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I buckle down and stifle a sigh. I have another birthday next month, don’t I?
“You never answered my question about whether she was pretty—but I think I have my answer.”
Gritting my teeth, I level my world’s best boss-glare. “I can still take you, you know that, right?”
More laughter, yet something on the serious side worms its way into his expression. “Probably so—but why would you? We’re just a couple of friends making small talk.”
“You and I are friends?”
That draws a quick blink. Walker is alright, but…okay, yeah, I suppose we’re friends. I quietly cuss my rudeness.
Maybe a friend or two wouldn’t be the worst thing, but being a loner comes with the territory. It’s been a minute, and I still forget sometimes that Tripp Walker is more peer than subordinate these days. And what? Six months now that he and I have been hitting the gym together? In itself, that was a step for me, and usually, our workouts are all shop talk, if any talk at all.
I actually free the next sigh. “Yeah, Walker. We’re friends.”
All I can see is the side of his face and the end of his mouth, which curls up a notch. “Good to know, John.”
We continue in silence. Friends, yes—but this isn’t a slumber party gabfest, either.
Tripp lifts a pair of brown shoes from his duffel. “Anything you want to talk about?”
Give an inch and a mile comes next.
My glare bounces off a wall of kindness.
Man, I got no clue what’s happening here, ’cause I’m sighing again. I fix my elbows to my knees. “Truth is, the woman’s got a mess on her hands, and I get to be the one to tell her that her precious son is in a worse heap of trouble than she thought.”
Walker—Tripp—pivots. “What’s the problem?”
I explain about Hollie asking for help and about the not-so-great information I learned from one simple phone call on her behalf.
He drops the shoes onto the tile. “Man, that’s rough.”
“She’s a nice lady. Doesn’t deserve this trouble at all. Far as I can tell, neither does the kid.”
I feel a curious gaze from Walker—sorry, old habits are hard to break. “You really think the boy is innocent?”
I hear the incredulity. He knows me well. The courts may start at innocent and work backwards. Me? I don’t fool myself for a minute. I got about ten times the fingers I need to count the innocent folks I’ve run across in my extensive career.
Wow. Two whole decades since Tyler came into the world?
Suddenly, I’m craving breakfast food, something to settle this roiling in my midsection. “I do think there’s a chance he’s innocent. But if he won’t come clean, he’s got big trouble ahead. And maybe even then.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
I sit back, trying not to groan at the pain zinging through fatigued muscles. “Tell me about it. I guess I’ll head over there this evening. Tell her what I learned.” Standing, I pluck a hairbrush out of the side pocket of my bag. Oh, my thighs and glutes.
Walker stands and does the same—probably minus the muscle fatigue—and seems to know my boundaries have stretched enough for one day.
A few minutes later, we part at the door of my office and I’m the recipient of a quick thump on the back. “I’ll be praying for you, John.”
Lightning flashes too near for comfort as I pull up to the cozy—cough, cough—garage apartment. The driveway is empty, the windows dark. Based on the other night’s timing, I’d assumed mother and son would be home by now.
How long should I wait? It’s been a long Monday, and the morning workout put me at a deficit. Now, all I want is to push back in my recliner and let some TV football fill the time until it’s late enough to justify crawling between the sheets.
Gah. I’m not that old. I take care of myself. Should I be this exhausted at night?
Worry doesn’t help, I suppose, but Hollie’s situation won’t leave my mind alone.
