“SIT DOWN, COLE,” MY CAPTAIN, Tyler Riggs, points to the chair across from his desk. “This’ll only take a few minutes.”
I’ve been called to my boss’s office before. Usually, when I’ve stepped over the line while on duty. I don’t cross that line often, but when my job pushes my patience to no avail, I tend to blur the shit out of it.
I was almost out the door when Janice, our unit secretary, summoned me back.
“If this is about Mark Karnes,” I start, walking in the office and pulling out a chair. “I’ve got nothing to say except he’s dead. So fuck him.”
Riggs keeps his office clean. By clean I mean, no pictures on the walls, hardly anything on his desk, and the floor is clear of files and random debris.
Janice, our older and very sweet unit secretary, runs the department as much as she’s able. Riggs is smart, recognizing how honest and loyal she is, so he lets her.
Captain isn’t around the office much, as he likes to be in the field with the few men who make up this department. When he’s not out as much as he likes, he becomes anxious. I understand this because I’m the same. I prefer being in uniform on the streets.
Because Silvervale only dictates having a small police department, each of us are trained to do a variety of duties. And being that there are only thirteen of us in total, the personal disputes regarding who does what and when are few and far between.
Shaking his head with irritation, Riggs points to his heavy glass office door only half open behind me. “Jesus Christ. Help him in, will you?”
My partner, Rob Marlin, struggles to balance three paper cups full of police station coffee.
Rob enters, places the cups down on Riggs’ desk and reminds, “Mark Karnes is a dead deal—literally. Let it go, Cole,” he orders. “Riggs agreed we did what we could to talk the suicidal bastard down.”
Rob and I have worked together for a little over a year. We don’t have much in common, other than our job, and we rarely talk about our personal lives.
“This isn’t about Mark Karnes. It’s about someone else,” Tyler asserts.
Someone else could be anyone else. A lot of folks in this county don’t like cops. Most don’t matter, as they tend to be of the shadier variety: women beaters, drunks, the occasional drug dealer, and the like. Included in this are the rebellious teenagers who wake each morning with trouble in their minds. I know their thoughts because as a teenager myself, I had the same.
Pushing, I ask, “Then if this isn’t about the piece of shit, what’s going on?”
“Richard Hanson is up for parole. The board will no doubt grant it. He’s served eleven years of his thirteen-year sentence and he’s been a model prisoner during that time.”
“Yeah? And?”
“And what?” Riggs snaps. “You’re telling me you don’t know where this is going?”
“I don’t,” I return. “Guy did his time and did it as quietly as you say, I don’t see the issue.”
“I may not have known you back then, but I know he was your first taste of what it meant to work on the streets.”
“And that was in California,” I clip. “He’s still in California. What’s the point?”
“Jesus,” Rob utters.
When I look at Rob, sitting at my left, he takes a sip of his coffee, not hiding his smirk above its rim.
“Christ, Cole. Just be vigilant, will you?” Riggs exasperates.
This isn’t my first day on the job, nor is it the first time someone I helped put away has been up for release. There’s more.
“Why did you really call me in here? It’s late and I have shit to do.”
“Yeah, getting to that,” my boss claims, pulling out a file, opening it, then laying it down in front of me. “This one here has me nervous.”
As I look up, I note Riggs’s face has paled. Countless times my boss has expressed his concern. But I don’t think in the four years I’ve been here, that I’ve ever seen him nervous.
Grabbing the file off the desk, I look down at the mug shot taken years ago.
“Marcos escaped,” he adds before I can inquire.
Marcos escaped.
The words are said but they don’t infiltrate. The vile man is a lunatic, a certifiably insane piece of shit who targets kids.
How the fuck did he escape?
“How’s that possible?” I question in disbelief. “He was serving a life sentence inside a maximum security prison.”
“He walked out,” Riggs hisses. “Son of a bitch literally up and left with a few others who were being released.”
“Again. How the fuck does that happen?”
