Page 92 of Summer Holiday Lifeline

“Okay.”

Wyatt stood from where he’d been leaning against the siblings’ pickup. “So?”

“So.” Myles frowned at the bruise blooming high on Wyatt’s cheek. “That cop, Clairemont. He seems okay. He said he’ll take you out to the shelter after his shift. You can wait at the station for a few hours until he’s off. Wyatt, this is your best option, okay?”

“Can’t you take me?”

Myles’s phone rang again, but he ignored it. “I have to go talk to Lucky and get a spot ready for you, because I’d rather you go there than someplace else. And—” He paused but didn’t see the downside of sharing his thoughts. “And I have a good vibe from this Clairemont guy. I want him on our side. Trusting him is how that happens.”

Wyatt nodded. “I get that.”

“Hey.” Myles tapped Bishop on her shoulder. “Can I borrow a pen and paper?”

“Sure.” She handed them over, and Myles wrote down his number and the number for the Oaks, then handed the paper to Wyatt.

“Use those if you have to. Someone will answer. We’ll help, yeah?”

Wyatt nodded. “Thanks.”

“Good.” Myles squeezed his shoulder and almost didn’t cringe inwardly at the grime. Almost. “We got this. We got you.”

“Okay.” Taking a deep breath, Wyatt shouldered his bag and approached Clairemont. “I’m good,” he said.

“I’ve got another car to take one of them.” Clairemont jerked his chin at the two men who had attacked Wyatt. “Soon as that gets here, we can go.” He looked over to Myles. “You can go now. I’ll be in touch.”

“Thank you.”

Clairemont nodded as Myles’s phone rang again.

“You’d best figure that out,” Clairemont suggested, pointing at his pocket. “We have this under control.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Myles got into his car before he so much as looked at his phone. Roughly eight thousand texts in addition to the missed calls were from Jet, and Myles scrolled through them to see what Jet thought was so important.

The texts started with “are you there,” then moved through a number of variations of “where the hell are you,” getting progressively more profane and aggressive. He’d barely read through a third of them when the phone rang again.

“Jet, hi⁠—”

“What the hell, Uncle Myles?” He was furious. “Where the fuck are you?”

“Language.”

“Fuck that.”

“Take a breath.”

“You weren’t answering your phone, and I didn’t know⁠—”

“I’m fine.”

“But I didn’t know that! I got someone to drive me over, and now the Y won’t let us take her home. Where are you?”

“Two minutes away. I’m coming.”

He should have replied to the first text, but years of dealing with cops on the street had kept his mind on worrying about Wyatt. Knowing his kids were safe but Wyatt was not had distracted him.

It would be easier to leave the car where it was and walk around the corner to the Y, so he did, the muted thump of his cane hitting he cement every other step a reminder of how much he’d overstretched himself with that stunt.