23. Chapter 23
Iwake in a bed that feels like a cloud. I am still fully clothed, and my eyes feel like the lids are suctioned right to my eyeballs, since I slept in my contact lenses.
It’s barely light out, and I realize I’m the first one up, so I decide to make up the bed and hightail it out of Monty and Catherine’s house before they wake up. I don’t need them offering me clothes and making me breakfast. They’ve already done enough for me, letting me spend the night.
I hop in my car and make my way home.
I’m looking at the time on my phone to see if I can squeeze in a little more shut eye before I have to get into the shower as I ascend the stairs to my apartment and make my way to the door. Then as I go to push the key in, the door opens.
Because it’s not shut.
In fact, I can see scratch marks around the keyhole, indicating it’s been picked.
I take a step back and look around the hallway. For what, I’m not sure.
I should just barge in and see what holy hell awaits me. Whomever entered must be gone by now, since daylight has already broken. But I can’t seem to get my feet to move. My gut is swirling with insecurity as I stay rooted in place.
The most glaring anomaly here is the absence of barking. Where the hell is my damn dog?
Shit.
SHIT!
What I should do is get back in the car and go back to Monty’s, but that makes me feel needy and I hate that. I certainly can’t call 9-1-1 since that is a direct line to the police department, and, well, they are probably the culprits.
I know I should call Knox, since this kind of involves him now—now that our apartment has been broken into. But I don’t want to.
Bringing my phone to life, I descend the stairs as I find the contact I know will be here right away, no questions asked.
It rings once and goes right to voicemail, which I expected, considering our last exchange. I immediately redial and she picks right up, like I knew she would.
“This better be an emergency because I’m not in the mood for any more judgy insults,” Dee says, sleep still in her voice.
“I need help,” I squeak out through a ragged breath.
I hear her shuffle on the other end.
“Someone broke into my apartment. Two members of the police department stopped by the office last night and made a scene, so I slept at Monty’s. I just got home, and the lock on the door has been picked. I’m too scared to go in alone, and I’m too proud to call Knox, and I don’t know what to—”
“I’ll be right there!” Dee booms through the phone. I can hear keys jingling through the line, and more shuffling. “Don’t go inside without me. Hold your keys like a claw—put a key between each finger and make a fist so if someone comes you can scrape their eyes out.”
The phone disconnects.
I’m sitting on the front stoop thinking how fitting it is that it’s a hazy, foggy morning—to match my mood—when Dee’s car comes screaming into the parking lot. A wooden stick or handle is sticking out from the back passenger side window.
Her door swings open and she jumps out, landing in a fighting stance, eyes wide. She looks like a rabid animal. “Where are they? What’s happening? Have you heard anything?”
I stare at her, then she relaxes her stance. “I have a lot more questions but none of them seem all that important in this exact moment,” she says, making her way around the car.
“Thank you so much for coming,” I start, but she flails a hand in the air to silence me.
“Later,” she says. She opens the back passenger side door and pulls out a rake. An old as shit, rusted metal claw attached to a long, wooden, splintering handle. It’s not a big, wide rake you would use to collect leaves. It’s a short, stubby one with fingers curled under to till soil.
She holds it close to her body as she swivels around to face me, then pushes the rake at me, nodding and gesturing toward the house as I take it in my hands. Like she’s telling me to take the lead.
I look at the item in my hands then back up at her, with God only knows what written all over my face. “The fuck am I supposed to do with this, Dee?!” I ask through so many other questions swirling within my brain. “Brush the intruder’s hair?
“Look,” she says, unamused. “I saw it in the garage as I got in the car. I would have preferred a pitchfork, but I didn’t see one. And the chainsaw has to be plugged in, and I don’t know if you have an outlet in the hallway …”
She’s serious. She’s dead serious. And she’s still talking, but I can’t hear anything through the emotions running through my mind. I lurch forward and sling an arm around her neck, pulling her into an awkward hug with the rake weapon lodged between us.
“Thanks for coming,” I say into her hair.
“Yeah, yeah,” she says, patting me on the back.
We separate and head up the stairs like we’re firefighters, and I’m holding a live hose ready to shoot water, and she’s right behind to sturdy me. We take each step up carefully, cautiously, and then a giggle escapes me.
How on earth I am laughing right now is beyond me.
Dee is also giggling, but gives me a shove to keep it moving. We get to the door and stop. I see Dee bite down on her bottom lip, then look around the hallway, like I did when I arrived.
“What do you think?” I ask her quietly.
“Why don’t I hear that freaking dog of yours barking?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I reply solemnly. “The door was left ajar, so he may have escaped.”
