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The square of hot pink paper screams at me, drowning out all other thoughts. I peek at my office door, contemplating walking out of here so I’m not tempted.
But when I glance down, the offending note taunts and entices me.
Sadly, I don’t know any witches who can cause paper to disintegrate, and I don’t have a lighter. I need to rip it up. Then I can face Klein and Tomer with my head held high, conscience clear, and guilt silenced. I just need to put my little pimp in the corner.
Right. You can do this, girl. Grab it and rip it up.
Okay, I’ve picked it up.
Now to shred it.
Rip. It. Up.
Rip… it…uhhh.
What happened to the noble hand that helped me earlier? Like the left one, my right hand hath forsaken me too. Are they on my pimp’s payroll?
I think I may be battling a legit addiction. The pimp got me hooked.
Not only are my hands refusing to destroy it, these Benedict Arnold ten-fingered motherfuckers are bringing it closer to my face so I can read the numbers clearly.
The backstabbing sons of bitches.
Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.
Again.
Eight minutes and twelve point four seconds later— give or take— I’ve tapped into the CPD database and entered the responding officer’s patrol car number. A rapid series of clicks later, I locate the dispatch records for the corresponding time frame.
And lo and behold, there it is.Eureka!
As I pore over the call transcript and dispatcher’s notes, my heart lodges in my throat. A look at the responding officer’s incident report barely eases my mind. Fortunately, Klein’s mother was found unharmed. Unfortunately, she wasn’t lucid.
Oh, Cal. You poor thing.
No wonder he’s been a wreck this week. He isn’t plotting to get rid of me like some diabolical villain.
The only villain in this story is yours truly.
Cal’s merely worried about his beloved mother. It all makes sense now.
The crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he checks his phone.
The tight set of his jaw.
The clenching and releasing of his fists.
None of it had anything to do with me.
And here I’ve been, making his time at Redleg a living hell when it’s likely his only escape from a stressful home life. My gut threatens to retch.
I hate myself.
I’m a disgusting human, forever coated in shame.
How can Ievermake amends for what I’ve done to him? For the hurt I’ve caused? And for the distraction he didn’t need when his thoughts should have been elsewhere?
His sister doesn’t live locally, so I’m sure she’s no help with his mother beyond emotional support. His dad is deceased. No cousins or extended family nearby. It’s probably just him carrying the weight of his mother’s needs on his very broad and sexy shoulders.
