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“Hope you know this isn’t personal, I just have to cover my own ass,” the owner states as he unlocks the door, shoving it open for the officers. They are out of sight in that back room and I stand holding my breath, waiting. “I don’t know what happened!” The owner is pushed out of the room and is now standing in the hallway with his hands on his hips, talking to the other officer who is left in the room where the cameras are located. “They worked before I left yesterday afternoon! I’m going to call the security company to find out what happened!”
“Sir, give us the phone number of the security company. Let us make that call since this is an ongoing investigation,” the officer directs him.
The owner huffs and writes down the number and information of the security company.
“Thanks, Lizzie.” I grab the coffee and muffin and hold them up to the sweet barista. She nods and turns back to the counter.
I turn and just before my hand reaches for the door handle, a woman marches in. Trying to avoid a collision, I hold my coffee and muffin up.
“Espresso, light cream, for Reese,” the woman says impatiently. It’s the voice that causes me to stall in my step.
“Nervous?” the barista asks her.
I remain standing near the door, wanting to hear more. The moment Reese speaks her name, combined with her anxious demeanor, I am intrigued with what will come next.
“Packed schedule, and I have a lunch date!” She rocks onto her toes that are wedged in those suffocating heels. She isn’t impatient; she is nervous, and it is adorable.
Another woman pushes the door open and almost hits me. I huff a laugh of embarrassment, looking back at the counter where Reese and Lizzie are looking at me with curious smiles. The woman who almost hit me apologizes profusely, and I hold my coffee up for her to see.
“All’s good! Coffee is safe.” I give one last wave and walk out the door.
I tuck my muffin under my arm and pull my phone out, sending a text back to my client.
Old Mac Donald had a pig.
I shove my phone in the back pocket of my worn jeans and walk across the road. Pacing my steps over each concrete slab of the sidewalk, I know I’ll be the first on the scene at the construction site. The York Building awaits. There is no yellow police caution tape there…not yet, at least.
CHAPTER 5
REESE GRAFTON
Reese Grafton
I still haven’t heard from Kevin. It’s been weeks. I hate how we left things before he went out of town.
I was only trying to help. Why couldn’t he see that?
Growing up, it was just the two of us for the longest time. Kevin always looked out for me. The stereotypical protective big brother. He even lied about his age to join the military in hopes of giving me a stable life. Every dime he earned went to me and kept a roof over my head and food on the table.
I worked my ass off at school to become a successful architect. When I got this job, I was met with snide looks and macho-man attitudes.
Thankfully, my work speaks for itself, even with the busty assistants who spend more time on their knees for their boss and hope that a good blow will give them that next promotion. I will never kneel for a man or a woman.
One of Kevin’s lessons — “Be better” — are the words that he lives by. He exemplifies the meaning and backs up that statement with his actions, not in the sense that he has to be number one but by looking out for those who depend on him.
When Kevin joined Greg’s company, doing whatever military work he did, it changed him. He came home a different person. He kept a lot to the vest. The night terrors were awful. The way he would wake up screaming, begging for his men to stay with him. For them to run or hide. “Take cover!” he would scream at the top of his lungs. The next day, I would wake and find him cooking breakfast for the both of us. I would watch him float around the kitchen in a haze of fury. It was like he needed to keep busy in order to keep moving forward. Absently talking or moving, occasionally looking over and smiling as if the night before had never happened. Sometimes, I would find breakfast made and he would disappear for hours.
The one time I tried to wake him up from a night terror, he threw me against a wall hard. His bloodshot eyes stared me down, but he didn’t recognize me. His hoarse screams to stay away from his people still play through my mind. I never told him of that night. I mean, how could I? His disheveled appearance while sleeping was painful enough to watch. Kevin held me against that wall with a look of rage unlike anything I had seen before. The next morning, I woke up to breakfast and coffee waiting for me in the kitchen as he was gone.
Some days, I could see his mind drift to that awful place, and I would have to grab him by the hands and drag him out of the chair. I tried everything to prevent him from slipping into that hellhole. One day, I found him sitting in the hallway. He sat there for hours, staring at the wall. I sat right by his side until he looked over at me, his eyes filled with tears and apologized profusely. He never did tell me why. Something horrible happened to Kevin, and it haunts him.
I spoke with a counselor who helped me understand what Kevin was dealing with. I even joined a support group for soldiers with PTSD. I heard awful stories and listened to their cries. Every memory they shared tore me apart and I was only listening. They witnessed horrors in reality that movies can’t touch. Each time they met, I walked away with a little piece of understanding for my big brother. One day, I showed up and sat in my car for a few extra minutes before going in. The group was standing outside, some smoking a cigarette, greeting each other. They liked to say their personal “hellos” beforehand and walk through the building together. I was gobsmacked when I saw Kevin approach the group with caution. His hands were hidden in his pockets and his shoulders were rigid against his sweater.
I cried.
He was getting help, and I could finally sigh with relief that he was doing this on his own. I waited until he went inside, put the car in drive, and drove home. I was proud of him for taking that huge step to get help.
When Kevin started his new job working with Greg, his supervisor from the service, I was apprehensive. Yet, even with uncertainty, I made his favorite meal, celebrating the end of his military career and starting his life over again. Or I tried. I burned the steak too well done; I did not cook the potatoes all the way, and the vegetables, well, they saw better days. The dessert, though, was perfect. We sat on the floor of my tiny apartment and ate chocolate chip croissants from my favorite coffee shop and had our glasses of milk. We sat and grinned at each other and spent the evening reminiscing about old times.
