Page 16 of We Own Tonight
Brody tells me about Rachel’s new kick with some crazy diet. She’s so pretty and already skinny, I don’t know what she’sthinking.
“Well, when you finally have kids, she won’tcare.”
He gives me side eyes and grunts. “I’m not sure we’ll havekids.”
“Brody,” I touch his arm. “You need to let go of thepast.”
Two years ago, Brody was in a horrific wreck. He was doing code and a driver plowed through the red light, T-boning his cruiser. It was a miracle he survived. It was one of the nights we were shorthanded and weren’t riding doubles. I’ve never been so scared in my life, and neither had Rachel. She was so terrified that the stress caused her to miscarry. Brody never recovered fromthat.
“Says the girl who refuses to date because she married an idiot. Hell, when’s the last time you even hadsex?”
My cheeks burn, and I hope he isn’t looking atme.
“I know that look, Heather.” Brody shifts in his seat and laughs. “Who did you have sexwith?”
“None of yourbusiness.”
Shit. He’s going to keep prying until I have to tell him just so he’ll shutup.
I focus on the road and want to throw my hands up hallelujah style when the radio cutsin.
“We have a report of a domestic in HydePark.”
Brody’s grin is gone, and he grabs the radio. “Car 186 is onit.”
“Central copies, dispatching the address now.” The dispatcher cuts out, and I flick the lightson.
I focus on the road as Brody gives directions. We head into the small upper-class suburb and pull in front of thehouse.
Both of us cautiously approach the door, we knock twice, and a woman opens the door with asmile.
“Hello,officers.”
“Good morning, ma’am. We got a call about a disturbance. Is everything all right here?” Iask.
She smiles warmly and opens the door. “Yes, my son is autistic, and well, sometimes he gets really loud. My neighbor behind us keeps calling. No matter how many times we explain that there’s nothing we can do but let him work it out, she continues to call thecops.”
“Do you mind if we come in?” Brodyasks.
We’ve seen too many instances of a wife covering for her husband because she’s terrified ofhim.
“Of course,” she steps back, giving us room to pass. “Please, comein.”
“Thank you, Mrs. . . . ” I leave itopen.
“Harmon. I’m DeliaHarmon”
We step forward, and a boy around fourteen comes to the door, and I smile. “Hi.”
He stares off to the side andgrunts.
“Sloane doesn’t speak, but he loves lights,” Mrs. Harmon explains. “It’s been a rough few months. His father took off a while ago, so it’s just us, but we’re doing fine. Aren’t we Sloane?” She looks adoringly at herson.
I smile, thinking of how lucky this boy is to have a mother like her. The way she stares at him reminds me of how my mother looked at me, and my mother was always brimming with love. Stephanie and I were herlife.
“Hi, Sloane,” I kneel in front of him and his eyes dartoutside.
“Can you say hello to the police officers?” Deliaencourages.
