by Ines Saint
“What happens if you don’t find the journal before Glenn’s immunity session? Will you keep looking, or will you let it go?”
Something dimmed in his eyes. He didn’t look away, but he was Agent Hooke again, not Alex. “We’ll let it go.”
“If it’s so important that you’re dedicating all your time to it, why would you let it go?”
“Someone above me decided what it was worth to the case, and how much time and resources they wanted to devote to it.”
She looked away. “Alex—I told you once that I felt as if you weren’t telling me everything there is to know about this journal. I haven’t brought it up again because I know you won’t tell me. But I snuck a notebook out of Grandma Sherry’s house, which hurt her feelings, I’m keeping everything we’ve learned from my sisters, and avoiding them to keep them from asking too much, and I’m subtly questioning my own daughter and son about things their dad says . . .”
Alex sat on the second-to-bottom step and bid her to sit next to him, looking as if he’d arrived at a difficult decision. “I started to tell you about this drug bust, and this boy. I couldn’t finish because . . .” His jaw clenched and his body stiffened. He folded his hands between his open legs, and looked down at the floor. “It makes me angry. More than that. It makes me feel a level of frustration that takes up energy I can’t afford to lose. So I use it as fuel, and take it one assignment at a time.”
He was quiet for a moment. “We were escorting the people we’d arrested down the stairs, when I saw this boy under the stairwell. I broke off to check on him and—” He shook his head. “The kid couldn’t have been more than ten, and his face and arms were covered in these abscesses. His eyes were permanently swollen shut by them. He couldn’t see what was going on, and he was shaking. And then a woman we’d arrested went wild, and started yelling at me to leave her boy alone. We took care of him, found someone to watch him until other family members could be found, but his mom cussed us out about being hypocrites, and after everything she said, it was hard not to admit that in some ways, she was right.”
Paige was quiet. She’d never heard of such a thing, and she couldn’t imagine how painful and scary it had to be for a ten-year-old boy, and for his mom.
“It’s a long story, Paige, but it turns out a major pharmaceutical company fudged data on a new medication for controlling seizures, and engaged in off-label marketing for kids. It was clear from the evidence at trial that they knew the medication could permanently lower some liver enzymes in children that wouldn’t allow them to break down certain chemicals in their bloodstream. It led to a few different kids having some different reactions. The boy was only three when his started. Rounds of doctor’s visits began. Their bank account was drained. She lost her job. The dad left. By the time it was all figured out, the mom had started dealing drugs to deal with the medical costs. And she was wrong to do it. People go through plenty and don’t resort to hurting others through crime, but she was right about one thing. The people who did that to her son had gotten away with it, and made a whole lot of money in the process. The pharmaceutical company had settled, but the settlement hadn’t come in yet, and it wouldn’t give her son back a normal life. It wasn’t the most revolting thing I’d ever seen or heard or investigated. Not by far. But it got to me.”
She was stunned, and she ached for the boy and the mom and the mess, and how unfair it all could be. After a while she said, “I’m sorry. All day you’ve been listening to me go on and on about the most mundane things and . . .” She didn’t even know how to say what she wanted to say.
His pinkie finger touched hers, as if he wanted contact but that was all he could allow himself. And yet the contact felt meaningful, more touching than all of Glenn’s kisses throughout all their years together. It didn’t make sense. “If everyone did what they were supposed to, raised their children right and cared about their communities, you’d have a lot less crime. The mundane can be important, too. I sometimes go home just to listen to my grandmother and great-aunt complain about clients and employees because I need to get my head into a different place.”
“No. Don’t do that. Don’t try to make me feel important when I’m trying to tell you I’m sorry I ever treated you like anything less than you are. Some of the things I see on the news . . . the sheer magnitude, shock, and revulsion of violent crime scenes . . . I can’t deal with it. I have to turn the channel. And yet someone has to deal with it. People like you.”
