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My father’s honey-sweet laugh,so at odds for a man of his size, enveloped me as much as the hug. He stooped to my level and those massive arms cradled me to him.
He laughed a lot when he stayed away from the bottle. He hadn’t had a single drop of liquor that night. Which made this a special occasion. I didn’t know the reason why but I liked it. I wanted him to stop drinking.
To say the words.
Three words he’d only said to me once.
“But Daddy!” I whine, tugging at his jacket. Desperate for him to listen to whatever was on my mind.
“Count up to 100, my girl, and time me. I’ll be back before you’re done.”
He was just going out to the convenience store. I remember telling myself that over and over as if it would somehow make my racing heart calm. He was going out for some cookies and chips and he’d be back before I knew it. A game. We were just playing a game.
Except something inside of me felt sick and I had no idea why.
I still hear the conversation with Dad not in my head but like it’s happening in real time. As though he’s still there whispering in my ear and telling me to count down. The sensation sends shivers through me. Talk about having someone walk over your grave.
This is not the same story.
I have to tell myself that on repeat. This is not the same story and not the same murder.
But they’re all the same, aren’t they? Death comes for everyone in the end, even if the means to get there are different.
I wish I’d parked closer so I have a door to slam to mark my arrival. Drama and noise is so much better than shaking my head and coming to, hoping no one saw my little disconnect.
Reaching down to my belt, I wrap my fingers around the frayed leather edges of the holster keeping my badge front and center. I hold it up for the cops standing watch at the edge of the perimeter.
“Stand aside,” I tell the one on the left as I stifle a groan. “Detective coming through.”
Of course. OfcourseI’ll have to deal with Frick and Frack today.
“How the hell do you always get a heads-up on these deals, Layla?” The douchey detective who already has his notepad in hand sniffs, his gaze almost a physical touch as he scrapes it from my head to my toes. “It’s some kind of fucked-up radar you got.”
“Well, I don’t have my dick in my hands 24/7, Jerry. It makes me easier to reach.” I flash him a smile dripping with false charm.
I probably get laid more than he does. The shrink I used to see says I use sex as an escape, but what the hell do shrinks know, anyway? I manage just fine now.
“If you want my dick in your hands, then you only need to say so.”
“If I want to pet a rat I’ll go to the pet store. Sorry, Jer.” I narrowly resist reaching out to give him a little pat-pat-slapon the cheek for emphasis.
Jerry has his cap snugly on his head and tilted to the side. Might as well have a flashing arrow pointing down at him telling the world he’s a Grade A douche. Anyone who knows him finds out the truth soon enough. He’s one of those guys who peaked in high school and has spent the rest of his life chasing the same glory.
His brittle blue eyes bore into mine on my way past but he knows better than to stop me. Rather than coming up with a retort, Jerry only scoffs.
“You smell like you’ve been left used and wanting more times than you can count,” his partner Clint replies in the silence, doing the dirty work for Jerry. “You should let off that O and do us all a favor. You get pissy when you don’t finish.”
Clint thinks he’s funny.
He’s only been on the force with us for a year and he’s still trying to make a name for himself.
He sniffs at me, close enough to run his greasy nose along the whorl of my earlobe.
I ignore him.
I ignore Jerry when he lifts his hand for a high-five and the two of them dissolve into the middle-aged-man version of a giggle fit. Those two dickheads are the only ones who laugh. Which is punishment enough in my eyes.
Especially when a hard knot makes itself known in my torso and my pulse hitches. The vic’s arm is back in view now.
