Page 30 of Sinful Sorrow

“I can count on you.” Her voice crackles with an ache so deep, I know it goes further than her physical condition. “I didn’t want to call my parents. But I knew I could rely on you.” Slowly, she drags her eyes open and looks into mine. But although she may see a pair of honeycomb, the same I’ve had my whole life, all I see are burst blood vessels. Milky brown irises. Emptiness. “I’m so sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?” I hold her hand between mine, warming hers with my palms. “What happened?”

Tears spill through her lashes and dribble toward her pillow. “I’m sorry for everything. For doing what I did and being the reason our marriage ended.”

“We don’t have to talk about th?—”

“I’m sorry for being weak,” she croaks. “And for choosing myself when I should have chosen my family. I’m sorry for being a bad mom.”

“You’re not a—” But I swallow my lie down. I want, so fucking much, to build this woman up and help her be better. But she is a bad mom. She has actively been a bad mom. Fucking and snorting lines, while our toddler watched on. Bringing strange men into her apartment, while my three-year-old hid in the shadows. Sneaking out at night to dance at clubs and get laid, while my daughter fended for herself and thankfully, lived to talk about it once everything came out. I can’t tell her the lie, bolster her ego, and convince her that her toxic behavior is okay. “How did you end up in here, Jada?” I search her bloodshot eyes. “Who hurt you?”

“Knock knock?”

I twist in my chair and look toward the curtain at the door, scowling when a couple of uniforms wander through with loud steps and friendly smiles. They clock me instantly, my weapons, and then the badge I often keep hanging around my neck on a chain. A cop knows another cop on sight, and a single moment of seeing them tells me they didn’t expect to wander into one today.

“Uh…” The one in the front, Stevenson, according to his shirt, clears his throat. “Sorry, sir. We didn’t realize?—”

“You’re Detective Fletcher, right?” The second uniform moves closer. His face, I guess, is somewhat recognizable. Though without the insignia on his uniform, I wouldn’t be able to guess his name. “I’m Officer Hutchins. We met on a case a few months back. We, uh…” He nods toward a watchful, silent Jada. “We’ve come down to take a statement regarding Ms. Watson’s assault today.”

“Assault?” It’s not like I didn’t already see it, but I bring my eyes around and study hers. “Who assaulted you, JJ?”

“Actually,” Hutchins comes closer, stepping around the bed so we can see each other without me turning away. “We need to take a formal statement, Detective. If you could just…”

“They want you to be quiet,” Jada rasps. Still, her smile shines from somewhere deep beneath pain and bruising. “You can’t interfere.”

“We understand an ambulance brought you in at approximately four this morning,” Hutchins begins. He takes out his handy-dandy notebook and presses a pen to the paper. Then parking his ass on the only other available visitor’s chair, he leaves his colleague standing guard and feeling awkward. “Do you remember all that, Ms. Watson? Do you remember the ambulance ride?”

Fresh tears well in her eyes. But they don’t fall over. She refuses to let them. “I remember a little bit, I guess. I remember the paramedic talking to me for a minute.”

Probably for an hour, really.

But it’s clear she’s had the shit—and half her memories—kicked out of her.

“He was really nice,” she adds softly, her lips quivering. “He was very kind to me. Even though I look…” Swallowing, she looks down at herself. “Well, you know what I look like.”

“You look fine, JJ.” I press my lips to the top of her hand. An old habit I’m not sure I’ll ever kick. But for now, while she needs me, I can be the old Fletch, and I can pretend she’s the old Jada. “You came in at four this morning? Didn’t they offer to call someone earlier than now?”

“Detective?” Hutchins prods gently. “If you could…”

I flatten my lips and hold Jada’s stare. Beneath the pain and trauma and addiction, she smiles just like she did way back when we were sixteen and wildly in love. Like my current case, we were kids back then, but we were so sure we had the world by the balls. We didn’t get pregnant at eighteen, but hell if we didn’t marry the moment we could.

We wanted to do life together.

Neither of us needed the college track, since she was heading for stage fame, and me, a career that included a badge. And the fact that we didn’t choose college meant we felt older than we actually were.

More grown.

Like we’d paid our dues and could skip a few steps.

Fat load of good that did.

“Our reports indicate you were picked up from a house, Ms. Watson. But we know you live in an apartment, nowhere near there. Can you tell us why you were there?”

“Has she done something wrong?” I’m that guy, I guess. Making a cop’s job harder as I glance up to Hutchins. “Has she committed a crime? Or is she the victim of one? Because your questioning is kinda hinting at the former.”

“We believe her to be the victim of a crime,” Stevenson inserts. “But the home she was in is under investigation relating to others.”

“But that home is not hers,” I press. “She was visiting.”

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