’ve k-i-l-l-e-d her,” he shrugs. “I dunno. He wasn’t my friend, so I can’t say for sure. But if it turns out that way, then I’ll be surprised as hell.”

ARCHER

As a group, all six of us leave the apartment as one and head downstairs. Like a procession of stomping footsteps and bellies filled with pancake batter. I know, in an hour, I’m gonna have to find some protein so I can get through my day. Which means in an hour, I’ll have to find protein for Minka, too, since we both know she won’t feed herself or consume anything except a double shot coffee and a pill for the headache she’ll have later, because she rarely, if ever, drinks enough water.

But for now, everyone smiles. Everyone is sated on butter and syrup and flour mixture.

“I’ll be twenty minutes behind you.” Fletch carries Mia on his hip, walking behind the doctors and their forever escort, the best damn point forward in the game. “I gotta get Moo to school for the nine o’clock bell. Then I’ll meet you at the station.”

“I’ll take her.” Cato spins, precariously risking his neck on the flight of stairs as he slams a basketball to my chest and reaches out for Mia instead. “I’m heading that way.” He takes her, despite Fletch’s lack of offering, and plops her on his hip. “Her school isn’t far from mine, so I can drop her over the fence as I wander past.”

“Over the fence?” Fletch stumbles after the pair as Cato turns and continues down. “Dude! You don’t drop her over a fence!”

“He’s kidding, Daddy!” Mia giggles when the boy speeds his steps and bounds past a chattering Aubree and Minka. Words like semen and blood count bounce between the pair. Hemoglobin. Toxicology. All the normal words normal women say on their way to work. Not. “He doesn’t throw me over the fence.” Mia clutches to Cato when his body goes one way and the laws of physics leave her body almost floating in mid-air, road-runner style. “He walks me all the way to my classroom, Daddy. Then he talks to Ms. Harmon for a minute.”

“Why are you talking to my kid’s kindergarten teacher?” Fletch chases after the duo, descending the stairs at an unsafe speed. “Dude! You better not be?—”

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