He was quiet, and she looked over at him. The mask was back on.
“Are you okay, Alex?” He’d asked her the same thing a few times, when he’d heard Glenn’s insults, when she’d come home wet and dirty, when she’d looked away from the empty bottles of liquor. It shamed her that she’d never thought to ask him the same. That their assigned roles had made her blind to his basic human needs. Did anyone ever worry about him? “I know you’re mentally tough and you’ve got coping mechanisms and training, but all that pressure and frustration has to be overwhelming sometimes. Who do you talk to?”
He sent her a look. “I told you to nurture the hell out of Cassie and Sam, not me. I’m good, okay? Critical incident stress debriefing. Look it up. That’s how I deal.” But the pinkie finger rubbed hers again before he got up. “There are things I can’t tell you, Paige, but please believe me when I say that finding the journal is important.”
The journal. That was how they’d started down this road. She’d forgotten for a moment, but he never had, because it was important. More than he could tell her.
“I believe you.”
When she got to the door, he called to her. “Yes?” She turned around.
“Good luck tomorrow. Please don’t go to sell your car on your own next Tuesday.” The guy she’d sold it to had checked out, not that he’d admit to her he’d checked, but he’d seen too many instances where those types of meetings went awry. “And I’m sorry I ever thought you are less than you are, too, Paige.”
Chapter 13
Paige looked in the mirror. It had been years since she’d worn scrubs. The timeless uniform stood for a lot, but she hadn’t felt she could do it justice the first time around. How hard she’d been on herself. How different she felt then. There were fine, faint lines around her mouth and forehead. She was thirty now, and enough removed from the avalanche that had been twenty-two to understand it, but not so far removed that she’d forget its crushing weight. That understanding and those memories would serve her and others now. Maybe it would even serve her sisters. They talked about so much, and yet they avoided the most difficult topics.
That week’s schedule of orientation and training would mean relying on Gracie to watch the kids after school for a couple of hours that first day, and then even longer on Thursday and Friday. She was grateful now that Gracie had moved in. She’d be there for a week, designing and planning office space for an industrial building, before she had to leave again to present her workplace design to her boss, and then to her new client. Paige was so proud of her. And she was glad she wouldn’t have to take up too much of her time. That she’d found a fulfilling job that made the best of her new situation.
Her first two hours were spent in standard training, where a human resources official had went over new-hire paperwork and policies. The rest of the day went by in a whirl of activity. She’d gone over charts and goals, met other staff, got to meet and have lunch with all the kids, and had then played volleyball with the girls as part of their recreational therapy.
The kids were a mix of sullen, hopeful, angry, wistful, downtrodden, and everything in between. Some had rebuffed her, some had accepted her, and others had kept a shy distance.
That afternoon, just as she was about to leave, she caught sight of the girl who’d reminded her of her mother. Her name was Laney, she’d learned. She was sitting on the same, sun-soaked sofa as last time, listening to music again, and smiling softly. Remembering how shy yet eager the young girl had been to share her music with another nurse last
time—one who’d been introduced to her as Joyce—Paige walked over, thinking she’d simply smile and see whether Laney looked like she was willing to talk.
When she sensed Paige approaching, Laney looked up and slid her headphones off expectantly.
Paige smiled. “What do you like most? The lyrics, the beat, the rhythm . . . ?”
“The lyrics. They’re like poetry that isn’t boring.” She grinned, and Paige laughed.
Encouraged by the girl’s response, Paige motioned to the headphones and in a tentative voice asked, “Do you mind?”
She was rewarded by the girl’s obvious enthusiasm in sharing her music. “It’s ‘Skyscraper’ by Demi Lovato.”
Paige listened to the entire song, and wanted so much to know who had hurt the girl. But though instinct told her it wasn’t the right time to try to learn more, the swelling in her heart told her that the right time would come. She gave the girl back her headphones. “Strong and fierce. I can see why the words make you smile. I get it.”
