Page 17 of The Dearly Departed

“All right.” Leonard’s eyes wrinkled at the corners as he smiled, softly nodding. “Bram it is then.”

CHAPTER THREE

Age Seventeen

Ike was thrilled when I told him we were staying. The TV and grilled cheese sandwiches had easily won him over.

Shawn wasn't as happy.

He thought I had lost my mind, like I'd been bought by food and a fancy house. His accusations pissed me off, and I told him to get the fuck out if he didn't approve of the decision I'd made for us all. Shit, he was his own person, even if he was just a kid, like the rest of us. He didn't have to go along with everything I told him to do.

But like I'd already said, he and Ike were incapable of thinking for themselves, and of course, he stayed.

Luckily, none of us found reason to regret that choice.

Right away, Leonard set us up in two empty bedrooms with the promise that he'd clear out a third that had been used for storage since he had been a kid.

And the wild thing about Leonard was, he was good to his word.

A month after we moved in, that third bedroom was cleaned out, and for the first time in all our lives, we each had a space to call our own.

Two months after, Ike and Shawn were enrolled in the local public high school.

A year after, he helped me get my GED.

He celebrated our birthdays. He gave us our first real Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter. He took us to the movies and out to dinner, and he bought us new clothes, shoes, and anything else we needed—and then some.

But more importantly than all that, he never lost his patience, never raised his voice or a hand, and never ever, ever sneaked into one of our rooms in the middle of the night.

Leonard Llewellyn was a truly, truly good man—the first any of us had ever known—and it was a shame that we were anything but.

"Thank you for bringing them home, Officer," Leonard said, sounding exhausted as he saw the cop out.

I listened to their brief conversation from inside the viewing room nearest to the front door.

"Mr. Llewellyn …” The cop sounded drained too. Like our existence on this planet was enough to deplete everyone around us of all their energy. “Your nephews are—"

"I know,” Leonard replied knowingly. “I'll have a talk with them."

"If this happens again, I'll have to—"

"I understand," Leonard interjected, kindly but nonetheless harsh. "You have to do what you have to do. I'll speak with them and lay down the law. You have my word."

My brothers and I sat with our hands folded in our laps as we listened to the door open. Leonard and the cop exchanged civil pleasantries, and then the door was closed again. We waited obediently, even if it seemed ridiculous to me.

I was seventeen, for crying out loud—nearly an adult—and that old guy now walking toward the room had zero control over me. None. Where the hell did he get off, thinking he could tell me what to do?

He entered the doorway with his hands on his hips and his head hanging. A sigh escaped his lips.

"You robbed a gas station," he stated.

None of us replied. The cop had caught us in the act; there was no denying it now.

He looked up, his tired gaze meeting each of us before he asked, "Why did you need to rob a gas station?"

I tipped my head and replied matter-of-factly, "I needed smokes."

His brow furrowed. "You needed …" He lifted a hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I-I wasn't aware …” With an exhausted exhale, he dropped his hand and said, “I didn't know you smoked. You’ve been hiding it from me?"