I HATE YOU.
Katie’s frustrated. Which is good. Because so am I.
Her text didn’t come as a surprise. When I all but threw her from my cabin, the look on her face gave way to how bottled up and angry she’s been since I’ve become part of her life again.
I’m happy enough.
Happy enough doesn’t cut it.
It took all I had to not beg her to stay. Not to give her every reason to leave her husband, bring her girls to the only home they’d ever need—mine—and keep her here the way I promised.
I hate you.
Fuck.
“Jesus Christ, is this where his kid sister lives?” Rob questions, staring out the window of my cruiser.
As we pull up to the run-down brick apartment building, my gut wretches as two small kids play with a broken beer bottle. They’re kicking it back and forth, laughing as it continues to crumble into sharp, jagged pieces. Their shoes are beaten to shit.
“A single mother living out here,” Rob shames. “Any mother living out here,” he says, removing his seat belt and grabbing the handle to the door.
This side of town has always been rough, but being that it’s been awhile since I’ve been out this way, it’s also now worse than I remembered.
The railings leading up to the apartment are chipped as well as broken in several places. Windows scattered along the front have been broken, some are boarded up with wood, some not. Most front porch furniture outside is rusted and dingy as well.
Rob turns to me as we make our way down the broken sidewalk. “I’m checking out the back. If we gotta do this, I don’t want any surprises.”
Nodding, I make my way toward the front.
“Hey, so you’re a cop?” one kid with dirty blond hair suspiciously asks, looking up into the sun, using his hand to shield his eyes. His legs are dirty, and it looks as if he hasn’t had a good meal in months.
Smiling to put him at ease as I point to my badge, I tell him, “That’s what the uniform means.”
“My mom says cops get a bad rap,” he tells me.
Another boy stands at his side. This one bigger, stronger, and looking as if he has something to hide. He won’t look directly at me.
“Some get bad raps. Some don’t,” I return. “You know who Ginger Marcos is?” I ask.
Hearing the name, the dark-haired kid, who refused to look at me, finally does. He looks behind him and up to the apartments before he points to one on the second floor. I was right. That’s her place.
“You know Gigi?” he asks. “’Cause she doesn’t like men around her little girl much.”
“I know Ginger. I have a couple questions for her.”
The talkative blond stops playing with the broken glass and queries, “Is Miss Marcos in trouble?”
“Nope,” I reassure. “She’s not in trouble.”
“Good,” the dark-haired boy replies. “She’s nice to us.”
“Her little girl’s name is Aria,” the blond explains.
“She’s not in any trouble,” I reassure, turning to see Rob heading up the stairs alone.
Moving to follow, I leave the boys with, “I’ll tell Gigi you said hi.”
Once we’ve made our way to the door, Rob nods so I knock once. We can hear a television inside. There’s also a child crying. When I look inside the apartment window, the blinds move.
I knock again, this time louder.
As soon as the door opens, I fight not to take a single step back but it’s hard. The putrid smell coming from inside the house is overwhelming.
Rob smells it too, wincing as he orders, “Once clear, I’ll take the porch and watch for him.”
The woman with the long dirty hair looks to Rob, then to me. “I didn’t do it,”
“Are you Miss Marcos?” Rob questions.
“Who wants to know?”
Even while being in uniform, I show her my badge. Likely, judging by the looks of her, she’s had a run in or two with more than just the local PD.
“I’m busy. What do you want?” she asks, scanning over my uniform, then moving to Rob’s.
The baby’s cry gets louder. I look over Ginger’s head to see a little girl sitting in a high chair. There’s no food on the tray. She only screams for attention. The baby’s clothes are clean, her face as well. She’s healthy as far as I can tell.
But I’d like a closer look.
“Can we come in?”
“Nope,” Ginger refuses. Recognition finally dawns and her face goes from indifferent to hard. “You’re Mason-fucking-Cole,” she sneers accusingly. Her back straightens and before I have a chance to rebut, she adds, “You’re that son of a bitch who helped send my brother to prison.”
“We need to come in and talk.”
“Fuck you,” she spits, leaning forward and placing her hands to her hips. “He trusted you and you fucked him over.”
“He needed help,” I return.
“Fuck you,” she snaps again, this time louder. “You told him you could help him. You didn’t. Do you know what some of the other inmates are doing to him in prison right now?”
I’m hoping they’re teaching your brother what it feels like to be raped, beaten, and left for dead, I think but don’t say.
“So he hasn’t been here then?”
Her anger fades and she whispers, “Been here?”
“Marcos escaped. He’s on the run.”
A coy smile crosses her lips, revealing her unwashed teeth. “No shit?”
“You haven’t seen him,” Rob surmises, not as a question, but an answer. “Look,” he starts, but she cuts him off.
Pointing in my direction, she states, “He’s coming after you, and you’re here asking me to help you find him before he does.”
“I’m asking you to help find him before he ends up dead. Law enforcement is looking for him and it’s a no prejudice hunt.”
Confusion flickers but she rallies, “A what?”
“If we find him, and he resists, we subdue him any way we have to.”
“We’re done,” she clips. “Get out of here. I have nothing for you.”
Using my hand to hold the door open, I insist, “If you do hear from him, call the cops. Don’t let him in your home. Don’t let him near that little girl.”
“Fuck you,” she says again. “Now get the fuck out of here before I call the neighborhood cops.”
Her threat is heard. Rob and I aren’t armed to defend ourselves against an army of thugs thirsting for cops’ blood.
“If I find out you know something and you’re not telling me, you’ll never see your daughter again.”
With my last statement, Ginger Marcos, kid sister to this state’s well-known pedophile, slams the door in my face.