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“Take your time,” he says, letting me know that there’s all the time in the world to get this out. I love that he seems attentive to how hard this is for me?
“Thanks, but I’m ready,” I tell him, smiling at how soft his voice is right now. “Two years ago, my dad, Ryan, was a patrol officer in Chicago. His partner, Mike, was his best friend. Honestly, I think that my parents and he were in some kind of triad relationship. I am borrowing that term from the shifter romance novels I liked to read, though my Kindle was one of the first things I sold. I’m not sure if there is a real-life term for that kind of thing. It’s more than a one-night kind of thing.” I go on a tangent for a moment, my mind needing to think about something else for a second.
“Anyways, he was single and always at our house. Like every night. For years. They never said anything to me. He was just always in the spare room when I woke up. It was odd to me, even as a little girl. The older I got, the more I thought for sure they were waiting for the right moment to tell me. But that moment never came. One night they were on patrol, which was weird because they usually worked the day shift. Out of nowhere, someone shot and killed Mike through the passenger window of their patrol car. My dad then had to kill the person. The shooter turned out to be a mentally unstable twelve-year-old girl, who had stolen her dad’s gun and ran away. After Internal Affairs ruled it a justified homicide and the DA declined to prosecute, I thought everything would get back to normal.”
“I am guessing it didn’t?” he asks in a soothing tone rubbing my head.
“No. My mom cried all the time. Way more than would be appropriate for the death of my dad’s friend. My dad was never home. He worked a lot or so we thought. Four months before he died, he was put on administrative leave. He drank all day and stayed up all night. He stopped hugging, talking, and he even stopped wanting to spend time with me. It was hard. I knew something was wrong, but I didn’t say anything to anyone about it. My dad always drilled into my head that what happens in our house stays in our house, so I just didn’t,” I say, tears beginning to fall.
“It’s okay, baby. You don’t have to tell me anymore,” he says.
“No, I have to get it all out. Even though I knew something was wrong I didn’t do anything, and four months later he killed my mom and then himself. Leaving me all alone.”
“He did?” Marquise asks. His voice filled with sympathy and incredulity.
“Yes. His note said he couldn’t live with himself, without Mike, and wouldn’t go without my mom.” I can still see their bodies in my mind, laying there next to each other with blood everywhere.
“Did you find them?” He asks, moving my hair behind my ear. I nod my head, not able to voice that. “That must have been so hard for you.”
“It was. But having to deal with the aftermath was worse, considering I was still a minor and all alone.”
“Worse?” he asks, swallowing thickly.
“Yeah. The day after the funeral, the landlord kicked me out of our apartment. It was in one of those rent-controlled buildings, and he wanted to rent it for much more than my parents paid. He was so mean to me.”
“What’s his name?” he asks, his voice deadly.
“Why?” I can feel the anger radiating from him. He wanted to defend something that happened to me so long ago. It makes my heart strum.
“Tell me,” he demands.
“Victor Lazlovich. What are you going to do?”
“Let me worry about that, baby. Tell me the rest.”
“It seems that in those last four months my dad had stopped paying on their life insurance. He gambled his retirement and 401k away leaving me with next to nothing to pay for both their funeral expenses. In fact, I still owe the Hunt Brother’s Funeral Home thousands of dollars. Thankfully, they let me bury them without paying in full. They still don’t have headstones and being on the street for the last six months did not help in getting any. The three of them are buried together. My dad had plots next to where they buried Mike. If he hadn’t, I don’t know how I would have buried them. Then you found me. Saved me.” By the time my story is finished, I am sobbing uncontrollably. He doesn’t say anything, just lets me get it all out. When there are no more tears left, he pulls me back into his arms.
“Baby,” he says, lifting me effortlessly and carrying me to bed.