“Fuck knows. The press hasn’t gotten hold of this yet. And I haven’t told the others here. Got the call only twenty minutes ago. You were listed in his file for alert, of course.”
“This is shit,” I hiss.
“It is,” Riggs agrees. “Thought you should know before so much as stepping outside this building.”
Fuck me.
Marcos—a convicted child rapist. A man found guilty of kidnapping, assault with a deadly weapon, and a variety of other charges that no longer matter. He’s walking the streets, free as the day his sick soul was given life.
Years ago, after I became a cop, I heard about what happened the next town over from here. I came back to my hometown briefly—to ensure all was back as it should be—as much as that was possible. This city has never seen such a heinous crime and being that so many knew the man who committed it, they were all stricken with grief.
“He’ll come for me,” I tell Rob and Riggs, pushing the file back after only needing a quick look inside.
The quick glance to the single solitary mug shot was enough to sharpen the blades of my memory.
The last time I saw Marcos was his last day in court. It’s also a day I’ll never forget.
Once the guilty verdict was read aloud, Marcos stood and charged the room until the guards wrestled him to a corner. As his body thrashed to break free, he vowed revenge against me and all those I love. He threatened to end my life then rape and maim any family I had—boys and girls. He swore I hadn’t seen the last of him. Even cuffed and chained at the wrists and ankles, he was a threat. Because of the fear and chaos he’d created in the courtroom, he never saw the Taser gun that took him down coming.
“No doubt he’ll come for you,” Rob confirms. “We were all there. We heard what Marcos said. He’s out for your blood. And he’s insane.”
“Which means he doesn’t care how long it takes to get what he wants. He’ll stay focused on this,” Riggs states.
“It’s a five-hour car ride to here,” I remind. “Which means he’ll need time, money, and luck to make the trek this far north.”
Saying what I hadn’t wanted to, Rob adds, “He’ll wreak havoc in his path. People he comes in contact with aren’t safe.”
“The press will help keep folks informed. Luxson County is small. He’s from there. People will pay attention. If he’s seen, someone’ll call it in. We’ll wait and take our opportunity.”
Riggs, grabbing the file and adding it to many on his run-down desk, asks, “Refresh my memory. He have parents around here? Family or friends?”
“Kid sister, but they were never close,” I explain.
Ginger Marcos is a crackhead whore. She had been called up to the stand as a character witness for the defense. However, the prosecuting attorney shredded her credibility before he’d asked her his first question. She unintentionally hurt her brother’s case more than she intended to help it.
“I’m all he’s gonna remember in what happened. And I don’t imagine he’s taken these last years to find peace. He hasn’t forgiven me.”
“I suggest you take some time off. Lay low,” Riggs puts in, while Rob nods his agreement. “We can get you transferred temporarily a county over, if you’d consider that.”
“I won’t.”
“There’s nothing here for you, Cole,” Riggs points out. “You have no wife, no family—no ties to this city at all. Why won’t you at least consider it?”
Acknowledging this concern, but not answering his question, I promise, “I’ll be careful.”
“You’ll be careful?” Riggs repeats low, lifting his fingers to his bottom lip and rolling it in contemplation.
If Smokey and The Bandit’s Buford T. Justice had a real life son, Riggs would be that product. Thick neck, full belly, round face, and short temperament is his makeup. Though, when he cares about someone, he watches for their best interest every time. And the men in his office are those he cares the most about.
Cursing under his breath, he sits back in his chair and narrows his eyes. “I don’t suppose I can force you gone.”
“Nope,” I return, sitting up and grabbing the coffee Rob brought in. Before sucking in the vile taste, I add, “And if you try, it’ll piss me off.”
“Better be pissed than dead,” Rob clips from the right, finally wading in with his take. “Jesus Christ. If this were me, I’d be in the wind.”
“You have a wife. You have a daughter to protect. I have me.”
Standing from his desk and marked with disdain, Riggs steps back and crosses his arms over his chest. “Then I guess we’re done here.”
“For now we are,” I agree.
