Page 4 of Tangled Up

“I will. I haven’t worked in law enforcement this long not to have learned anything.”

“Just do it. I’ll be in touch.”

We disconnect, and I chew the inside of my lip, thinking. I’ve known Ronnie Wilcox since I moved to Pensacola to join the police force right out of college. I completed my master’s degree at night while getting my on-the-job training under the previous female psychologist, who retired once she pronounced me ready to take her place.

Ronnie’s the closest thing I’ve had to a dad since my own passed when I was a kid, followed quickly thereafter by my mom, leaving my older brother Henry and me in the care of our aunt Vivienne in the tiny coastal community of Eden by the Sea.

I’ve never seen him so worried about a case before, and I’m trying to decide if he’s right, and I’m being naïve or if I’m right, and he’s watched too many movies.

I take a lot of shit from the old guys. They call me soft, bleeding-heart, and all those other labels that basically mean I’m weak and out of touch.

Only, I’m not weak, and Ronnie knows it. I’m kind to people when they need it most, and kindness isnotweakness. It’d be great if more people internalized that message.

Still, I’m following orders and heading home for who knows how long.

Eden by the Sea. If you close your eyes and imagine white, sandy paths, picket fences, and canned lights, where people eschew driving cars for riding bicycles and leave their screen doors open at night, you’re in the right place. I wonder if anything has changed since I left.

Tapping my phone face, I call my aunt. Her deadpan tone fills the cab after one ring, same as always, no greeting or formalities.

“Where you at?” Aunt Viv cuts straight to the point.

“Hey!” I make my voice light and upbeat. “Just crossing the Bridge. Should be there in a half-hour.”

“Is there a fog?”

“Not a bit.”

“Well, keep your eyes open. Jeb Callahan was in a wreck last week and had to stay in the hospital in Tampa for a few days.”

My stomach plunges. “Is he okay?”

“Twenty-nine-car pileup—”

“Holy crap! Twenty-nine cars?”

“I keep saying these traffic engineers are trying to kill us, bringing four lanes of busy highway together like that over the bay. It’s thinning the herd.”

“Is he back home now?”

“He got home a few days ago. Doesn’t seem too different, but time will tell.”

Aunt Viv is the original Debbie Downer. I’ve occasionally wondered if my stubborn optimism is my way of rebelling against her persistent pessimism.

“If they sent him home, I’m sure he’s fine.”

“I’m not so sure.” Her tone drips with skepticism. “It only takes a few seconds of oxygen deprivation for dementia to take hold.”

“Aunt Viv! He is not demented.”

“I hope you’re right.” She exhales dramatically. “Well, I’d better let you go. Distracted driving is the number one cause of car accidents.”

My eyes roll, but I don’t groan,Oh my God!Or make any of my other, former teenage epithets.

Instead, I hold my smile firmly in place. “I’ll be there soon.”

Ending the call, I shake my head.Damn, being a mature adult is hard, but I guess if I can be patient with mentally ill strangers, I can be patient with my somewhat sane aunt.

She’s getting older, and with the way I’ve been working for the last several years, I’ve had zero time to drive home and check on her. This exile is probably a good thing. When older people are alone too much, they tend to get more suspicious and paranoid.

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