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“About half an hour ago, at most forty minutes,” Mrs. Dickson finishes, but by that time, Caleb is out the door and Zeke is following, hesitating only for a second.
“Lock this door behind me and don’t let anyone in here,” Zeke orders as he disappears. I do as he says and guide my dear old friend to the sofa, where we sit and wait.
“My goodness, Jasmine, those are two very handsome young men. I like the younger one for you. He’s good-looking, and I can see the way he cares about you. The other one, he’s gorgeous, but very intense,” Mrs. Dickson says with a grin.
“Zeke is the younger one. He’s very sweet,” I tell her. “Caleb is the other man. Zeke and Caleb work together. Zeke’s a detective, and Caleb’s his boss.”
“Well, I say stick with Zeke. I feel it in my bones, sweetie,” she says, patting my hand softly.
* * *
Zeke
Caleb climbs the stairs two at a time, and I’m hot on his heels. When we get to Jasmine’s apartment, Caleb turns the knob. The door’s not locked, but there’s something barring it.
“Give me a hand,” Caleb calls out. We brace our shoulders to the door and push and shove until the door flies open. The entire place has been torn apart. Even the kitchen cabinet doors have been ripped open, several barely hanging on by the hinges. A bag of flour was broken open and is lying in a heap with melting ice cream on top, creating an ugly paste.
The rest of the place isn’t any better. Couch cushions were sliced with a knife and tossed over the floor, vases and knickknacks are in pieces, shelves are tossed. It only gets worse when we walk into the bedroom. Clothes are strewn about, dresser drawers pulled out and thrown carelessly on the floor. It’s a disaster. To say it’s a fucking mess would be the understatement of a lifetime.
“Christ! She’s gonna freak,” I say. Caleb runs a hand through his hair, doing another scan around the room.
“Guy’s gone. What the hell was he looking for?” he mumbles.
“Maybe they just want to scare the hell out of her.”
As I move to pick up a fluffy stuffed white bunny holding a bright red apple with “#1 Teacher” on it, Caleb says, “Careful what you touch. We have to hope this asshole left some prints for us.”
“Yeah, I know.” I let out a heavy breath. “She’s going to want to come up here.”
“Not a good idea, man. This will screw with her head.”
“If I go back down there and tell her that her place was torn to shreds, she’s going to want to see for herself. If I lie, and she finds out when this is all over, she’ll be pissed. I can’t win.” I glance over for a glimpse of support.
“Never lie to a woman you care about.” Caleb may have said those words, but it’s totally his father who taught him that. Caleb lives by the truth, just like his dad. Caleb’s father and Damian’s father were best friends, both cops and partners. They loved Alex’s dad, and the three amigos hung around together with their sons all the time. When Alex’s parents passed away, both families wanted to take him in. Damian’s dad won out, but they all practically lived in each other’s homes, so it’s not like Alex missed out at all. A few years back, Damian’s father passed away, and since then, Caleb’s dad has been our mentor. He’s always been there for the guys and most recently me.
My own father is amazing. I call him all the time when I need an ear. The last time Dad was down visiting, he and Caleb’s dad spent time together and got on like they’ve known each other for years. Now, I’ve got two great role models.
I crack a smile at how much he sounds like his dad. “You’re right, Dad,” I tease. Caleb rolls his eyes.
“You better get back to Jaz, and I’ll call it in. We’re going to have to get her in and out of here as soon as we can. Remind her to only pick up what she’s taking with her. The rest is evidence, and the team is going to have to go through it with a fine-tooth comb,” he says.
I go back downstairs to Jasmine and Mrs. Dickson. There’s no easy way to break the news to Jasmine. I’m about to tell her when she grips my arms. “How bad is it?”
“Not gonna lie, baby. It’s really bad. I want to give you time to prepare, then take you up to get your stuff and get you the hell out of here, but I don’t have that kind of time. It’s a crime scene, and we’ve got a team coming to sweep for prints and anything else they can find.” I frame her face with my hands. “I need you to do me a favor.” Her eyes glisten, but she nods. “I need you to lock down the anger and fear and sadness. I’m going to take you in and help you pack what you need, all in one shot. Then I’m getting you out of here. When we get back to my place, you can cry, or I can hand you a bottle of tequila and you can drink yourself stupid. You can even scream the house down.” I wait for that to sink in, then ask, “Can you do that, Jazzy?”
Her lips tremble like she wants to burst into tears, but she pushes through, stiffens her lip, and replies, “I can do that.” She turns to Mrs. Dickson. “I’ll call you tomorrow. I’m really sorry about missing our teatime today.”
“We’ll make up for it next week.” She strokes Jasmine’s cheek. “You let that boy take good care of you.” Then she turns to me, her eyes piercing and protective of her sweet Jasmine. “I’m holding you responsible if anything happens to my girl. You do not want to feel the wrath of Harriet Dickson,” she warns.
“No, ma’am. And either I or a buddy of mine will pick you up next week for tea. Jasmine’s not coming back here,” I say, then add, “until this is over.” But I’m thinking that if what I’m feeling is as real for me as it is for her, she’s not coming back here at all.
* * *
Jasmine
As I scan my once-perfect, homey, warm, and inviting apartment, my heart tightens in my chest. It hurts so bad to see all that I’ve worked for ripped to shreds. Years of saving for just the right sofa, or the matching barstool seats at my breakfast counter, gone. Smashed beyond repair. Pictures of my friends and parents lie on the floor in broken frames.
I stoop to pick up a photo of my parents. “Don’t, Jaz. There might be fingerprints on it,” Caleb tells me in a gentle voice. My fingers itch to ignore Caleb and pick it up anyway. That’s my mom and dad. They don’t belong on the floor. I force myself to leave it and go straight to my desk, where I keep my school bag. I gather what I need, most of it off the floor, then head to my closet, only to find the hangers on the floor and my clothes there too.