Rob stands when I do, then turns to leave. As he opens the heavy glass office door, my head whips around, hearing panic just outside the office.
“I’ve already told you I’m here to see Mason,” a desperate woman’s voice ushers.
The thick wooden blinds of the office windows are drawn, as they always are when meetings occur. Other than the office door, none of us can see what’s going on in the pit. Judging by the use of my first name, there can only be one of two people waiting outside calling it.
My little sister, Tiffany, or Katie Dyer.
“Mason?” Janice, our unit secretary, questions. “Honey, who’s Mason?”
Janice knows my first name, but either she can’t place it now or can’t believe someone other than my sister has the nerve to use it.
The female in question shrieks again—this time louder, “Mason!”
Rob’s eyes hit mine and his lip twitches as Janice tries to calm the angry guest. “Ma’am, I think you should calm down.”
Janice’s circle is small. Her life is simple. She reads, plays bingo, and spends her evenings with her two dogs and very spoiled husband. She treats the guys in the office like the sons she never had. The women, the same, like the daughters she never had.
This must be testing her every nerve.
With impatience, a voice I finally fully recognize quietly and calmly replies, “I’m here to see Mason Cole. I need you to find him for me. I need to see him right—”
“What’s your name, love?” Janice queries.
“Katherine Dyer.”
When I make my way out of the office, Janice is standing quietly next to Katie. She’s patting Katie’s back as Katie holds a tissue to her mouth, heaving a heartrending sob into it.
Officers in uniform and business suits converse in groups around their desks. Phone lines ring nonstop. Bystanders loiter around desks anticipating their statements. A few kids in cuffs sit on a long bench on the far wall, waiting to be freed or booked.
Chaos ensues around us, but I only have eyes for the woman who looks just as lost as she has for the last fifteen fucking years.
Witnessing her sadness and taking it on as my own, I demand, “Someone wanna tell me what the fuck?”
Katie’s head lifts, tears marring her beautiful eyes. Looking frantic and unable to form a coherent thought, she leaves the comfort of Janice’s side and rushes through the crowd, clearing a frenzied path toward me.
Wrapping her arms around me, her chest slams against mine, taking us a few steps back.
“Katie, what is it?” I question, running my fingers through the back of her blonde hair as her hold tightens around my waist.
My partner, Rob, steps in from behind, arching his brow at the mess in my arms.
Pulling back, Katie looks up and pleads, “Averie is gone. I can’t find her.”
“Averie?”
“My youngest daughter!” she shrieks. “She’s twelve. She came home from school this afternoon. I wasn’t home yet. I was getting Amelia from her study group. Our dog—” Katie chokes, the words not coming to mind as fast as the tears streaming down her face.
“Slow down, Mrs. Dyer,” Rob soothes. “And tell us what we need to know.”
“She’s gone! She’s not answering her cell. I’ve tried—again and again. The last I spoke to her was when she called to tell me about Duke, but I couldn’t understand what she was saying. When I got home, I figured it out because our dog—”
“Janice!” I shout, looking around the room. Once I’ve caught her attention, Janice smiles small. I point to Katie while she continues talking to Rob and advise, “When we’re done here, keep her company. Or take her home.”
“Mason, please!” Katie screams.
Dragging Katie by the arm, I maneuver her around the station to my desk. No one takes a second look. The guys here are experienced. They have wives, those wives have friends. They get that a crying woman is not to be fucked with.
Lowering my voice, I seat Katie in a chair and aim to calm. “We’ll find Averie. Tell me where you’ve already looked and where you think she could’ve gone.”
Shaking her head, Katie’s desperation subsides and a mother’s calm worry takes over. She clutches her purse on her lap and looks over my head as she states, “I’ve checked the soccer fields, called her friends, my dad, and went through the mall.”
“All right. That’s all good.”
“Averie isn’t scared of anything. She could be anywhere.”
Rob comes to stand next to Katie. Resting his hand on her shoulder, he questions, “Do you happen to have a recent picture of her? I can get copies and send out extra men to help you look.”
