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“Fuck off!” I know he doesn’t mean it. He gets cranky when he’s away from Willow for too long. Those two are never out of each other’s sight other than when he’s working. I didn’t understand it until now. I want to go home too.
It’s been two days, but it feels like a lifetime. We’ve been sleeping in cheap hotels, not because we can’t afford the good stuff, but because we need to be in the same area as whoever we’re after, and mostly they’re in the worst part of town.
“Let’s just hope he shows soon and we can get this done,” I say.
It’s nearly two hours later and I’m about to suggest going back to the hotel to regroup when I see a guy with a hoodie, his head covered, blocking his face. It’s a gut feeling, but I think we might have just gotten lucky.
“Southwest corner,” I say, pointing to our guy.
“Can’t see his face.” Roscoe leans forward, trying to get a better look. The guy keeps glancing around like he’s waiting for someone or something.
“I’m going to get a better look.” I jump out of the car.
Approaching from the opposite direction, I keep my head down and walk right into the guy, who I hope is our mark.
“Sorry, man,” I mumble.
“Watch where you’re going,” the guy says, and that’s when he makes his mistake. He lifts his eyes to mine, and I recognize his face. He sees his fatal error and makes a run for it. I chase him down the street. He turns right into another side street. This guy is fast. I leap over the trash can he flips over and keep after him.
All of a sudden, I see Roscoe jump over the backyard fence of someone’s house and tackle the guy to the ground.
“Wayne Robins, you’re heading back to jail,” Roscoe says smugly. I’m still catching my breath, but I can’t help but fucking laugh at how Roscoe sounds like some actor in a Western. All that’s missing is his white hat and lasso.
We put him in the back seat. It’s another two hours before we get him processed, then another one and a half before we get home, and that means I’ll be sleeping by my girl’s side tonight. Life is good!
* * *
Quinn
Ihave a small apartment. How can I have so much stuff? I’ve lost track of how many boxes I’ve packed. Although I’ve learned that moving is a great way to declutter, I don’t want to be doing this again anytime soon.
The bedroom is done. I found clothes in my closet I haven’t worn in years. Those are in a separate pile to be dropped off at Goodwill. The kitchen is done except for two plates and two sets of cutlery. I’ll pack those the morning of the move.
I’m working on the living room. I wrap Priest’s trophy in bubble wrap and carefully place it in the box, along with the photo album and some of the other items on the mantel.
Camille is supposed to come by today, so I left the door unlocked. When the doorbell rings, I call out, “It’s open.” I hear steps, but my back is turned so I can focus on what I’ve started. “I made coffee if you want some.”
When I don’t hear a response, I turn to find Priest’s mother standing there. I gasp in horror when I see she’s carrying a gun.
“Where is he?” Her voice slithers like a snake in search of its next meal.
“Who?” I know exactly who she’s after, but I heard somewhere that you need to keep a person talking when they’re agitated like this.
She waves the gun in the air and shouts, “My son! You know very well who I’m looking for.”
“He’s not here. He’s working. I’m not sure when he’s coming back. It could be days,” I say. Normally, I want Priest home as soon as possible and away from the bad guys, but today he’s safer with the bad guys.
“You get him on the phone and tell him to get his ass home,” she commands.
“I will not.” I stand my ground. “You’re obviously upset, and I don’t have any idea why—”
“You don’t knowwhy?” She mocks my voice. “Do you know what James cost me?” I want to tell her that this is all her own doing, but I can’t get a word in. “Everything!” she shrills. “All he had to do was leave well enough alone. His father was going to die anyway. Why not let him go? But, oh no! James had to be the hero.”
“How can you say that?” I’m stunned, truly flabbergasted by this woman’s attitude. “He’s your husband. Even if you don’t love him now, at one time, you must have. And he’s Priest’s father. Priest did the right thing by him.”
“What about me, huh?” She loses her mind and starts hurling my carefully packed knickknacks across the room. They hit the wall, and splinters fly across the floor. While she’s doing that, I grab the letter off the mantel and tuck it inside the back of my pants before I make a run for it.
I make it all the way to the door and run into Camille.
