Chapter Two

CHAPTER TWO

Lincoln / Present

T aking a swig of the beer in my hand, I shoot my little sister a look before she can say whatever is making the blue eyes she gets from Mom gleam with mischief. “Don’t,” I warn her, flipping one of the burgers on the grill.

Hannah lifts her hands in surrender, stealing my Corona and taking a sip. “You’re extra testy today.”

“And you’re already getting on my nerves,” I shoot back, reclaiming the bottle. “Not to mention underage.”

The girl thirteen years younger than me snorts in amusement. “What are you going to do? Arrest me? I’m eighteen, Lincoln. You used to drink all the time in high school, so get off your high horse.”

I close the grill and pass her the nasty fruit seltzer I bought specifically for her. “My house. My rules.”

“Hypothetically, if I were to broach a conversation about you-know-who,” she says, smiling innocently when I narrow my eyes at her, “I’d ask if you were okay.”

Choosing to play coy, I walk over to the table and grab the buns Mom brought to toast on the top rack of the grill. “I’d tell you that I’m perfectly fine and that your focus should be on passing your classes at college, not on me.”

The girl, who has only gotten sassier with age, takes the buns out of my hand with a frown. “I’m only asking because I care, and because Mom and Dad are worried. Come on, Lincoln. You were so screwed up after the separation with Georgia and then the shooting—”

“What makes you think I want to talk about it when I’ve avoided it all this time?” I cut her off. “Everybody is so worried about me, but they won’t respect my space.”

It was bad enough when my friends hounded me about my divorce because their wives wanted to make sure I was okay after the split. But I wouldn’t give them the answers they wanted to hear. Like, I was sad and depressed and wanted to talk about my feelings when that was the last thing I wanted to do. Was I fucked up? Yeah. Who the hell wouldn’t be when they gave the best version of themselves to someone who didn’t think it was good enough to stay?

All I wanted was to drink beer, talk about why the New England Patriots needed to be brought down a peg by literally any other NFL team, and move the fuck on from the hellhole reality I trapped myself in.

When that goddamn shooting happened, it only made things ten times worse. Suddenly, it wasn’t only my friends and their wives trying to have impromptu therapy sessions with me, it was my family and coworkers too. I knew I was fortunate to have people in my life who genuinely gave a shit about my well-being. But I also needed room to breathe, which I found hard to get nowadays, with everybody looming over me like they’re waiting for the day I snap.

Thankfully, Hannah lets it go too. “Fine. But, for the record, we’ve given you plenty of space. Too much, if you ask me.” I eye her, so she lifts her palms in surrender. “I’m only dropping it because I have zero interest in dealing with your moody ass the rest of the night. You always get all depressed and poetic whenever you’ve indulged in a few drinks anyway, and none of us need you spewing your long-winded tangents.”

I’ll take a victory where I can get it. “Why don’t you go inside and get Mom to relax? She’s been cleaning my kitchen since she got here, even though I told her I’d do it when I had a free day.”

My sister snorts. “We all know you never have free time. That’s why she’s here twice a week, making sure your house doesn’t look like a homeless person broke in and started squatting.”

Lips curling into a ghost of a smile, I hide it behind my drink. I appreciate everything my parents have done for me over the years, even if it’s using the spare key I gave them in case of emergencies to do my laundry, dishes, and vacuum. Maybe I should be embarrassed about my mother coming in and doing Mom shit as a thirty-one-year-old man, but I have no shame these days. All of that disappeared when I told my parents that Georgia left me, then took a bottle of my father’s scotch and damn near drank the whole thing myself within a few hours. It was a dark time that only got worse after I’d been hospitalized.

Dad shows up at the back door with a tumbler of whiskey in hand that I poured him when he got here, replacing Hannah’s spot next to me.

“Burgers should be done soon,” I tell the person I look even more like as the years pass. I close the lid to let the cheese melt into the patties and finish my beer. “You liking retirement?”

“I’m bored out of my mind. Jim said he could take me back at the garage part-time if I wanted.”