“Shit,” she whispers back. “I don’t know. Maybe we should wait.”
“Wait for what?” I ask.
“Well, I may have called Monty on my way over.”
“Dee!”
“Well,” she puts her hands up, “he was there with you last night so maybe he has some insight. And I’m a little out of my league here.” She gestures toward the rake. “I mean, clearly.”
“You know what, this is stupid. I’m going in,” I say, and before Dee can protest, I push the door all the way open with the rake and yell into the dark room. “Police! Come out with your hands up!”
Dee rolls her eyes at me. “Seriously?”
I shrug. Then we inch our way in.
“Oh, shit,” I hear Dee say behind me. “The place has been ransacked.”
Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “No, actually, it hasn’t. This is just the way I live now.”
I look around at the apartment, which is exactly as I left it. Dirty dishes in the sink. Dirty laundry on the floor. Coffee table covered with old takeout food containers. Everything is in its place.
We make our way into the bedroom and find the bed unmade, dresser drawers half-open, and I can see a wet towel on the floor near the closed bathroom door. Yep, still looks about right.
Then I hear whimpering and realize Kennedy is shut in the bathroom.
“Police!” We hear from behind us, and Dee and I jump, scream, and swivel around. I push the rake out in front of us to find a breathless Monty standing in the entrance to the apartment … with a butter knife extended from a shaky arm.
We let out our breaths and lower our weapons.
“What the hell are you doing with a rake?” he asks as we head back into the living room, where he meets us.
“Oh, what a question coming from a guy with a butter knife,” retorts Dee. “What are you gonna do? Butter my biscuits?”
All three of us plop down shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch. I’m in the middle with the rake standing upright between my legs. A collective sigh escapes us.
“You gave me a freaking heart attack,” Monty says over me to Dee, then he looks at me. “She called all frantic and said your apartment was broken into and something about a key claw and a chainsaw, and I know you can’t call the police, so I grabbed the thing nearest to me—I was making toast when I got the call, for your information—and sped over here.”
“I appreciate it,” I say, patting his bobbing leg. “You guys are the best. You’re totally my people.”
“Yeah, well, we’re going to have to call someone since your place was obviously trashed,” Monty says. “Do you know if they took anything?”
I roll my eyes, yet again, and Dee laughs beside me. “What?” he asks.
I barely register the sound of heavy footsteps bounding up the stairs before the bark of my name has the three of us jump in our seats and turning our heads to find Knox standing in the doorway, a hammer raised above his head, held by a bandaged hand.
I see his face bounce to each of our faces. “What happened? Is anyone here?” Knox rushes out while opening and closing the coat closet, storming into the bedroom, looking under the bed, then letting Kennedy out of the bathroom.
The dog blows right past Knox and practically jumps into my lap.
“It’s OK, buddy,” I say to him as I rub the top of his head and soothe him while he barks. Oddly, I’m thankful the mutt isn’t harmed.
“Why are you guys just sitting there?” Knox asks, putting the hammer down and resting his hands on his hips. “And what’s with the rake?”
We all just stare up at him, then Dee answers, “Oh, you know, we were just gonna make mashed potatoes out of the culprit with this here rake, and then butter him up real good with this here sword.” She juts a thumb toward Monty and the silver blade he’s holding.
A beat goes by, and then Dee, Monty and I erupt into laughter.
Knox just looks from face to face, unsure of what to make of the three of us. Then his features soften, and he even chuckles. “You’re a weird group, you know that?”
“Trust me, I know,” Monty answers as he awkwardly hoists himself up from our old couch with a groan.
“Thanks for calling me, man,” Knox says to him, extending his arm and shaking Monty’s hand. Then he looks around, knowing this is how I left the apartment, and adds, “Well, at least whoever it was didn’t take anything.”
“You called him?” I ask Monty.
He shrugs his shoulders. “I thought he might be closer and could get here before I could.”
Knox shoves his hands into his pockets and peers up at me through his eyelashes.
“No, it’s fine. I just didn’t know the whole cavalry would be coming out.”
Knox and I are still looking at each other when Dee clears her throat. “Well, I think my work here is done, and since it’s Saturday, and I’m off, I’m going back to bed.” She stands, and I follow.
“I’ll walk out with you,” I say, leaving the guys in the apartment. We walk down the stairs and as we approach her car, I start, “Dee—”
“You don’t have to say it,” she interrupts.
“Yes, I do,” I say, and I think I may actually cry. “I’m so sorry for how I spoke to you, and the nasty things I said. I absolutely didn’t mean them and wish I could take them all back.”
