Page 164 of Don't Say a Word
“Chris and Benny are here. They shouldn’t be.”
“Because?”
“Chris has classes. At ASU.”
“Maybe his brother needs him. Maybe you do too.”
“Benny said you got him a job.”
“Not really. I just asked my Uncle Tom if he had an opening in one of his restaurants for a good kid who’s a hard worker. If Benny slacks off, Uncle Tom will fire him.”
“Well, anyway, it was nice of you. And I’ll talk to your sister, thanks.”
“Great.” I texted her Luisa’s phone number. “She’s expecting your call.”
“I’ll walk you out,” Angie said.
She got up, grabbed her crutches, and we left.
Lori and Bruce were sitting on the couch watching television and barely noticed when we walked out.
Angie had a spine of steel. She had been dealt a shitty hand, and she was going to make something of herself. If I could help in even a small way, I’d do it.
Even just by offering up my brilliant sister’s time and talent.
I walked Angie to Benny’s truck. A kid I presumed was Chris got out and hugged her tightly. Angie introduced us, then got into the truck, sitting between the two brothers. They left.
Yes, she was going to be okay.
I got home late Tuesday night. I read an email from my mother about the Madison O’Neill case, though I didn’t have to start right away. Mom had a bunch of legal issues to discuss with the defense attorney first.
Take a couple days and relax, Mom wrote in her message. I wanted to laugh. Me, relax?
Well... maybe I would go to the gun range and let off some steam. That always made me feel better. There was a movie Josie and I were talking about seeing. We could see a matinee and get drunk. I hadn’t been drunk in a long, long time.
I felt out of sorts. I’d figured out what happened to Elijah and why, and justice would be served, but too many people were dead.
Too manyyoungpeople. Kids with a future that had been cut short. Murder or drugs, they both left holes in the heart of someone who loved them. Two teachers who had done a good job helping teens navigate their lives as they entered adulthood—gone. Because of the selfish plans of violent criminals.
Sure, I’d take a couple days off—not. What would I do but think about all the bullshit that had happened? Better to start the next case and put this last week firmly in the past.
I was about to email my mom and tell her I’d be in the office tomorrow when my doorbell rang.
I got up, looked through the peephole.
Cal.
I opened the door.
He stood there wearing tactical pants, a black polo shirt, a sidearm, and carrying a pizza from Bianco’s along with a six-pack of my favorite Church Mouse IPA.
“How did you know that’s my favorite beer?” And my favorite wood-fired pizza—maybe my favorite pizza ever.
“I asked your brother.” He smiled. “Can I come in?”
I waved him inside, then closed the door.
He looked around, turned left into the kitchen, put the beer in the refrigerator, and opened the pizza. “I hope you’re hungry.”
