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twenty-six
Wyatt was curled in a ball at the foot of the bed, wrapped in such a tight coil it was like he was trying to disappear in on himself. His breaths came in deep, sharp gasps. Sean had felt like that a few times over the course of his life and empathized with that poor dog.
Delaney sat on the edge of the bed next to the exhausted pittie, who they’d found hiding under her truck after Sean had called for backup and the Worleys had been arrested. Her hand was on Wyatt’s back as it rose and fell in his sleep. She looked up at Sean, her eye swollen and bruised. “Thank you,” she said, her voice hoarse.
“None needed,” Sean said.
“They’re in trouble, right? Please tell me they’re in trouble.”
Sean nodded. “We have your footage of them breaking and entering. They had no idea that new camera was there. Plus, my guess is that the Dudes had drugs hidden in your bedroom ceiling. Based on the footage of them stealing Wyatt, I’m getting a warrant to search their house. I’m sure we’ll find something.”
“Am I in trouble, too?” Delaney’s voice sounded small and helpless.
“No.” Sean didn’t think he’d ever seen her so vulnerable. It was all he could do not to wrap his arms around her and draw her close. But he remembered her words, and kept his hands to himself. Just because she’d called him for help didn’t mean she wanted his affection.
“Thank you,” Delaney said again. She stroked Wyatt some more, her face so sad it broke Sean’s heart.
“You already said that.”
“I’m saying it again. I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.”
“Well, I’m...that’s what I’m...” Sean drew a breath and sighed, steeling himself. “It’s my job.”
“Right.” She turned back to the pittie, her strokes slowing.
“Listen.” Sean cleared his throat. “Get some sleep. The Dudes are locked up. Nobody’s going to bother you tonight.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
“Good night.”
“Sean?”
He made it to the doorway before he turned back. Delaney looked small and sweet next to her sacked-out pit bull. “Um...Wyatt thanks you, too,” she said.
Sean smiled. “Well. When he wakes up, tell him...anytime.”
Delaney lay at the foot of the bed, curled around Wyatt, her body shaking, for a long time. She hadn’t cried since Dad died, and before that, she couldn’t even remember. Probably the day Chunk passed away. Tonight, she’d been crying so much her face felt like a swollen mass. The salt in her wound from Dick wasn’t pleasant, either.
She must’ve dozed off, because when she woke the clock read 0333. Her eyes and nose were swollen and her throat scratchy. She pulled herself away from the snoozing dog and slipped downstairs. The security lights lit up the picture of Dad, sitting on ’33. “I don’t know what to do,” she whispered.
After a round of silence she went to the Willie G, still up on the lift, and ran her hand over it. Her eyes filled up fast as she thought about Sean. All she’d had to do was text him tonight and he’d come running. He probably hadn’t even thought about it. Even after the things she’d said during their argument.
Delaney grabbed a wrench and picked up where she’d left off on the bike, enjoying this moment, despite her turmoil and her black eye: the quiet of the shop, out on Three Rebels Street; her dog snoozing safely upstairs, not stuck in some ditch during a thunderstorm or in the Dudes’ shitty shed. She started whistling, and as the sadness drained away and a new feeling started to fill her up, the whistling slowly morphed into “Tuesday’s Gone,” and in that moment, she remembered.
Her whistling stopped.
“Name one Lynyrd Skynyrd song that’s better than ‘Free Bird,’” Dad said.
“‘Tuesday’s Gone.’”
Dad smiled.“That’s because your mother always sang it to you when you were a baby. That song always got you to sleep when you were fussy.”
Delaney stayed frozen awhile longer, wondering how she’d pushed that memory away, or how it had morphed into something else, over time. It was clear as day now. She slowly put the wrench down, then found her cell phone on the counter. She held it for a few seconds before unlocking the screen and pulling up the number from her contacts. Her thumb hovered over the call button.
Finally, she pushed.
The line rang five times before a deep male voice, familiar somehow, said, “H’lo?”
