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Chapter Thirty-Seven
Malcolm
I’m in the kitchen reheating Tamales from Carmen when there’s a knock on my front door.
“Can you get that?”
Nala unfolds herself from the corner of the couch where she’s been studying, setting aside her textbook and spiral. Shuffling to the door in thick socks, a pair of my old boxers, and a white tank top, she throws me a smile over her shoulder.
Too late, I realize there is nothing under her tank top; I say her name just as the door swings open. Both of us halt, because on the other side are two uniforms, and suddenly, I’m not worried about Nala’s shirt being see-through.
“Malcolm Brady?”
I nod my head, walking to stand in front of them. My hand finds Nala’s, and I squeeze it to let her know it’s okay. Hers trembles, so I grip it harder. “Yes.”
“We need you to put on a shirt and come down to the station with us.”
Beside me, Nala stops breathing, her hand goes damp and limp in mine.
I nod again, even though Nala sucks in a breath of protest. “All right. Give me a second.”
They stand where they are, hands resting casually on their belts, but it’s a façade because both shift a little when I turn to Nala, gripping her shoulders in my hands. Her eyes are wide and terrified. I try not to look too hard at them, because even though I expected this, I wish it had been some other way. “Malcolm?”
“I need you to call Brooks. Tell him I’m at—” I look to the officers.
“SDPD northern division.”
I nod and turn back to Nala, who is still staring at me. The confusion is going away though, and replacing it is hurt. “Have him call my lawyer.”
“You’re not surprised.”
Her words are quiet, but she might as well have shouted. They echo around us, filtering between us until she steps back. I try to keep my hands on her shoulders, try to find the words that will stop her from walking away, but when I move with her, one of the officers says my name.
“We need you to come with us right now, Mr. Brady.”
His tone tells me this is the last time he’s going to make the request. I stare at Nala, but she won’t meet my eyes. Grabbing a shirt from the back of the couch, I slip it on, jamming my un-casted foot into a sandal before heading out the door.
“What’s this about?” I ask, walking to the cruiser with them.
“You’re under arrest for the assault of Ezra Grogan Shields on the twentieth of last month.”
Nala’s gasp is audible from the driveway.
In the back of the police cruiser, I watch through the window, but the door is closed, and Nala never appears again.
+ + +
Ezra filed a criminal suit against me for assault, and for good measure, he tacked on a civil suit, suing me for damages.
Apparently, his nose was broken, some of his ribs were cracked, and his stomach suffered great contusions that could have been life threatening if they were worse. According to my lawyer, phrases like “could have” mean he wasn’t seriously injured, and the charges will most likely be dropped to a misdemeanor. Lucky for me, even if the judge rules it a low-level misdemeanor instead of petty, the great state of California has overcrowded jail populations already, and the likelihood of my crime sending me to jail is slim to none. Especially since theinjured partyspent no time in the hospital.
“You should expect intense community service, a heavy fine, and possible probation.”
Relief should have blown through me, but all I could hear was Nala’s gasp when they said I was being arrested, and when they stated Ezra’s name. That image is what haunted me for the six hours I spent in the custody of SDPD, awaiting release.
Brooks and Hunter post my bail, and both of them are waiting for me when I walk out of holding.
I sign the papers, accepting my portion, and then walk out without saying anything. I can see from both of their faces that jail time is the least of my worries right now.
