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“You’re too fuckin’ soft.”
“You swear too much.”
“Thirty bucks.” Zac slid into the kitchen in a mess of muddy feet and unruly, dark brown curls. He shook his head to push those wild ringlets out of his eyes and held out a dirty hand to Sam.
Sam shook his head. “I count twenty.”
“You used the p-word outside of a cat and I added one for luck to teach you a lesson.”
I rubbed my hand over my mouth to hide my smile.
“If you don’t pay up, I’ll make Dad give you a citation.”
Sam glanced between me and Zac. “This kid for real?”
“Do I look fake?”
“Zac. Attitude,” I said, shooting him a stern look. “Sam, you owe him twenty-five bucks. Call it even. Pay up.”
With a sigh, my partner and closest friend dug into his pocket and pulled out his wallet. He handed my eight-year-old son twenty-five bucks in fives, proof he was fully expecting to pay up.
At this point, I wondered who was playing who. Zac had Sam pegged as the serial cusser, but Sam always had a stash of fives in his wallet. It was a mystery I was pretty sure I’d never solve.
Zac counted out each note slowly, then repeated it, just to make sure. “Thanks, Sam. Keep swearing,” he added, disappearing from the room in seconds.
“Go shower!” I yelled.
“I don’t wanna!” came the response.
“It’s shower here by yourself or Nan’s gonna do it for you!”
Zac poked his head back in the kitchen door. “Where’s the shampoo?”
“Second shelf.”
“Thanks.” He left as quickly as he’d briefly reappeared.
Of course, he did. There was nothing worse, in his eyes, than his nan bathing him. I’d seen him wash his hair in the sink to pretend he’d showered right before showing up.
“That kid.” Sam shook his head, but he smiled. “How do you deal with that every day?”
I laughed a little. “It’s just me and him, isn’t it? That’s how. His attitude might suck, but he knows respect.”
“Is that why you let the hooker go? Did she know respect?” Sam raised his eyebrows, but there was teasing in his eyes.
I gave him a flat, hard look. I wasn’t willing to discuss it. The more I thought about her, the more prevalent she became in my mind. I didn’t fucking care about her, yet I couldn’t escape the image of her crying.
Couldn’t escape the questions.
How old was her daughter?
Didn’t she have family to look after her?
What about the kid’s dad?
Why was she whoring herself out?
Who the fuck was Perrie Fox, really?
I knew the Fox family. I knew Benedict and I knew Damien—shit, everyone did. After all, they owned the places the sex workers frequented, but I didn’t know her.
Why? Why was she so different to her family? What set her apart? What was the reason?
“You’re thinking about her, aren’t you?” Sam asked, slamming his coffee cup on the table. “I know that look. It’s the same one you got when we were younger and you thought about—”
“No.” I cut him off before he could say her name. “We’re not going there. One, Zac hates talking about her, and two, I just found a little bit of peace in my life that doesn’t involve her consuming every second of my thoughts after all these years.”
“By saving others like her?”
I got up and yanked open the dishwasher. He meant well, but that didn’t change the fact he was a damn bad listener.
Some things—some people—in life didn’t always need discussion. Dead or alive, I’ve learned that not everyone is worth being talked about.
She was one of those people. She’d been poison for the five years she’d been in my life, and she’d been poison ever since she hadn’t.
The only good thing that had ever come from her was my son.
“You still don’t speak about her, huh?” Sam was quieter this time.
“His choice,” I answered, referring to Zac. “I ask him from time to time, but he doesn’t want to talk.”
Thanks to my sister and her big mouth, he knew more than he needed to about his mother. The things I never wanted him to know, to be precise. Things he never should have known about her.
“Makes sense.” Sam’s chair screeched against the hard floor when he stood. He put his mug in the dishwasher next to mine and pushed the rack in. “I’m going to shower and shit. I’ll see you at the station to brief the guys?”
Nodding, I closed the dishwasher. “Get there early, wouldja? I have a question I want to ask the chief.”
He slid me a questioning gaze. “What?”
“Still figuring it out. Can you get there early or not?”
“Half hour good?”
“Perfect.” The sound of water running to the dishwasher ended the conversation.
“Daaaaaad!” Zac yelled from upstairs. “I need a towel!”
Sam burst out laughing and headed for the front door. “There’s my cue.”
I sighed as he left and went upstairs. A towel was sitting on the end of Zac’s bed, crumpled, but dry and clean, so I grabbed that to give to him.