“Yes,” Katie nods, pulling up her purse and grabbing her wallet. “I brought this in case.”
Rob nods, smiles, and accepts the picture. Sure enough, Averie Dyer is the spitting image of her mother. I know because I’ve known Katie a long time. Averie’s about the same age as when I met Katie.
“I’ll grab Sykes and Miles. They’re doing nothing, as usual,” Rob comments. Before he walks away, he looks down to Katie again. “She’s probably off somewhere, deciding how to feel about the loss of her pet.”
“She loved him,” Katie tells Rob, her voice a hoarse whisper. “We all did.”
Rob walks away and Katie turns back to me. She’s visibly tired and mentally exhausted. I haven’t seen her for over a week—since the bar and my night with Sabrina. I sure as fuck hadn’t expected to run into her like this.
“Katie,” I call and her eyes move to mine. Relief is evident. “Give me your cell.”
Her eyebrows furrow and she questions, “My cell? For what?”
“In case I find her and she doesn’t have hers. I’ll have her call you from mine.”
“Oh. Yes, please.”
As I’m adding my number and taking hers, I also ask, “Can you tell me what Averie was wearing today?”
With a mother’s speed and memorization, Katie goes into detail about what Averie wore to school this morning. She also laments that her daughter being twelve and into clothes as a preteen may be, Averie may have changed before leaving the house.
Thirty minutes later, I find who and what I thought might be here.
Katie told me everything she could about Averie in the short amount of time I gave her before taking off in my cruiser. I’d already decided to troll playgrounds and schools first. Kids, even some adults, gravitate to the memories, stability, or security childhood playgrounds and schools offer.
As I approach, Averie sits alone in the middle swing of a long, tall swing set that’s cemented to the ground. Those to each of her sides are empty.
“So, are you here to arrest me for running away?” she looks up from her swing to ask.
“Should I be?” I question in lieu of an answer.
Shaking her head, she aims her focus to the broken concrete ground that’s dusted with sand and insists, “I’ll tell you now, mister, I won’t go willingly.”
I smile.
A preteen pledging to resist arrest is funny. The scenario shouldn’t be, and wouldn’t be if it wasn’t her, but it is and she’s safe, so I don’t hold back a one-syllable laugh as I reassure, “I’m not here to arrest you.”
“Safer for you,” she flips back, looking down, her long blonde hair blowing in swirls with the wind around her. “I play soccer.”
“So you have a mean kick, then,” I assume.
Nodding, she continues studying her feet. “I do.”
No surprise, she’s every bit of Katie when she was this age. A little bolder maybe, but she inherited her mom’s smart-mouth and quick wit. At least the Katie I used to know had that in spades.
Katherine Dyer doesn’t.
“I’m here because your mom is worried about you,” I explain, taking a seat in the swing next to hers, doing it slowly to ensure I fit.
“Am I in trouble? I mean, is Mom super mad?”
“Not anymore,” I tell her. “She was worried sick, but she’s better now. She knows I found you.”
When I’d pulled up to the school and spotted Averie right away, I quickly sent a text to Katie. I didn’t get a response, but didn’t take the time to wait for one.
“I’m so totally gonna be grounded for this,” she tells me. “I hate being grounded.”
“You probably earned that due,” I reply. “So, you wanna share why that was?”
“Well, you’re here. You already talked to my mom and she told you why,” Averie smarts, kicking the rocks on the ground at her feet and giving herself a small push.
“Your mom and sister have been looking for you.”
“But not my dad,” she states, remiss. “He’s gone again.”
“He’d be looking too, if he were here.”
With added concern, she murmurs, “He’ll be really mad at me for making Mom worry.”
I don’t personally know Thomas Dyer as a father, but everyone around here knows he loves his girls. They’re his world. If Averie had gone missing when he was home, today it would’ve been both Thomas and Katie standing at my desk. Wherever he is, and I’m sure Katie called him, he’s probably worried sick.
