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“Like, the Congo?”
“That Jim Shockey gets around,” I said. “Bree come in?”
“I’m out here,” she called from the porch.
I went out, found her sitting in a rocker, looking out through the screen. She wasn’t happy.
“We okay?” I asked.
“Not really,” she said quietly.
“Why?”
“Did you have to say that to Bell and Davis? That you were declaring war on them?”
“I was speaking from the heart.”
“I get that, Alex. But now you’re more of a target than you were before.”
“Good,” I said. “We draw them out, and we shut them down.”
She looked up angrily. “Why do you always put yourself in harm’s way?”
My chin retreated. “Bree, you of all people should know that it’s part of—”
“The job?” she asked. “I don’t think so. I don’t put myself in harm’s way intentionally, and you do all the time. Did you ever stop for a second and think that it’s a pretty goddamn selfish habit?”
“Selfish?” I said, bewildered.
“Yes, selfish,” Bree said. “You have a family that needs you. You have a wife that needs you. And yet, at the drop of a hat, you’re ready to risk our happiness and well-being.”
I was speechless for several moments. I’d never heard Bree talk like this before. My late wife and Ali’s mother, yes. But Bree, no.
I hung my head and said, “What should I have done?”
“Defuse the situation,” she said. “Make them think you’re no threat until you’ve got damning evidence against them. But it’s too late, you escalated the threat, Alex, and—”
“Bree,” I said, holding up my hands. “I get it, and I’m sorry. In my own defense, because Jannie was being used, I got a little hot under the collar. It won’t happen again.”
“That’s good to hear,” she said, getting up from the rocker and going inside. “But you remain a target.”
I stood there a moment feeling a weight that hadn’t been there ten minutes before. She was right. I’d pushed when I should have been smarter and laid off.
In the kitchen, Jannie was finishing up a dinner of country-style ribs with Nana Mama.
My grandmother studied me, said, “You in hot water?”
“Trying to get out,” I said, heaping rice on my plate and then helping myself to the ribs, which were falling off the bone and smelled incredible.
“Thank you, Nana,” Jannie said, clearing her plate. “That was great.”
“Easy recipe,” she said, waving off the compliment. “Orange juice and barbecue sauce. Then slow cook them at two fifty for four hours.”
“Still great,” I said after taking a bite.
Sitting down, I ate and watched Jannie for any sign that she was anxious about the events of the past couple of hours. But she seemed confident when she left the kitchen.
“Jannie told me,” Nana Mama said.
