Page 29 of Finding Home with You

“Shit,” Beck says on a long exhale. “I can see why.”

I reach for the coffee, draining my cup in the hopes the caffeine will finally kick in and magically bring all of this into focus. I’ve barely had any sleep the last couple of nights, running on nothing but coffee and adrenaline. “So, as I said before,” I continue, placing the now empty cup on the table. “How much do you know about Erin’s past?”

Beck runs a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “Like I said, Ryan, I left shortly after she moved here,” he says. “I never met her parents and I don’t really know anything much at all.”

“Fuck,” I breathe out.

“But,” he says in a way that suddenly has me paying attention. “I might know someone who does.”

When we walk into the pub, Beck’s dad and brother are already waiting for us. His dad greets me with a warm smile and a handshake, some comment about me practically living here now. Finn on the other hand is more reserved, only giving me a quick nod as he shakes my hand and avoids eye contact, as Beck gestures for us all to sit down.

“So,” Beck says, hands in front of him on the table, just like he used to do in the interrogation room, as he looks from his dad to his brother to me. “Ryan’s got a couple of questions for you both,” he says. “About Erin.”

“Fuck,” Finn murmurs, shifting in his seat.

“It was always going to happen,” Pop says and when I glance at him, I notice he’s talking to Finn, not me.

“What was?” I ask, my eyes flicking between them.

“Was it?” Finn says to his dad. “I thought we assumed it was going to all just blow over.”

Pop shakes his head. “That was never going to happen,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his stubble. “Not with her family. Look at what’s happening right now,” he adds, shrugging as though none of this is a big deal.

I glance at Beck, see he’s just as confused as I am. Turning back to the other two, I pull out the photo and slam it on the table as I all but shout, “Can someone please explain what the fuck is going on here?”

Finn’s hands are on the photo immediately, sliding it over so he and his dad can get a look. “Yeah, it’s him.”

“Yep,” Pop says, nodding.

“Yeah, I know, it’s Fitzgerald, we know that,” I say, trying to snatch the photo back. “What I want to know is, what the fuck Erin is doing in the picture with him?”

Finn lets out a long, low curse, glancing quickly at Beck before he turns to me. “I really think you need to talk to Erin about all this, Ryan,” he says.

“Yeah, Finn, I plan to,” I snap. “But considering how you two seem to know an awful fucking lot about this, why don’t you start talking first?”

“Ryan,” Pop says as he places his hand in the middle of the table. “It’s not really our place to say, okay? As a cop, you know that,” he adds, eyes meeting mine as though he’s trying to convey more than what he’s just said out loud. “But Fitzgerald,” he continues, hand moving toward the photo again, “is not the only connection you need to be worried about.”

I stare back at Pop as I try to work out what he isn’t telling me. He doesn’t blink, just flicks his eyes to the photo. When I finally look down, he taps his finger against it. Only this time, it’s not on Fitzgerald, but on the young guy standing on the other side of Erin. The one who looks like he might be more than just good friends with her.

“What?” I ask confused.

“Fitzgerald,” Finn says finally, as he indicates the older guy. “His 2IC,” he adds, moving his finger toward the younger guy.

“What?” I ask again, knowing Finn hasn’t just given me something about Erin, he’s also blown the gun thing back in Boston wide fucking open.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “And her ex.”

By the time Erin’s car pulls into the driveway, I’m pretty sure I’ve worn a patch in her carpet from all my pacing back and forth. I’m also on my fourth beer and if I don’t slow down soon, then between that and the severe lack of sleep, I definitely won’t be in any condition to have this out with her.

The door opens and Erin storms in, throwing her bag against the wall. She glances into the living room as she walks down the hall. “Good, you’re still here,” she says as she continues onto the kitchen. Before I even have a chance to respond, she’s back, beer in hand as she kicks off her shoes and stands defiantly in front of me. “You wanna tell me what the fuck that was this morning?” she asks. “Why you didn’t feel the need to tell me you’d been shot, instead getting pissed about something as ridiculous as a fucking key under the fucking mat?”

I down the last of my beer, slamming the bottle on the coffee table. “You done?” I ask, hands on hips.

“No,” she shoots back.

“No?” I repeat.

“No,” she says again. “You don’t get to do this, Ryan,” she continues. “You don’t get to be that guy that’s all fucking perfect and loving and cupcake-making and dynamite in bed and wants to be all in with me,” she says, air-quoting the all-in part. “And not tell me about you taking a bullet and possibly even dying.”

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