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“It doesn’t matter if it’s good or bad or sucks ass. It only matters that we do our jobs to the best of our abilities.”
“I don’t think I can kill Bobby Marchand. I don’t think he did this,” Newman said.
“Then let’s get some of the forensic people that are coming to help bag and tag on the theft charges for the wicked aunt and uncle to make a print of the footprints that we can use to either get a stay of execution for Bobby or prove that he’s a great liar and guilty.”
“What do you mean by the great-liar part?”
“If these are his footprints, then he woke up next to his uncle’s body and walked in human form from there to his own bedroom to pretend to be passed out hard enough that you and the sheriff carried him ‘unconscious’”—I made air quotes around the last word—“to the jail. That’s some Oscar-worthy acting.”
“I’d swear he was out cold, Blake. I’ve seen a few other humans that passed out after the change. They were out of it. You could burn a house down around them, and they wouldn’t wake up to save themselves.”
“I know. I’ve seen it, too.” In my head I thought, Not in a few years. I’d been hanging around with too many powerful shapeshifters. Once you reached a certain power level, you didn’t pass out when you went back to human. You could be tired, but it wasn’t the coma state that new shapeshifters fell into or, like Bobby, never outgrew. It meant he was a seriously low-level cat. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to stay with whatever leopard group had trained him to control his beast. No one wants to be the lowest man or woman on the totem pole.
“I don’t think he could fake that,” Newman said.
“And I’d swear that his emotions in the jail were real, but if these turn out to be his footprints, then he lied, and he fooled both of us.”
“Even if he lied, even if he did this—and I still don’t t
hink he did—I’m not sure I can look Bobby in the eyes and pull the trigger.”
“Well, that’s honest,” I said.
“Have you had to kill someone you knew?”
I nodded. “It sucks.”
“It sucks. That’s the best you can do?”
“What do you want from me, Newman? Do you want to know that his face haunts my nightmares? Do you want me to cry on your shoulder and say, ‘Woe is me’?”
“Knowing you have nightmares actually makes me feel better about my own.”
“Well, then, yay for you, Newman, but fuck you, too.”
“Why are you mad at me?”
“Because I didn’t come here to do therapy with you. I came to help you save Bobby Marchand if we can.”
“I agree that’s our priority,” he said.
“Good, and if you need therapy help, find a counselor or a doctor. Like I said, I’m seeing someone to help with a lot of issues, not just the job. No shame in getting help when something’s broken,” I said.
“But you’re mad at me for wanting to confide in you?”
“No, I’m mad at you for wanting me to trot out my inner demons so that you’ll feel better about your own. I don’t owe you that.”
“Is anger always your go-to emotion?” he asked, sounding angry himself.
“Yeah, it is, because anger will help me keep moving until the job is done. Sadness won’t. Grief won’t. Anxiety won’t. All those touchy-feely emotions that are supposed to be what make us human or whole or whatever will cripple you in the middle of a battle.”
“This isn’t battle,” he said.
“Fuck that, it’s not. We are fighting for Bobby’s life. It’s a battle between good and evil, Newman, and we’re the good guys, so we have to win.”
The anger just leaked away from him, and he got a soft look on his face that I didn’t understand. “You still believe we’re the good guys even after all the lives you’ve taken?”
“Yes, I do.”
