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“That sounds great. Why don’t you give me another hour?” she said. “There are a few things I need to do first. Do kids like bunk beds?”
“Five-year-olds, yeah. Not Miguel.” I shook my head, smiling. She was excited and Juliette would be a fantastic foster parent, but every once in a while, I was very glad to be around to help.
We hung up and after I parked Suzy, I climbed the steps of my porch by two, humming “Feel Like Making Love” under my breath.
But the song died in my throat when I saw the front door hanging open.
I’d gotten lax over the past few weeks with the alarm and locking the door, but I was pretty sure I’d closed it that morning.
Dad, I thought, heavy anger settling in my stomach like rocks.
The door eased open under the pressure of my fist, but as I turned the corner into the living room, it wasn’t my dad sitting on the couch.
“Miguel?” I asked.
“The front door wasn’t locked,” Miguel said, looking manic. His hands shook, and his eyes were way past dilated. If I didn’t know better, I would think the kid was on something. And Louisa… Louisa sat in the shadows of the couch looking like a stray cat.
The air smelled like fear. And blood.
“You okay?” I asked, foreboding blossoming in my brain.
“We need money,” Miguel said, leaping off the couch. Louisa flinched. “Right now.”
I approached Miguel like the boy was a wild dog. “Please, Miguel. You need to calm down—”
“Don’t tell me what I need to do!” Miguel yelled. “You have no clue!”
“Okay.” I nodded. “Then why don’t you tell me. Why don’t you sit down—” I reached out to touch Miguel, to guide him back toward the couch, and Louisa leaped up.
“Don’t touch him!” she screamed, flying around Miguel to smack at my legs. She got me good in the crotch and I swore, trying to protect myself and calm Louisa down. Her braids flew wild around her face and Miguel grabbed his sister with shaking hands and pushed her back behind him.
But not fast enough.
I got a good look at Louisa’s face.
Her poor, battered face.
“Oh, my God,” I breathed, bile rising in my throat. “What happened?”
Miguel shook his head, his eyes diamond bright and just as hard. “I just need money, Tyler. So we can leave.”
“I can give you money. I can help, Miguel. I swear I can. But you have to tell me what’s going on.”
Miguel held out hands balled tightly into fists. He turned them over and opened his palms.
It took me a second to register what Miguel was showing me.
“Is that Louisa’s blood?” I asked, surprised my voice was so calm and heavy, when inside I felt as if all the walls were coming down. Fury, sympathy, fear and worry rolled through me, tearing me apart.
Miguel shook his head, holding himself so still I worried the boy was going to break before he bent. Tears flooded his eyes and poured down his face. I reached for him, but Miguel collapsed back onto the couch and Louisa climbed into his lap, holding on to him while he sobbed, his entire body rocking.
“Miguel?” I asked, bending my knees so I could look right into Miguel’s eyes. “Whose blood is that?”
“I killed him,” Miguel breathed. “I killed my dad.”
JULIETTE
I left my office, waving good-night to Owens, who was surly because he was on dispatch, and headed out the front door to my car and the night and Tyler.
Honestly, I didn’t realize how unhappy I’d been before this week. And I hated to think of what would have become of me if Tyler hadn’t come crashing back into my life. What kind of dried up, humorless woman I would have turned into.
I paused at the curb to the parking lot.
Dad leaned against my car.
It had been weeks since we’d spoken, and my father’s smile tore at my heart.
I think he used to be a good man. Didn’t he? Did it make me a bad person to wish that he had been?
“Hello, Juliette,” he said.
“Dad?” I said, noticing how much weight he’d lost, how ashen his cheeks were. He wasn’t taking care of himself. “Are you okay?” I asked.
“I’m fine,” he said, waving off my concern. “Have you seen the news?” he asked.
“What news?” I asked, stepping off the curb. I unlocked my car, opened the rear door and put my briefcase inside.
My phone rang and I checked the display. Tyler.
Dad’s hand touched my shoulder. “Before you answer that, I need to talk to you,” he said, his eyes level and serious. “I’m asking you for just a few minutes of your time. As a police chief.”
I sighed and then turned off the phone. Tyler probably just wanted to tell me about dinner plans.
Or talk dirty.
It was a toss-up.
“Okay, Dad,” I said, slipping my phone in my pocket. “Shoot.”
