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I wanted to find a trap there.
I wanted to see fake promises.
But all I saw was understanding and sincerity.
"We are all, um, exploring new career paths. I, ah, really seem to like gardening."
He nodded at that. "Just don't start growing pot. I mean, for some reason that shit is still illegal around here. I don't want to be pulling you in for something so stupid after your rather illustrious and arrest-free career."
I smiled at that. "No pot. I promise."
"Good," he said, his whole face falling as he looked across the room toward the Mallicks. "I hope they can get through this. It's not looking good. Eli really fucked up, pounding on some politician's kid. He'd going down for this. There's no chance of him walking."
Oh, God.
My heart hurt for them all.
I couldn't imagine hearing that news.
"They're strong," I said, knowing it was true.
"Strong, sure. But this is a blow. They won't be okay for a long, long time. I'm glad Mark will have you around," he said, turning to stick the coffees into trays, stacking them, and moving to walk toward the group that was getting way too loud, risking their own chance at a cell. "He's going to need you."
I didn't know what that would mean. I didn't have experience with being needed outside my family. I didn't know if he would want me close, want some space, want to talk, want silence.
But whatever he did want, I would give it to him.
Because both Collings and I were right. They were strong, but this was the kind of blow that would leave permanent damage. I knew if it was King, Nixon, Atlas, or Rush in a cell, knowing he was going in for a dime, yeah, no. I would never recover from that. It would be a daily, constant, aching, bleeding, painful wound.
I had just moved back over toward the waiting area as a group of cops and detectives moved the whole Mallick clan back toward it with me, when the door to one of the interrogation rooms opened.
And out walked Eli.
In cuffs.
His head had been up, looking where he was going, until he caught sight of his family.
Maybe I didn't know him well, but I knew that look well enough to spot it when I saw it.
Shame.
He was ashamed.
Maybe that was why he hadn't called them, why he hadn't called an attorney. Maybe he thought he deserved what he was getting.
"Eli," Helen called, her tone so pained that it made a shooting spread through my whole chest cavity.
His eyes shifted to see his mother, his eyes going sad for a short moment before he seemed to pull some shield down over them, blocking everything out, making him look hauntingly empty.
Then he simply shook his head at her, dropped his eyes to the floor, and followed the cops leading him into the back.
Then something happened that no one who had ever met Helen Mallick would think she was capable of.
She broke.
I barely knew her.
But even as a relative outsider, watching that strong-as-nails woman crumble, literally losing the strength in her legs, having to be held up by her equally wrecked-looking husband, my eyes started to swim with tears for her.
It seemed to prove too much for her sons too, as Hunter turned to Fee, Shane turned to Lea, Ryan reached for his phone to contact Dusty, and Mark turned to me.
Then he wasn't just looking at me; he was walking toward me.
I don't know if it was because he saw the tears and thought I needed him, or because he needed me, but the next thing I knew, I was crushed against his solid chest, his strong arms holding me so tightly that breathing was more like a wish and a prayer than a reality. Whatever it was, it felt right to be there for each other, to lean on each other, to draw strength from each other.
My arms moved around his back, holding on just as tightly as his head pressed into the side of mine.
"I can't do anything," he admitted, his voice harsh. "They're going to take him... and I can't fucking do anything."
I closed my eyes tight, feeling the tears rush down my cheeks, only able to sympathize with the utter helplessness he was feeling right then. I had the distinct impression that the Mallick men were not used to feeling useless, helpless, completely out of control. And men not used to that must not handle the feeling well.
"You can call your lawyer, right?" I asked, wanting to say something that wasn't some bullshit platitude he didn't need right then. Because it wasn't okay and it wouldn't be okay. I wasn't going to spoon feed him that fake crap. He deserved better than that. "I know he refused to call one. But call one anyway, right? Just because he's being stubborn doesn't mean you can't try to force his hand. He has to have an attorney to go to trial."
