CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ANGEL KISSES
“So, ya wanna tell me what's goin' on with you and my daughter?”
I slowly lowered my paper cup of coffee from my lips to turn and stare across the squad car at the side of Patrick's face.
“What, uh … what are you talking about?”
“Well”—he tipped his head and continued to look through the windshield—“you've been at the department for a week now, and I've noticed that, so far, you and Meg have had lunch together five out of the seven days you've been on the job.”
“Wow. I wasn't aware you'd been counting. Little creepy, but okay,” I muttered as my gut clenched with a sudden onset of nerves.
I, however, had been counting, and every single time Meg and I had run around the corner to Dick's Diner or ordered Chinese or pizza and eaten around my desk, I tacked it up with the other best moments of my life.
“I'm just wonderin' if somethin' is goin' on that I should know about.”
Shrugging, I lifted the cup back to my lips. “We're friends.”
From the corner of my eye, I watched Patrick turn to me and raise an incredulous brow.
“Ya think I was born yesterday?”
I chuffed sardonically. “I would never.”
“Oh, now you're callin' me old, huh?”
“Didn't say that either,” I murmured before taking a sip.
“Listen, all I'm tellin' ya is, I wouldn't have a problem if ya wanted to date my daughter. You're a good kid, I like your family, and I think you'd be good together,” he went on in his subtle Irish accent.
Trying hard to remain nonchalant, I swallowed my coffee and bit the inside of my cheek, placing the cup back in the car's cup holder while, internally, my heart rate spiked.
What the hell is happening?
I seemed to be asking myself that a lot these days.
“But I won't put up with any workplace drama, ya understand?”
No mention of her boyfriend, I noticed. Were they still together?
Of course she's still with him. I would know if they broke up.
Would I though?
“I don't … we're not …” I furrowed my brow and shook my head. “There's nothing going on.”
He studied the side of my face for a moment, then two, before grumbling unintelligibly and turning away. “All right, fine. I'm just sayin'—”
“Yeah, uh … yeah, I appreciate it,” I quickly said. “I just … we're friends. That's all.”
“Okay. We can—”
His words were cut off by the dispatcher, Hannah, coming through the squad car's speaker.
Patrick answered the call.
“Hannah, Kinney here.”
“Patrick, there's a shoplifter at The Fisch Market.”
He nodded, already throwing the door open. “On it. Headin' over now.”
He hung up the call and climbed out of the squad car. Exhilaration thrummed through my limbs as I jumped from the vehicle. After we slammed the doors shut, he hit the lock, and together, we walked over to The Fisch Market—the grocery store Dad was partial owner of.
Right inside the window, I could see him holding the arm of a guy, someone I vaguely recognized. Maybe I'd seen him around town. He was a handful of years younger than me, I guessed. Sixteen or seventeen, maybe eighteen at most. And he was angry.
Patrick pushed the door open and sauntered right over to where Dad stood behind the cash registers. From fifteen feet away, surrounding the ends of the aisles of shelves, onlookers stood, whispering and undoubtedly gossiping about the young troublemaker.
How many times had they whispered about me?
“Handle them,” Patrick muttered to me, waving a hand gently in the direction of the crowd of people.
I nodded and wandered over.
“Come on, guys,” I said. “Nothing to see here.”
“He tried to steal a six-pack of beer,” one of the ladies who worked with Mom at the library said. She crossed her arms over her chest. “What's going on with kids these days?”
“Oh, please, Harriett,” Rosie—Mayor Fischer’s aide—mumbled, rolling her eyes. “Like your kids never got into stuff when they were younger.”
“Oh, excuse me,” she fired back. “Jeffrey spray-painted one lamppost, and now we have to pay for that for all our lives? What about the things your son got up to?”
Rosie dropped her jaw, appalled by the accusation. “What are you talking about? He never—”
“Oh, I guess we’re just going to conveniently forget about the toilet-paper incident. I see.”
“Ladies,” I said, holding up my hands, “please. Get back to your shopping.”
They grumbled a bit and seemed reluctant at first but eventually nodded, turning away to scurry with the rest of the shoppers while shooting lingering glances over their shoulders in the direction of Patrick, Dad, and the kid who'd apparently been trying to swipe some beer from the fridge.
Been there, done that, I thought. And I didn’t get away with it either.
But I'd known I wouldn’t. I'd been trying to get caught.
Maybe this kid had been too.
I wandered over to find Sergeant Kinney and Dad standing over him, their arms crossed. Patrick was quite a bit shorter than Dad, but both of them were taller than the boy in front of them. I knew how intimidating that was.