That was short-lived. “You haven’t even been retired a full year yet,” I muse.

He harrumphs. “You try retiring and tell me how much you like it.”

The senior investigator gave me paperwork for medical retirement when he visited me in the hospital for the first time. He told me the state would take good care of me. When he left, I crumpled the paper and threw it across the room.

It felt like giving up.

Accepting defeat.

I wasn’t going to do that.

Dad watches me take the food off the grill, sipping his whiskey and studying the amber liquid he’s had a time or two before. “This is pretty good.”

“Johnnie Walker,” is all I say, glad he’s not pressing me on retirement. He and Mom told me I should consider it, but I knew that was fear talking.

They’ve been worried that I’ll go back and be put in the same situation, except next time, I’d be the one carried out in a body bag.

“Huh.”

Huh. He knows who gave it to me and still doesn’t say a thing.

I pass him the plate of food. “Take that over to the table for me, will ya?”

He walks away with it, putting it by the paper plates Hannah set outside for me earlier. I put the toasted buns on a different platter and pass it to the man who’s picking at the deviled eggs Mom made.

“Food is ready,” Dad calls out to the women inside, putting the plates out at four different spots. “We expecting anybody else?” he asks, staring down at the extra one in his hand.

I set my beer down. “Not unless you invited somebody I don’t know about. Why?”

Mom butts in, appearing behind Hannah with some burger toppings she must have cut up in the kitchen. “I thought an extra plate might be necessary just in case we get any unexpected visitors.”

Unexpected visitors. “And who may that be, Ma?”

Hannah grins. “Unless it’s you who suddenly wears expensive perfume, it’s not far off to assume that Georgia—”

“She’s not coming,” I inform them through my teeth.

My little sister has always liked my ex-wife. I used to be glad they got along. These days, not so much. Because there’s a lot my family doesn’t know about the cunning woman who showed up at my house late last night, crawled into my bed, and told me she couldn’t sleep.

It’d been weakness letting her slip her hand inside my boxers, but I didn’t stop her. I let her strip me, put me in her mouth, and climb on top of me until we both chased relief.

Mom shrugs. “Well, you never know…”

Hannah laughs, Dad shakes his head, and I pinch the bridge of my nose.

“Let’s eat.” I plop into the closest spot and start serving myself to drop the subject.

Before Mom can bring up my ex or my late partner and do some sort of feelings check-in, I look at my sister. “Hannah Banana, why don’t you tell Mom about that speeding ticket you got the other day?”

She gapes at me in betrayal. “You ass! You said you wouldn’t say anything to her about it.”

Mom turns to her daughter with her hands perched on her hips and a scolding expression shadowing her feminine features. “You got another ticket? I swear to all that’s holy, Hannah Marie. We told you if you got another one that we were going to take away your—”

I hide my grin behind the food I shovel into my mouth, glad the spotlight is off of me.

*

There’s no doubt in my mind that the good doctor catches the subtle wince as I drop onto the couch. I try my best not to move or roll my shoulder, no matter how much the ache has settled in today. It always hurts when it’s raining out, which is almost every day at this point. This time of year is rough in Middle Point because of the rainfall, but it’s going to be a bigger bitch when winter hits and the temperature drops.

Should have moved down south when Georgia suggested it, I think to myself, unable to stop the soft chuckle from escaping me.

“What’s so funny?” the good doctor asks, crossing one of those lean legs over the other and settling into her usual armchair.

She’s in pants today, which is unfortunate. If I’m going to sit in silence, I at least want something nice to look at. I’ve always been an equal opportunist when it comes to the female form—I’m not just about the ass, tits, or legs. I like it all. And since her outfits always cover her chest, her legs are about all I can get a good glimpse of.

I entertain her question rather than stare at how her shirt tucked into her pants shows off her tapered waist. “I was thinking that my ex-wife was right,” I muse, a half-smirk curling my lips. It’s been a long time since I’ve said that aloud, and I bet her ears are ringing. “She always said we’d be happier down south where her family is from. She told me I should look into jobs somewhere warmer because the sunshine would put me in a better mood.”

