Page 122 of Wicked Pickle

“Unlikely, but we’ve been gone a while, so he might.”

Merrick shifts in his seat. “Diesel or I could stay in the truck with him.”

“If he doesn’t wake up when we open the doors,” I add.

Greta turns to look at her son. “You all were up late. He might stay down. I say let’s try that.”

I lean forward to look at my brother. “Who gets babysitting, and who gets violence?”

“No violence,” Greta says. “Well, maybe the threat of it.”

“That fucker is toast,” Merrick says. “I will not be happy until my fist is in the back of his throat.”

“Okay.” Greta blows out a gust of air. “Maybe I should take Diesel.”

“Not sure I’m any less inclined to punch him,” I say.

Caden stirs sleepily. “Are we home yet?”

Shit. The kid will be involved.

Greta unbuckles. “We are, sweetie!”

“Is Dad home?”

The three of us glance at each other.

“I think so,” Greta says.

Caden sits up, poking his chin between his mom and me. “Can I get on my PlayStation?”

“Of course,” Greta says, ruffling his hair. “You go right up to your room. Are your headphones working?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Use them. Get some of those zombies.”

He shoves his iPad and headphones in a small pack. “Let’s go! Those zombies aren’t going to kill themselves!”

There’s tension as we leave the truck like we’re about to head into battle. There’s no telling what will happen once we go inside. Jude could come out. He could confront Greta before Caden gets to his room.

We might have to act civilized.

Nobody should hold their breath on that count.

As soon as Caden is free, he races up the front steps and darts inside the door, leaving it open.

That tracks.

“Leave the bags,” Greta says. “We may well be walking right back out.”

Merrick smacks his fist into his palm. “Not on our watch.”

She hooks her arm around his elbow. “Let’s see how this plays out before we get too fired up.”

We enter a small foyer that smells of Lemon Pledge like my parents’ house did. I’m momentarily taken back, a teenager again, Merrick and I coming in after school or sometimes a ridiculously late night out. We were real terrors.

“Let me check the kitchen before we go up,” Greta says. “In case he came down for something to eat.”

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