“Yeah. Everyone does, I guess.” There was both truth and resignation in her voice, as if she’d accepted that everyone had their troubles, but she doubted anyone understood hers.
Wanting the perfect response, Paige tried to review all her training, but instead went back to a time when she’d pitied herself, enjoyed it, and then felt shame over it. Her mother, in one of her lucid moments, had caught it, but instead of telling her she understood—which she no doubt did—she had simply been humble enough to accept Paige’s feelings at the moment, without judgment and without trying to “fix” her.
Paige reached over and squeezed the girl’s hand. “No. I don’t think everyone does, Laney.” Laney rewarded her with eye contact—their first since she’d sat down. Paige left, hoping Laney eventually got to that raw, vulnerable place where exploring everything that hurt opened wounds in a way that was ultimately healing.
She drove away from Twelve Bridges feeling a different kind of belonging than the one she’d felt the last eight years. The people she’d be working with, and the teenagers she’d be helping, were touching the deep places she only went to with her family.
This was the world outside the bubble. The world she’d lived in most of her life. There was pain and passion there. And she was now in a place where she could, no, where she would make a difference in the lives of kids whom she could connect with on a meaningful level. They had so much work to do . . . and it would be lifelong work. They needed the support of people who understood that.
* * *
Alex was rounding the corner when he saw Sherry, Hope, Gracie, Tyler, and Riley in the Tudor’s backyard. They were playing football. Or at least attempting to. “We need one more. Preferably someone who knows what they’re doing!” Sherry called out to him.
“Nooo!” Riley hissed. “Dad said—”
“But Mom said—” Tyler interrupted.
The last thing Alex wanted to do was get in the middle of that. He knew nothing about kids. For all he knew, his presence was marking them for life. It wasn’t something he’d thought too hard about when he’d made the decision to move in. Weighing things was a strong suit, and he knew he’d needed to be there. But it didn’t mean he didn’t care.
“Your dad doesn’t like him. So let’s tell Aunt Hope to tackle him,” Sherry told them.
What?
Hope smiled her pirate smile. “You wouldn’t mind, would you, Agent Hooke?”
“He looks scared.” Riley giggled, the argument she’d been about to have apparently forgotten.
“That would make Dad happy.” Tyler giggled, too. “To see Aunt Hope busting someone else’s b—“
“Tyler!” Gracie called, more sharply then he’d thought her quiet demeanor could manage.
“Sorry,” the boy said, looking suitably chastised.
“You ready?” Hope called.
He’d only come back for a quick bite and to grab a flashlight for later on, but something inside him wanted to hear those giggles again. “Go for it,” he said to Hope. He glanced at his watch. “You’re only going to hurt yourself.” Before he could react, Hope ran up and punched him where it counted, while pretending to run a real tackle. “Augh.” Alex doubled over, fell to the ground, and rolled over into the fetal position to protect his jewels from further attack, and to protect the kids from what he was cupping. He looked up at Hope, begging to know why? with his eyes, because his mouth couldn’t make a sound.
The kids giggled. It didn’t make him as happy as he’d thought. He opened his mouth to call her a dirty, rotten cheater. “Augh.” They stopped giggling and began asking if he was okay. “Oh, he’s fine,” Hope called back.
“N—augh.”
“Hope—what did you do?” Sherry demanded.
“He said I was only going to hurt myself. I took it as a warning, and made sure that wasn’t the case.”
Everyone had now come over to stare down at him. “Augh.”
Gracie folded her arms across her chest. “You shouldn’t teach the kids to play dirty, Hope! That was low.”
Hope grinned. “It sure was.”
The kids covered their mouths and tried not to giggle again, but they had a hard time.
Sherry shot her a withering glare. “You’re incorrigible.”
Hope held a hand out to him. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
Alex couldn’t take her hand. Tyler shook his head, commiserating. “You don’t know what it’s like, Aunt Hope.”