“I know,” she says as she pulls me in for a hug. “They did hurt like a bitch, but I know you were just wound up.”
“Thank you for coming,” I say with a trembling voice.
As Dee is backing out of the driveway the guys come down the front stoop, Kennedy on their heels, running to the nearest bush and relieving himself. “I’m heading out,” Monty tells me. “Catherine is probably wondering what the hell is going on.”
“Thanks again, Monty,” Knox tells him, clasping a hand on his back and shaking his hand once again.
“Yep,” is all Monty responds before turning to me. “You good, kid?” he asks, and I think he’s referring to leaving me with Knox. I nod.
He starts to back away, but doesn’t make it far before I lunge at him and hug him tight, his arms trapped awkwardly at his sides as I squeeze him. “Thanks,” is all I say, and I hear him sigh.
I watch him get in his car and leave, then head back up the stoop where Knox is sitting on the top step, Kennedy perched on the step below. Resigned, I slide down beside Knox. We sit in silence for a beat before he scratches a hand through his hair, then drags it down his face. “You’ve got a lot of people who care about you, Lizzie,” he says, before turning to look at me.
“Yeah, I do,” I say, returning his gaze.
He breaks it as he looks toward the street and asks, “Why didn’t you call me?”
I follow his gaze and blow out a breath, giving him the truth. “Well, if we’re going to have separate lives, then I have to learn not to rely on you, right?”
I hear him grunt before he runs his hands over his knees. “Bullshit,” he grumbles.
“What?”
“I said bullshit,” he says louder. “I thought you just needed space. But is this it? Lizzie, are you done with me? Because I’ve been holding out hope over here. I haven’t given up.”
“That’s not fair,” I blurt out, but I’m cut off.
“I know. God, Lizzie, I know! I fucked up so royally and unforgivably, and if you need years of space, I can give you that.” He’s looking back at me now, ducking his head so he’s eye level with me. “But I gotta know there’s something we’re fighting for.”
I push up off the stoop, but I feel a hand around my wrist. I pull myself free and spin around to face Knox. “Did you tell him to keep tabs on me?” My tone causes Kennedy to bark.
Knox is standing now, too, and looks at me with questioning eyes.
“I’m talking about Monty. Do you get updates from him about me? Did you ask him for that?”
Knox is shaking his head. “When I stopped by the office after you were suspended—”
“You stopped by the office?”
“Yeah, I did. I wanted to see you. Anyway, Dee all but castrated me, but Monty and I caught up a little, and I just told him that I worry about you, and that I care about what’s going on in your life. I didn’t have to ask him to look out for you. I know he already does that. He called me on his own this morning.”
“And you came running.” It’s not a question.
Knox looks at me like he’s trying to decide if I’m making fun of him for running to me when I don’t necessarily want him here.
Then, he shakes his head with a chuckle, stands up and starts to walk away. But then he turns back. “Lizzie, I will always come running to you. I will always wait for you. I will always come back to you. You just let me know when you’re ready … again.”
And then he turns and walks away.
I take the long way to work today because I want the cruise time. I circle around back streets listening to mellow music, trying to settle my brain before I get to work. I’m in black faded tight jeans and a black hoodie—extremely unprofessional—but I’m out of cares today. Zero fucks do I give.
No makeup. Hair in a messy bun. I’m listening to Brittany Howard tell me I’ve got to “Hold On” while I pass the small city houses that line the streets too close together.
Before I know it, I’m heading away from the office and toward the police headquarters. I don’t know why. I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m on autopilot. As I approach, I see Chief Scott exit his personal vehicle, coffee in hand, making his way toward the building.
The words are out of my mouth before I even realize I”ve formed them. “I thought your job was to protect and serve, asshole.” I shout the words through my open window, then pull my car haphazardly into the parking lot, taking up two spots on an angle, and get out of my car.
The chief is stopped in his tracks, taking in my current state.
“Ms. Mitchell,” he addresses me curtly. Eyes darting to my car, my clothes, my face. He looks puzzled, and a little concerned.
“What is wrong with you?” I say as I come to a stop in front of my car, only a few feet from him, arms folded across my chest.
He regains his composure and pivots to look at me straight-on, and settles the hand not holding his coffee into a pocket. “Lyzbeth, I’m going to give you a little rope here, and I truly hope you don’t hang yourself with it.” He gives me a stern stare before continuing, “What’s going on?”
“Like you don’t know.”
“Actually, I don’t. I have no idea what your problem is, or why you are approaching me, rather aggressively, in the parking lot. But I’ve also always known you to be professional, so I’m willing to hear you out.”