“My dog died today,” Averie notes what her mother had explained. “His name was Duke. I’ve had him forever.”
“Duke’s a good name,” I reply, using my feet to hold me still, while she continues using hers to slowly rock back and forth.
“I found him in the garage. He was trying to get out.”
“He may have been sick,” I give, not knowing much about dogs.
“He was my best friend,” she decrees. “I have pictures of us together. He was born the same month and year as me. We probably have the same birthday, even.”
Looking down, Averie’s toes are covered in dirt. She’s wearing flips-flops. Not the ridiculously yellow and pink-flowered type her mom once wore. These are black and glittery.
“My mom is super sad.”
Nodding, I agree. “She is. She loved Duke like you did.”
“I hate when Mom’s sad.”
“Me too.”
Inquisitively, she locks her stare to mine and questions, “You know her?”
“I do.”
“What’s your name?” she queries, her eyes squinting in way of the afternoon sun.
With her looking at me for the first time, I note her cheeks are puffy. Her eyes are red. And she has a slathering of dirt that runs across her cheek.
“Cole.”
“You’re that officer at our school?” she recognizes. “The one showing the kids how to shoot hoops.”
“I am.”
“Coal is your name, though? As in, Santa brings bad kids coal for Christmas?”
“Yes,” I give her without further explaining.
“Harsh.”
“Been called that, too.” I smile.
“I don’t love your name,” she counters, nearly smiling. “You cool if I call you McButterpants?”
“Why the hell would you call me McButterpants?”
Thankfully, the sad expression she had when I got here continues to fade.
Averie shrugs, grabs hold of the chains of the swing and answers, “’Cause I can.”
Yes. She’s every bit of her mother. Even more of a handful—if that were possible.
“You can call me McButterpants,” I allow, but quickly take back, “But I’d prefer you call me Cole.”
“Officer Cole?”
“Cole is fine.”
Ignoring my insistence, she prods, “So, McButterpants, how do you know my mom?”
“We’re old friends. I met her when she was about your age.”
“Wow,” she exhales in surprise. “My mom is friends with a cop.”
“I wasn’t a cop when we met.”
“What were you?”
“A troublemaker.”
“A troublemaking McButterpants.” She grins. “I like it. It suits you.”
Before losing her attention, and my chance to get her out of here, I question, “Can I take you home now?”
Averie takes a glance around the playground. The cogs of the young girl’s mind obviously turn. She smiles again before jumping off the swing to stand. Taking two steps, she walks to where I’m still sitting. Her arms come to her front where, palms up, she locks her wrists together.
Observing her stance, one foot kicked out in demand, her eyes squinting at the sun, I have no clue what I’m supposed to do with her.
“What’re you doin’?”
“I’ll go with you, but only if you cuff me,” she negotiates.
As I stand, Averie takes a smart step back to give me room. I grab her by the back of the neck and pull her to my side. Parents around the small area look on with avid attention. Kids have stopped playing, turning only their heads, and probably fearing I’ll do to them as Averie asked done to her.
“I can’t cuff you. But if you don’t move your ass, I’ll carry you out of here kickin’ and screamin’.”
“Do it!” she exclaims. “My friends won’t believe it when I tell them!”
Jesus Christ.
Ten years ago, dealing with this wouldn’t be nearly as exhausting as it is now. Second thought, maybe it would.
“Let’s go,” I push. “I’ll let you test the sirens once, if you promise to keep to quiet on the way out.”
“Totally quiet! I’m also going to need to handle your megaphone.”
“I don’t have a megaphone.”
Puzzled with disappointment, she asks, “How do you get bad people to talk to you then?”
“I don’t need a loud voice,” I reply. “They talk to me because I carry a gun.”
“Yes!” she shouts, as the remaining ground guests turn our way. “I’ll totally need to handle that then.”
Jesus. Christ.
On the drive home, I’ve kept more focus in keeping Averie’s hands to herself. She’s tried and tested every button in the cruiser, and I’m regretting the decision to allow the little shit to sit up front. She would’ve been much easier to manage if she were caged in the back.
