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“Good to know.”
“I’m serious. Don’t ever work over lunch. We put in enough extra hours anyway.”
“We do?”
“Oh, yeah. You’ll see. Quitting time is five, but most of us are here until six or later.”
I nod. I don’t have a problem with working hard. Being a parole officer is a thankless job, but someone has to do it. My original plan was to go to law school after I finished my degree in criminal justice, but my family needed me working. Seven years later, I’m still doing the same job, and law school isn’t in my future.
I actually enjoy working with the parolees. It’s the endless paperwork I can do without, but it’s a necessary evil. Red tape galore.
“Where would you like to go?” Bridget asks.
“I’ve only been here for a few days. I don’t really know what’s good. Why don’t you choose?”
“All right. How about Italian? There’s a great little mom and pop restaurant a block away. We can walk.”
“Sounds good.” Though walking means conversation.
Then again, lunch means conversation, so I’ll go with it. I’m not big on small talk, which was made abundantly clear during my conversation with Falcon last night at the bar, but we’ll be talking about work. I can handle that.
We reach Papa Moroni’s in about five minutes. Bridget holds the door open for me.
“Bridget,” the hostess greets. “Good to see you.”
“Hi, Gina. Table for two, please.”
“You got it. Follow me.”
I follow Bridget and Gina to a booth along the side of the restaurant.
“This okay?” Gina asks.
“Perfect,” Bridget says. “Thanks.”
Gina hands us two menus and whisks away.
“The lasagna is great here,” Bridget says, “or if you’re thinking something lighter, the angel hair and scallops is to die for.”
“I love lasagna, but if I eat a heavy meal, I’ll risk falling asleep at my desk this afternoon.”
Shit. Not a good thing to say to your new boss.
I chuckle and hope she thinks I’m kidding…even though I’m not.
“I hear you. But I’m having the lasagna anyway.” Bridget smiles.
It does sound good, but I can’t order it now. Especially since it really will put me to sleep. I carb crash like crazy, so I’m going high protein. Chicken piccata.
A server brings glasses of water and a breadbasket. “Hi, Bridge.”
“Hi, Priscilla.”
“The usual?”
“Absolutely.”
“And for you, ma’am?” Priscilla asks.
“Chicken piccata please, but could I have a house salad instead of the side of spaghetti?”
“Sure.” Priscilla scribbles on her pad. “Anything to drink besides water?”
“Water’s fine,” I say.
“I’ll have an iced tea,” Bridget says.
“Good enough. I’ll have those right out for you.”
Before we can say much, Priscilla comes by with Bridget’s iced tea. She takes a sip, grabs a slice of bread from the breadbasket, and places it on the small plate in front of her. Then she takes the carafe of olive oil on the table and splashes some over the bread. “So much better than butter,” she says.
I smile and nod.
“You want some bread?”
“Yeah. Maybe just one slice.”
Can’t carb crash from one slice, right? Probably not, since the rest of my meal will be protein.
I grab a slice and follow Bridget’s lead with the olive oil. It’s delicious.
“So,” Bridget begins, “how did things go this morning?”
“Good, I think. I met with two parolees, wrote up the summaries. They were both cooperative.”
She lifts her eyebrows. “Really?”
I laugh. “Well, yes, all things considered. The first one gave me a bit of attitude. Didn’t want to do his counseling.”
“Very few of them are receptive to that.”
“I know. It was the same in Austin.” I take a sip of water. “Plus, he’s illiterate. I tried not to embarrass him.”
“Let his counselor know,” Bridget says. “They can help with that. I saw you got Falcon Bellamy.”
“Yeah.” My cheeks warm.
“I’m sure you’ve heard all about that case.”
“Actually, I haven’t.”
She nods. “The family kept it as hush hush as they could, but it was big news in these parts. They paid a lot to keep it from going national.”
I nod. I read one of those news recaps online every morning. I stopped watching the news on TV a few years ago. It was too depressing.
“Yeah, of course,” I say.
“He was eligible for parole about five years ago, but an inmate attacked him in the cafeteria, and he injured the assailant with a shiv.”
I widen my eyes. Is that how he became Savage? “Sounds like he was defending himself.”
“He was. But the shiv was contraband.”
“Yeah, of course it would be. But these people need to be able to defend themselves.”
“You’ve seen Falcon Bellamy. He probably didn’t need the shiv.”
I’ve seen him all right. More of him than she knows.
“His file says he was eligible again in a couple months. Why’d he get out early?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he paid someone off. The Bellamys are loaded.”
“I didn’t get the impression that he’s like that,” I say.
“Maybe, maybe not.” Bridged grabs a second slice of bread and dips it. “You’ve been doing this for several years. You know how these parolees are. We want to give them a chance, and some of them want that chance. Others, not so much.”