“Call off your muscle.”
“What muscle?”
“The ones you sent to my apartment last night! And to my office right before that.”
I see his head pull back a bit and his eyebrows pull together. His hand comes out of his pocket, and he puts it up toward me. “Wait. Hold up a second. What happened to your apartment?”
I cock my head to the side. No, he had to know. I’m done being blindsided. I’m done not listening to my gut.
“Are you gonna stand there and tell me you didn’t send your guys to the office to intimidate me, and then to my apartment to break in and scare me?”
“Whoa, hang on a second, Lyzbeth. That is quite the accusation.”
“Who else would have broken into my apartment?”
“I don’t know.” Again, his hand is up. “But it certainly wasn’t one of my deputies. Jesus, did you call 9-1-1?”
I give him an “are you serious?” look and he sighs and rubs his temple. “Wait. Who came to the office last night?”
Now I sigh. “Clark and Henderson. And you’re really good at playing dumb.”
“Come into my office. We have to straighten this out.”
Just as he finishes his sentence, the door to headquarters swings open and Clark comes out, taking quick steps. “Ms. Mitchell, fancy seeing you here.”
“Go fuck yourself.” And there goes my mouth again.
“Lyzbeth,” I hear the chief start in warning, but it sounds as if he’s off far away in the distance somewhere. A sure sign I’m just too far gone at this point.
I approach Officer Tough Stuff, ignoring the sirens in my head telling me to back off, and the look on his face that tells me he knows he’s winning. “You are a sad excuse for an officer of the law, you know that? What are you overcompensating for, huh?”
I get closer to him, and I see a grin spread across his face, telling me he truly is an asshole. He is enjoying this little game he’s playing with me. And I’ll be damned if I let him think he scares me. I feel the last piece of lunacy I was holding onto shatter.
I walk right up to him, practically nose-to-nose, and grab his groin. “Is this weapon not capable enough for the ladies, so you have to try to intimidate them?”
I hear the chief curse behind me and, in a fraction of a second, I see Clark’s eyes widen before he grabs my shoulders and whips me around to face away from him, pulling my hands to my side and then behind my back.
“I believe you just put your hands on a law enforcement officer, and that would be grounds for arrest,” he says coyly as he slaps cuffs on my wrists.
“God-fucking-damnit!” Chief Scott shouts as he flings his coffee to the ground.
And I laugh. Because, well, what the hell else should I do?
Clark starts to steer me toward the building but the chief grabs me by my right arm and tells his subordinate, “I’ll take her in. You go to my office. And grab Henderson. I want you both in my office. NOW!”
The chief gently drags me into the building, down the hall and toward a room where they apparently keep all the delinquents.
“Now it’s my turn to ask, Lyzbeth: What the hell is wrong with you?” he grits through his teeth.
“Apparently, a lot,” is all I can think to say.
“Look, I’m going to get to the bottom of whatever the hell is going on here. But for now, you have to stay put. You put your hands on an officer, and I can’t ignore that. But let me just figure out what the fuck is going on. Can you stay out of trouble while you’re in here? Can I take the cuffs off you while you sit in there? Or are you going to be a problem?”
We come to a stop outside of a door labeled “LOCKUP” and I shrug. “Honestly, I don’t know what I’m gonna say or do these days. Maybe it’s best to keep the cuffs on.”
Rolling his eyes, the chief unlocks the cuffs anyway and swings the door open with one arm and motions for me to go inside with the other. I step inside and stop in my tracks when I see another delinquent. The chief, also surprised, falters beside me.
“What the hell are you doing here?” The words are his, not mine, as we both look at Monty sitting on a bench, rubbing his wrists.
Chief Scott and I look at each other, then back at Monty. “Not to be unoriginal, but, as the chief asked, what the hell are you doing here?” I repeat.
With a sigh and a glance to the ceiling and back, Monty answers.
“I ran through a stop sign leaving your apartment because I had about 47,000 things running through my mind, and I was distracted. Some Junior Officer Dipshit approached and saw the knife sitting on the passenger seat and deemed it a weapon, and when I told this Junior Officer Dipshit that a butter knife could hardly be considered a weapon and I could do more damage by jamming my thumbs into his eye sockets, he took that as a threat and, well, here I am.”
“Wait,” Scott interjects. “Why did you have a knife on you?”
We all exchange glances, and then my laughter erupts again. I can’t hold it in. I don’t even try.
“This is a fucking disaster,” the chief says. “Both of you, stay put. Keep your mouths shut. And wait for me to come back.”
As he closes the door, rather aggressively, I hear him mutter. “Un-fucking-believable.”