“Do you think Duke would mind being buried in our backyard?”
I don’t know fuck all about dogs, nor do I know their choices in the afterlife, so I give the simple answer of, “No.”
“’Cause if we get a new dog, he’ll pee all over Duke.”
Again, fuck knows.
“I guess we could bury him somewhere out of the way. Maybe he won’t mind that so much.”
“You could,” I return.
Moving subject, she asks, “Can we stop for ice cream?”
“What?”
“Ice cream. There’s a place near our house. They serve killer frozen yogurt.”
“Not sure we have time for that.”
“They have a drive-through,” she tells me. “Come on. I’m going to be grounded when I get home. So, if you’ll just lead the way, I’ll let you buy me one.”
Let me.
“I think your mom would prefer if I just took you home.”
“Mom would prefer if you got me ice cream now. Even though she’s probably really mad at me, she would get me ice cream. I mean, my dog just died. Right?”
The girl has a point, albeit a ridiculous one.
“We’ll get ice cream,” I confirm. “Quickly and quietly,” I add, just in case she’s in the mood to cause another scene.
As Averie runs inside the house, I stand on the porch and wait. I’ve never been to Katie’s home—at least not the one she made with her family. Here, as in all other facets of her life now, I’m an outsider.
New looking, wooden flower boxes adorn the windows. Sprinklers run throughout the lawn. The mailbox on the house is open, a few envelopes sticking out from its top. There are two bikes leaning against the garage door. One blue. One purple. The purple one has dead flowers stuck inside the white basket at the handlebars. Smiling, I deduce that must be Averie’s.
One dark blue minivan sits in the driveway.
“Mom!” Averie shouts, opening the screen door and holding it for me to enter.
I shake my head, wordlessly telling her I’ll stay behind.
“Mom!” Averie screams again. “McButterpants is here.”
Dear God. The name stuck.
Katie comes to the door.
She’s wearing a black and red dress, the same she wore at the station but I hadn’t noticed. The material fits her body as though made for her. With the money Thomas no doubt makes, it very well could’ve been. She’d also been dressed much the same when I saw her at the bar.
Matter-of-fact, I haven’t seen Katie dressed as she used to be since before I left. Each time I’ve seen her since, she’s only been a shadow of the once carefree girl I once knew.
Her hair is lighter, too. Nearly blonde. A far cry from her natural dark.
She’s still just as beautiful, but with the time passed her beauty has changed. And in a way I’m not familiar.
Seconds pass and I notice Katie’s wedding ring. One very large center diamond, surrounded by several smaller ones. The band is silver.
Her face is still shattered from tears, but there’s no visible relief. Only anger. Guessing now that she sees for herself her daughter is okay, a severe punishment is about to be delivered.
As Averie wraps her arms around her mother, burying her cheek to her side, Katie mouths, “McButterpants?”
I shake my head and return, “Don’t ask.”
“I’m sorry I worried you,” Averie explains, tearing her head from her mother’s side to give a sincere apology.
Averie has to know she’s got an ass-chewing on the way. But she doesn’t care. She feels bad, guilty for needlessly worrying her family.
Not acknowledging her apology, Katie looks down and scolds, “Don’t you ever do that again.”
Averie’s bottom lip trembles. I didn’t have a mother growing up, so I can’t relate. But as Katie looks into Averie’s watering eyes, a calming peace and understanding comes forth. Of course, Averie shouldn’t have taken off, but it’s possible Duke was the first real loss in life Averie’s ever felt.
And if so, God bless her for it.
Katie’s stern look falls way to a gentler one before she bends her neck to kiss Averie’s forehead.
Without notice, Averie informs, “McButterpants is going to help us bury Duke. He said we could find a place in the backyard.”
What the fuck?
Katie’s now panicked eyes flip to mine and her mouth opens in surprise—or fear. I recognize this because I feel the same.
“I didn’t say—” I try.
