Page 19 of Sinful Fantasy

Silence hangs as he processes my words.

“You’re not the asshole, Fletch.Shecheated and lied and stole and abused.Sheneglected Moo, and brought unsafe people into their home.Shebroke that family apart. You’re not the asshole for demanding accountability for her actions. You’re protecting Moo. And if you let Jada get away with her shit, itwouldbe on you next time she takes a dump on that little girl. You’re her shield now. Not Jada’s emotional support blanket. So I just wanted you to know you’re doing the right thing.”

“Doesn’t feel like the right thing.” He chuckles, but the sound is a little tired and sad. “It feels mean.”

“Better mean than enabling. You’re doing a great job holding to those boundaries. I’m proud of you.”

“Well, shit.” He sniffles, so the sound tugs at my heart.A direct hit.“Thanks. I guess I needed to hear that.”

“I’ve got you. Now go watch cartoons with Moo and prove to her you’re solid. I’m gonna stay up for a few hours and see what I can run down on Kyle. I’ll also call Tiffany and get his face plastered on the news. If I catch something, I’ll call you. If I don’t, I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Deal.” He pushes up from wherever he sits, his breath coming out on an exhale that telegraphs just how tired we all are, then he starts walking, his shod feet tapping against the floor. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Oh, and Arch?”

“Mmm? What’s up?”

“Thanks for letting me be a dad and a homicide cop at the same time. You’re under no obligation to work with me, and you’re sure as shit not ordered to carry my load while I’m over here, watchingBluey…”

“We’re family,” I murmur. “And I love Moo like she’s my own. So thanks for raising her while I get to work.”

He sniggers and drops down on the couch in his living room. “You’re welcome. Catch you tomorrow. Let me know if Mayet gets worse or whatever.”

“Will do.”

I pull the phone from my ear and kill the call, just as Bluey’s dad says something about Mom needing to bring sunscreen to the pool. It’s a summer episode, which is fitting, I suppose, as we sprint through May and head toward June.

Sitting at my counter, alone but for the droning of the television at my back—which isnotplaying a cartoon about a dog—I set my elbows on the countertop and breathe for a beat. Absorbing a shitty day and tabling my worry about Minka’s shoulder. Her mortality, so much more precarious than the rest of ours. Her insistence on keeping up, even when physically,medically, she shouldn’t.

She’s the strongest person I know, but when she refuses to slow down and take a break, we end up with a situation like tonight, where she can barely get herself up the stairs, she allows me to carry her to bed before the clock even hits eight.

Sitting alone at night is my new normal. And that is so completely, wildly different to the life I’ve shared with Minka Mayet prior to the botched bank robbery that resulted in a shoulder reconstruction.

I don’t begrudge her this rest. But damn, I wish she was healthy and safe and unharmed so she could stay up with me and work herself to exhaustion the traditional way.

Shaking my head, knowing I still have hours left in me before I can head to bed, I pick up my phone again and dial Channel Nine’s Tiffany Hewitt.

Her predecessor, Miranda London, was a snarky, unscrupulous, ethically challenged busybody who would flash anything on the six o’clock news if it meant ratings and fame for her. Tiffany, on the other hand, is a little less driven.

Not in a bad way; she still wants to be known across Copeland as the number one news reporter. She still wants notoriety, and to be the first to break the story when shit goes down. But she won’t step on people to get to the top. She won’t disrespect those she speaks of.

Which is why she’s in my speed dial, and getting a personal phone call on a Saturday night.

“Detective Malone?” she answers almost instantly. “This is Tiffany speaking.”

“Hey. I have something for you. But I want it delivered gently.”

“Of course.” She jumps up from wherever she was sitting and dashes across tile floor. “Tell me what you want me to know, and I’ll get it on the nine o’clock broadcast tonight. We’ll flash it every hour from then until you tell us to stop. Does that sound fair?”

“Mostly. I have a picture for you, but he’s dead, and the photograph clearly shows it. So I’m gonna call up Brody for a sketch of something a little less… confronting. I don’t want it on till six in the morning, though.”

“Six on a Sunday morning, Detective? You sure? Lots of people will be asleep.”

“The right people will be awake,” I assure her. “Plus, our composite artist will need that long to draw something up. You got a pen and paper handy? I’ll tell you what you need to say.”

“Of course. Go ahead.”

“Copeland P.D. are seeking assistance in identifying the man in this picture. He’s described as male, Caucasian. Forty to fifty years old. Approximately two hundred and thirty pounds, and with established facial hair.”

She writes, so the scratch of her pen on paper whispers through the call. “Hair color?”

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