Page 26 of Five
Yeah, it’s not all a walk in the park, and I’ve seen a lot of weird shit in my time. A stunt like this could be just the catalyst to cause parents to lose confidence, taking their kids elsewhere and causing the closure of the business. And voila! Problem solved.
I really hope it’s something as simple as that, because the alternative…
Slipping on my aviators against the blazing island glare, I stroll down the street. My phone beeps, and I dig it out in case it’s important.
I never allow a message or call to go unchecked.
It’s my brother, and I smile. Any message from him is one more than I thought I’d have, once upon a time.
Oliver:I’ve arranged to take Neve on a date tonight.
He’s been chatting to this girl over the PolyApp. We’d all agreed to give it a shot— in broad terms, anyway— Cope, Jesse, Remi, Ollie, and me, but I honestly never imagined he’d have connected with someone so quickly.
But regardless of what I think about it all, this is a big thing for Ollie. He’s shy to the point of being reclusive. Maybe that’s why I’m so surprised he’s moving forward so swiftly.
I type out a quick response.
Oscar:Awesome. I hope you haven’t forgotten how to behave in polite company.
I’m pleased for him, but I’m still not sure how this is going to work out for the rest of us. I mean what are the chances of all five of us being content with the same girl?
She’d have to be something special, that’s for sure.
And Neve, the woman he’s talking to? He showed us her photos. She’s pretty enough in her own quirky way. She obviously has a clear sense of her own identity with her dark hair streaked with purple. I like that in a woman. But character is more important than any of that, to all of us… with the possible exception of Cope.
Ollie affectionately calls our friend, Gabe Copeland, a ‘himbo’. He’s not air-headed like the term implies, but he does move through women like he’s attempting a world record.
He’s looking for a unicorn, according to him, and they’re not easy to find.
I turn my mind back to my job and jostle my way through the crowd of tabloid hacks and rubberneckers to where two beat cops, wilting in uniforms that have lost their starch in the sweltering heat, are doing their best to keep the onlookers under control and prevent journalists from trespassing onto the grounds of the building.
As I flash my badge to gain access, a few people note my presence with renewed interest and one reporter yells, “Hey, Sherlock! Are you gonna make a statement or do you want us to make one for you?”
From the corner of my eye, I realize it’s Beck Wilder, a fact which raises my hackles. Him, of all people, I would expect to have a little more empathy and consideration, especially for an attempted abduction case.
I don’t bother even acknowledging him. I’m not giving any of these parasites the time of day. They’ll print what they like, anyway, regardless of anything I say. It’s all about selling news, and if they have to embellish it to make it sound good, that’s what they’ll do. Truth be damned.
The inside of the daycare is an explosion of color, which almost convinces me to keep my shades on. The walls are painted in colors bright enough to challenge the sunniest Florida day, but nature can’t compete with the bursts of pink and orange.
There are hanging things everywhere. Bright artwork and haphazard models made from the ubiquitous egg carton and the ever-popular yogurt container. Dozens of childish renditions of the same subject, lovingly displayed on every surface. Cardboard clouds covered in cotton wool and globs of glue. Trees made with mucky handprints, and a couple of things I don’t recognize.
I’m tall enough that some of the artwork grazes my head as I walk through the child-inspired landscape, feeling more out of place than at any other crime scene I’ve ever visited.
Shit. Give me a crack den any day of the week.
I take the final gulp of my coffee, wishing I had more, and glance around for a trash can. There’s a large round bin covered in an entire metric ton of glitter along with googly eyeballs stuck on pipe cleaners so they act like springs, but I can’t decide if it’s a garbage can or a piece of artwork, and I sure don’t want to upset some poor kid by throwing my cup in there. Although from the looks of things, there’s a good chance someone would just wash it out and use it for another project.
Still clutching the paper cup and strangely unnerved, I walk further into this childish Neverland.
I know why it has me so on edge; I just don’t want to acknowledge it. I’ve spent my entire adult life battling the awareness that I didn’t keep my little brother safe.
The same way I didn’t keep Faarih safe when I was based in Iraq.
Me and kids? Yeah, they’re better off without me. Probably why my ex-wife refused to give me any.
Perhaps she was right all along.
In a room off to my left, a woman with dark hair plays with a group of children. Another one sits on the floor with a small group, and I catch a glimpse of yet another in a different room. There’s no shortage of adults on the premises, which makes me think the children likely were properly supervised. I stop dead when I come to a row of cubbies, each with a name written on a colorful tag.