Alex could only nod in agreement. Finally, when he was able to talk, he used Hope’s tackle as an example of how not to tackle. “You want to aim for the inside hip,” he was saying.
“Right. And you never, ever want to be caught flatfooted,” Hope said, pointing her thumb over to him.
“And you especially never tackle people who aren’t aware the game has started,” Gracie cut in. The kids looked like they were enjoying the adults more than the game. Nothing was more fun than football. He decided to forgive and forget, and help the kids learn how to tackle safely.
It was more fun than he’d expected.
“What’s the most important thing they have to learn, though, Alex?” Sherry asked, after he’d demonstrated safe tackling techniques. It sounded like she wanted him to tell them some sort of platitude. He didn’t have any.
All he had were a few truths. How to translate those truths to a six- and a seven-year-old . . . ? He thought about it for a moment, thinking back to when he was learning to play. “Football is a lot like life, okay? Everyone has a job to do, and you’ll only be able to do your very best if everyone else does their job, and they will only be able to do their very best if you do yours. You’re all connected. So you owe it yourself, and to everyone else, to do your job the best you can.” Two upturned faces were giving him blank looks.
“What if my best isn’t good enough?” Tyler asked.
“If it’s really your best, it’ll be good enough,” Alex reached out and rubbed his hair before he knew what he doing. “You have to motivate yourself to do your best, but you also have to understand that your best will change from day to day, and even from one moment to the next.” Again, he wondered if it was all too complicated.
Duty nagged at him and he knew he had to leave, but he didn’t want to. He was having fun teaching the kids how to tackle safely and fairly. Duty won, as it should, but he promised the kids he’d take another half hour out for them the next day. It would do him—and the assignment—good. Both his mind and body needed a workout separate from the case. It was the best way to go back and look at things with fresh eyes. Normally, he ran. Coaching could take its place. He was starting to think he’d make a pretty good coach. Sports made communicating with kids a lot easier.
Before he left, Hope sidled up to him. “I did it for the kids. Just thought you should know.”
“Right.”
“They needed to feel like they weren’t being total traitors for playing with you. Seeing you take a hit made them feel l
ike they’d done something for their dad.”
Alex sent her a look.
“Hey, we’re all connected. And I owe it to myself, and to everyone else, to do my job the best I can,” she said, throwing his words back at him. “And you heard what Tyler said my job is . . .”
“Busting balls?”
“Exactly. It’s why I’m so good at my day job.”
“I’m sure it is.”
* * *
That night, he stared at the ceiling and thought of anything except the case. Ghost stories and how the hell they all fit into the case had been on his mind for three days. It often helped to put things on a back burner and let the subconscious mind work them out.
Paige and her first day, the Bengals’ preseason, and images of him coaching youth football flitted in and out of his head. He didn’t force his thoughts into a direction or a purpose.
The soft sounds of jazz music drifted in from the open window, and it made him think of Mad Maddie. Would he hear dishes breaking next? The idea made him smile and he got up and went outside, to check if someone was listening to jazz a little too loudly, or if it was some sort of a prank, like someone splattering pink frosting on houses on the anniversary of Clyde Cupcake’s death.
He stepped out onto the balcony just as Paige did the same next door. He felt light and airy the moment he saw her.
“Do you think it’s Mad Maddie?” she asked with a smile.
He laid his hands on the balcony railing, staring up at the full moon for a moment, not wanting to be taken in by her pretty smile or her pretty eyes. “It’s hard to tell where it’s coming from.”
“I don’t normally listen to jazz, but it’s a nice song.”
“It’s ‘Stairway to the Stars,’ by Ella Fitzgerald.” Alex didn’t listen to jazz much either, but he’d had a colleague in Chicago who always played it in the car. The memory made him smile, despite his inner battles. “There was a SWAT member who always played jazz before a raid. It always managed to put things into perspective in the strangest way.” He tapped along to the tune on the railing.