Turning from her mom, Averie pins me with a knowing glare then subjects, “My dad’s out of town. My sister and I can’t dig a hole big enough for Duke, and you know my mom is upset because I told you she was.”
“Honey,” Katie disrupts. “Officer Cole is very busy.”
“Too busy to help us with Duke?” Averie pushes, her narrowed eyes to mine.
Katie runs her hand through Averie’s hair for comfort, but her expression is all concern. “Yes. He has an important job.”
“He said he’s an old friend of yours. Old friends…”
“Averie, no,” Katie concludes, shaking her head to further warn.
“Fine,” her daughter pouts.
“Good. Now go wash and help Amelia set the table. We’ll talk after dinner.”
I bet they will. I’m also willing to bet Averie mentions nothing about a three scoop, chocolate ice cream cone she ordered from the Dairy Lot. This monstrosity forced me to drive around the block until she proclaimed she had enough. That was when she tossed it out the window of my cruiser, essentially littering in front of an officer. From his very own squad car.
Once Averie hears her mother’s direction, she fists her small hand and holds it out toward me. I stand staring. I have no fucking clue what to do with it.
“Knucks!” she insists.
I continue to stare. And blink.
“Oh come on. Knucks.” She nudges her small fist my way further.
Doing as she did, I hit her hand with my own.
“Good, but we can do better,” she tells me, and tries to get me to do it again.
“Averie Marie,” Katie wades in to save me. “Right now. Go.”
Averie shrugs. “Catch you later, McButterpants.”
Katie watches her daughter turn to leave. Once she’s gone, she turns back to me and remains standing just inside the door. She wraps her arms around her stomach, holding her elbows at each side.
Guarded. Nervous. Lost.
Fingering a piece of her hair that’s fallen to her face, she secures it behind her ear and asks, “My daughter calls you McButterpants?”
“She does.”
Doing a shit job of masking her smile, she asks, “And you let her?”
Coldly, in order to keep my distance and not be trapped by that smile, I return, “Do I have a choice?”
“Not really,” she replies, now laughing.
Fuck. That laugh. A thousand days of laughter have been tormenting me for years. The sound takes me back to a time when we were younger, more free, and had all the time in the world with each other.
“I’m so sorry about all of this,” she says. “Thank you for finding her and—”
Her laughter dies when she catches me staring so intently.
I’ve missed Katie more than I thought I did, if that were ever possible. I’d forgotten how cute she was when she had so much to say. Being with her daughter, one so much like her, reminded me of a time when I’d do the same for her.
Anything for her.
“Where’s your husband?” I ask, careful not to use his name. Not because I don’t know his name, but because I don’t want to fucking hear it—from my mouth or hers.
“Thomas is in Phoenix. He’ll be back at the end of the week.”
“You have anyone to help with Duke?”
Surprised at my question, Katie furrows her brow but answers, “I can handle it. I can call Dad—”
Starting to step back from the porch, I question, “I’m sure you can. What time are the girls home from school?”
“What?”
“The girls, Katie Mae,” I push. At the name, her head tilts to the side. Her nose scrunches but she stays quiet.
Fuck, I’ve missed that too.
Pressing the matter, I prod, “What time do the girls get home from school tomorrow?”
“Amelia, three-thirty, Averie four. But Mason—”
I hadn’t remembered the way she said my name. She was frantic at the station, and all I could think was getting her to calm. Now, the name very few have permission to use slips from her lips as once a passing memory now brought to life.
Fuck.
“I’ll be here at four,” I tersely inform, still keeping my distance. “You okay to handle the girls alone until then?”
She stares, unmoving.
“Need an answer, Katie.”
Gathering herself and blinking quickly, she says, “Yes. We’ll be fine.”
“Okay, then. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
On my way back to the cruiser, I grab my phone to find a message I didn’t know I had. Katie had returned my text.
Katie: Thank you for saving the day again. My daughter is grounded for a month.
Opening my driver’s side door, I fight a smile. No doubt Averie Marie Dyer will be grounded a lot in the years to come.