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“Perfect. Thanks, Kimp.”
“No thanks needed, son. See you in a few.”
An hour later, Kimp and I are chatting over lunch at a local greasy spoon. He’s pretending to eat a burger. But mostly, he’s refereeing as Colt maneuvers ketchup-dipped fries onto his face and into his mouth. He’s almost a year old and a tank of a kid. He reminds me so much of Braxton.
“I need a favor,” I hedge. I’ve never asked Kimp for anything like this. I pride myself on being someone who brings a solution to the table, not a problem. But I’m out of my depth and out of options.
“What is it?” He asks me, while cleaning Colts fingers.
“How well do you know Percy Krause? And are you willing to make an introduction?”
His eyes hit me, and the penny drops. “What’s going on?”
“Bright got served a grand jury summons this morning.”
“For what?”
“That’s what I’m looking into.”
“Eli, I don’t speak legalese. What does this mean?”
“I don’t know. Grand juries assemble to see if there’s merit for felony charges. Those are typically brought by the DA or someone else with clout.”
“You think Percy brought charges against my daughter?”
“If it wasn’t him, then I’d like to know who and how they got through him or around him.”
“But she defended her home.” He’s so wrapped up in our conversation, he misses the applesauce that’s flung right at his cheek. He doesn’t miss a beat and wipes away the food.
“She defendedyourhome, technically,” I say. “The stronger case is that she protected Colt after multiple threats, but I need to understand why an intruder would warrant a grand jury investigation.”
“He was trespassing and wanted to hurt my grandson—” His face is mottled red, and he sucks in a big breath as if he needs more oxygen to hit an epic rant. Brighton comes by her fire honestly.
“Kimp. I’m on your team. You know I’ll defend her, prepare her, do everything I can.”
The crease between his brows smooths out, and he exhales a huge sigh.
“I know. I know.” It’s as if he’s talking to himself. “Let me call Percy. Anything I shouldn’t say?”
“Just be you. Let’s see what he says. We can figure it out from there.”
* * *
Brighton
It’s Thanksgiving.
I wish I were in the mood to celebrate. Between my life with Eli, Colt joining our family, and watching my two older brothers meet amazing partners, there’s lots to be thankful for. There’s also Pop’s damn-near miraculous recovery from his “lucky” bullet wound.
Lucky.
He keeps calling it that.
In some ways it is. An inch in any other direction and he might not be alive.
It’s the verbiage that gets me. Lucky.
More so, it’s missing Mom. Eight months have flown by and trudged by in equal measures. Her absence is still palpable—a dull throbbing headache that I’ve learned to live with. I can ignore it at times, but it’s always there, reminding me with every heartbeat of the pain I’m fighting to forget.