“But you didn’t want to.” It’s not a question.

“New York pays better,” I answer. My job with the state ensured that she could get every new book that came out from her favorite authors and each special edition that released with sprayed edges I could easily do myself. I made sure she had whatever she wanted because I thought it would make her happy—thought it would be enough.

Turns out, it wasn’t.

“It’s also a lot more hours and a hell of a lot more stress,” I add. “And my family is here. So is most of hers.” Unfortunately.

She nods in understanding. “I know many couples who’ve struggled to find balance when careers blow up.”

All I do is make a thoughtful noise.

“Are you hurting?” is her next question, her eyes going to the spot in between my collarbone and heart. She’s read my file. She knows what’s under my shirt without me exposing the damaged, marred flesh.

“I’m always in a perpetual level of hurt,” I answer dryly. “Isn’t that why I’m here?”

Her lips move into a ghost of a smile again. Subtle and gone before I can blink. That’s the third time I’ve gotten her to lift those otherwise unreadable lips. “I suppose so. Are you on any medication for the pain?”

“I was given some when I was released from the hospital, but I stopped taking it.”

“Why?”

I hate how narcotics make me feel. They were essential the first week after the shootout, dulling the pain that was hot and fresh as I tried to function on my own. But I didn’t like how groggy they made me when I took one, knowing the second they wore off, I’d feel everything ten times worse. I didn’t want to depend on the painkillers to get past the physical or mental pain. I wanted to remember.

I deserved to remember everything.

I could tell her all of that. Be honest. I don’t though. “Just didn’t like them,” I murmur instead, trying not to roll my bad arm.

The physical therapy I went through for two months helped with mobility, but there’s still a lingering pain that tugs on the muscles that were obliterated by the bullet that day. No amount of exercise, medication, or surgery is going to get me back to one hundred percent.

I have to live with that. Accept it. No matter how much it pisses me off.

Those two whispered words reappear in my head, caressing my conscience. Don’t go.

The good doctor writes something on her notepad, saying nothing as her pen drags across the paper effortlessly. I’d like to know what she’s writing about. I’m sure there are a few choice words she’s thought of in the short time we’ve spent together.

Stubborn, being one of them. Evasive is probably underlined and starred. Cynical might be on there too.

“Is there anything you’d like to talk about today in particular?” she asks, letting go of the previous conversation.

It’s how she starts most of our sessions.

To which I always reply, “No.”

She watches me, studying me with a professional amount of interest in her eyes, like she’s trying to calculate how to fix me. Wondering what magic anecdote is going to help me open up in order to heal.

I’d like to know myself.

She sets her pen down and picks a piece of invisible lint off her top. “Was your divorce amicable?”

The question catches me off guard. I suppose this is my fault for bringing up Georgia. I led her to the topic I’ve done my best to avoid talking about with most people. Then again, she’s not most people, is she? “I wouldn’t say ‘amicable’ is the right word. It took months for her to even sign the paperwork after we separated.”

“And why is that?”

Her guess is as good as mine. I’ve learned it’s damn near impossible to figure out the inner workings of Georgia Del Rossi. “Don’t know, doc. I guess she was having second thoughts. Maybe because I supported the two of us. Maybe because…” She loved me. I stop myself from saying that because the thought cuts deep.

“She didn’t work?”

Georgia’s father co-founded a construction business called MDR Inc. in Savannah, Georgia, where she was born. They made good money and expanded up north when his former business partner said there was good money to be made near New York City. Then, that same partner was sent to jail for tax evasion and money laundering within five years of their move to New York. Nikolas Del Rossi claimed he wasn’t involved, but not all the facts added up. He knew having me as a son-in-law would quickly uncover a hell of a lot more than he was letting on, so he needed to do something about it.

He liked control as much as I do, but he knew a lot more powerful people to ensure he’d always have the upper hand in our relationship. Looking back, I’m not sure I ever stood a chance.

“She did,” I relent, rubbing my leg. “But she could never hold one for very long under circumstances out of her control.”

