Page 10 of Protect My Heart

She glanced down the street then back to him. “Not really.”

The relief he expected to feel at her rejection didn’t come. He didn’t owe her anything, but he wasn’t ready to let her walk away from him. He should head back to the station. No magic elves were going to tackle the case files on his desk. He had to put an APB out on Wilson. The kid hung out at the old warehouses on the south side of town. Work, he would go back to work.

“I like strawberry.”

Her response caught Jim off guard. The corner of his lip hitched up and he extended his arm. His mom would be proud. “Let’s go.”

She slipped her hand around his arm and smiled.

He looked down at her shoes and smirked. “I wouldn’t want you to take a gainer like you almost did last night.”

“Wha—” she pulled to take her arm back but he held firm.

“Oh no you don’t. My mom raised me to not let a woman fall on her ass if I could help it.” His lip tugged up in the corner. “Even if she isn’t smart enough to wear sensible shoes in the winter.”

He waited for her response as she stared at him blinking. Would she slap him?

A snort slipped out and her hand flew to her face to cover her laugh but it was too late. He’d be damned if it wasn’t the cutest sound.

“You’re something else, Detective Swenson.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.” He gave a nod then proceeded to lead her down the icy sidewalk.

His plan was working. She had relaxed on the walk to the café, and after the near breakdown a few minutes ago, it would be good for both of them to act as if all were normal.

Inside, Jim waved to a few locals having a late lunch. Doc ordered a single cone while he got a double. They found a quiet table in the back and sat.

“So, do you want to talk about the letter?”

“Hell, no.”

“Okay, let’s discuss the case.” At her nod he continued, “If we can bring Wilson in soon, I’d like to get the kid to identify him in a line up.”

“About that...” Her lips screwed up so tight he would swear she was eating pickle-flavored ice cream. “I don’t know if it would be the best idea to have Luis at the police station let alone in the same room with the shooter.”

“He wouldn’t be in the same room, and if we get a positive ID from a line up it will strengthen our case.”

“Yes, but at what cost to Luis?”

“Christ on a cracker,” Jim mumbled as he ran a hand through his hair. “The kid witnessed a murder––I would think after that the kid could handle just about anything.”

Doc’s back went rigid, and if her eyes could have shot him dead for his comment, he would be bleeding out on the floor. “His name is Luis, not kid, and it’s because he had to endure the trauma of the murder that happened less than twenty feet in front of him that he shouldn’t be subjected to more trauma, AKA, being in the same room as the man that caused said trauma. Have you ever heard of PTSD?”

Of course he had. Jim stiffened. “I’m sure Luis,” he stressed the boy’s name, “will need counseling. Isn’t that what you’re here for?”

“I am here to make sure you don’t ruin a little boy’s life by pushing and expecting him to handle the emotional toll that is far heavier than any person, to say the least a child, should bear.” Doc stood, picked up her bag, and crossed to the door pitching the rest of her cone in the trash before turning to say, “I will consider your request to have my client come to the station.”

Jim watched the determined stride as she walked out the door and the wobble as she caught herself on the ice. He shook his head. Didn’t she realize he could subpoena Luis? Hell, he had been taking every precaution to keep the kid’s emotional state in mind. Maybe it was time to ask for advice, and he knew just the person. Finishing his cone, he tossed the napkins in the can and checked his phone. Perfect timing.

Some things never change. It was Thursday, Irene Swenson’s baking day since forever. Jim loved the smell of fresh baked bread and strategically chose the days he visited his mom.

“Well, what a pleasant surprise.” Irene dropped the spoon. It clattered in the bowl. She grabbed him in a fierce bear hug. “Bread’s cooling on the rack and the first pan of cookies is ready to go in the oven.”

Jim snitched some dough, popped it into his mouth, and opened the fridge for a Pepsi. He held out a can to her. “Want one?”

“Thank you, dear. The one thing I can count on from you and your brother is your sweet tooth. Your sisters are all on some new gluten-free or Keto something or other.” She winced and stuck out her tongue. “I don’t understand why they think that’s the answer to everything. Oh, don’t get me started. What brings you by besides baking day?”

“Do I need another reason to visit my mother?”