Circumstances pertaining to her father.

My fingers curl into a fist and stay by my side.

“I bet that was stressful.”

We weren’t exactly eating Ramen noodles every night, but some months were harder than others. “It was,” I agree finally. I meet her eyes, trying to look unfazed as a tight ball of nerves settles into my chest cavity. “But we made it work. For a while.”

She’s quiet for a few seconds, watching me with those inquisitive eyes through the thick lenses of her glasses. “May I ask what the reason for your divorce was?”

There was a litany of reasons, but we didn’t have time for me to list them all. “I suppose the short answer is that we grew apart and wanted different things.”

I’ve seen it happen more times than I could count. In law enforcement, the divorce rate is almost seventy percent. That’s twenty percent higher than the average. It’s hard being married to an officer, especially one as stubborn as me, who wants to change the world.

Georgia never understood it was all for her.

Her father never let her before poisoning her mind with whatever bullshit he could to drive a wedge between us. It worked.

“And when was that finalized?”

Another question I’m sure she already knows the answer to. “About seven months ago.”

“So, right before the shooting?”

“I was served a month before it happened.” A familiar bubble of anger rises up my throat that I force myself to swallow. She had the nerve to serve me and then refused to sign negotiated paperwork that protected my pension. One of my buddies was a layer and manage to talk to whatever seedy motherfucker she worked with until her inked name was finally put on the dotted line. “They were signed a month and a half after it happened. My lawyer called me the day I was released from the hospital to let me know I was free.”

Free. Whatever the fuck that meant.

It’d been a harsh reality call—like the string that had attached me to Georgia had been severed by a meat cleaver that might as well have been held by Nikolas Del Rossi himself. A final fuck you from the girl who didn’t visit me once when I was hurt.

Yet I keep the door unlocked just for her so she can sneak in and remind me of the one thing we were always good at.

“It’s been a rough year for you,” she states.

I know where this is leading. “I’d say I’ve been pretty damn lucky considering,” I answer pointedly. I’m in no mood to bring up Conklin. I barely like talking about my failed marriage.

Thankfully, she doesn’t push the topic I think she’s veering toward. “Whose idea was it to separate?”

My jaw tics because there are two people responsible for that ultimate decision. But inevitably, she was the one who walked away first. “Hers.”

The good doctor’s head dips down, pausing before asking, “Did you try fighting for it?”

Fighting. Isn’t that all I did for the entirety of our marriage? Fighting to make it work. Working my ass off day in and day out to make sure she was comfortable. We might not have always been happy, but we were content.

“What’s the point of fighting for somebody who doesn’t want to fight for you?” I ask her.

She doesn’t have an answer for me.

Good. At least she’s not the kind of person who will sit here and bullshit me with some Pinterest-level advice. It’s the last thing I want and the last thing I need.

I cross my arms over my chest. “I won’t sit here and lie and tell you it didn’t suck that the woman I spent almost ten years with chose to leave. But I wasn’t going to force her to stay either. One of us might as well be happy.”

She tilts her head, starting to pick up her pen but setting it back down on the paper as if she decides whatever she has to say isn’t important enough to be immortalized. “It sounds to me like you still care about her.”

Truthfully, I probably always will. I can only hope that fades as time goes on. “These days, the only thing I let myself care about is my job. And I think that’s probably for the best.”

This time, she does pick up her pen and write something down.

“So,” I press, watching as she scribbles down her thoughts, “when are you going to sign off on the paperwork that lets me get back to it?”

She looks up at me through the tops of her glasses. “When I feel you’re ready.”

Swallowing, I scoot to the end of the couch and rest my elbows on my bent knees. “And you think talking about my failed marriage is somehow going to prepare me for getting back to work?”

Smile number four appears, as small as before but present. “I think it’s a very big step in the right direction, Mr. Danforth. After all, it was a domino effect following that that led you to me.”

It’s not a question because she knows.

She’s just waiting for me to admit it.

“Would you look at that,” I say, checking my watch and standing. “Looks like our time is up for the day.”

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