So, instead of standing before him, I took a spot beside him.
“What's going on?” I asked.
“Just trying to decide if we should write young Mr. Morris up or not,” Patrick said.
The boy looked up at Patrick. “My dad will kill me.”
“Should've thought about that before you tried to steal,” Patrick replied.
The teenager’s mouth opened, then quickly closed, and he looked away to stare at the floor. I looked up, meeting Dad's gaze with mine, and I saw a suggestion there—a plea—and I nodded before turning to Patrick.
“Guys, give us a minute, please,” I said.
Patrick's eyes narrowed suspiciously, but he nodded after a beat.
When I was alone with the boy, I said, “My name's Noah. What's yours?”
“Matt.”
“Matt,” I repeated, nodding. “It's nice to meet you. Can I ask how old you are?”
“Fifteen.”
I'd been a little off, but not by much.
“What are you doing stealing beer, Matt? You don't wanna drink that shit. It's gross, and it makes you feel like crap.”
I might've been lying a bit. I liked having a beer every now and then, and I didn't think it was all that gross.
But it did make me feel like an absolute dumpster if I drank too much, and it didn't take a genius to know that this kid was inexperienced enough to likely drink too much without knowing it.
“I dunno,” he muttered.
I brought my shoulders to my ears as I crossed my arms, turning to look out the store window. “Ah, come on, Matt. There's gotta be a reason.”
He hesitated, then said, “I was gonna sleep over at Adam’s house ‘cause I don't wanna go home, but he told me he wanted beer, so I—”
“Why don't you wanna go home?” I asked, glancing over at him.
He swallowed, visibly shaken. “I … I didn't mean to say that. I just meant, I … um … I wanted to hang out with Adam, but he's been hanging out with this stupid kid who likes beer, and—”
“Okay, Matt, first of all, any friend who puts you in the position to get in trouble isn't a friend at all,” I said, thinking about Jay.
He had gotten me in trouble, yes, but I also asked for it. We worked together on that. We'd been a team. I wasn't sure this kid had asked for it. He was running away from problems at home, from the looks of it, and his buddy had taken advantage of him.
“Second of all,” I went on, speaking quietly, “you know, if there's something going on at home, I can help with that. I want to.”
He swallowed again, and with a tremulous breath, he lifted his eyes to mine. “My, um … my dad's been, uh …” He sniffed and rubbed the back of his hand beneath his nose. “My mom died. Last year.”
I hoped he'd circle back to what he'd started to say about his dad as I hung my head and nodded. I couldn't imagine losing my mom. Not at that age. Fuck, not at any age, but especially not when I'd been so young and vulnerable and easily influenced.
“I'm sorry to hear that, Matt.”
“Yeah. Fuck cancer.”
Continuing to nod, I agreed solemnly, “Fuck cancer straight to hell.”
“I'm okay,” he said, but I wasn't sure I believed him. “My dad isn't though.”
“I bet losing her hit him really hard.”
“He, um … he drinks a lot. He gets mad. I don't think he's mad at me—”
“No, he's not mad at you,” I said, shaking my head reassuringly.
“But he's mad, and he uses me as his punching bag.” He blinked rapidly, his eyes welling up with tears. “I-I mean, not like … he doesn't hit me. He just yells. And he throws shit. And I can't stand it.”
The layers of his agony and grief ran deep.
This wasn't about stealing a six-pack of beer. It never was.
“What's your dad's name, Matt?”
He wiped his tears with his sleeve. “Anthony.”
I nodded. “Can I trust you to wait right here?”
“Yeah,” he muttered.
“You're not gonna run the second I walk away to talk to my partner over there?”
He shook his head, and I laid a hand against his shoulder, rubbing lightly.
“All right, buddy. Hang out over here for a couple of seconds. I'll be back.”
Dad and Patrick lingered by a display of baked goods, mumbling among themselves while keeping their eyes pinned on me. Now that I was walking away from Matt, Patrick kept his glare on the kid, who had now found a seat on the window ledge.
“You're not writing that kid up,” I told Patrick. “His mom died. His dad's taking it out on him. He's acting out.”
Patrick grunted as he nodded. “Sad.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “It is.”
“So, what are you thinking, Officer Mason?” Dad asked, lifting one side of his mouth into a knowing smile. “What's the solution?”
I exhaled, puffed out my chest as I crossed my arms, and said, “Well, I think, first, you're gonna agree to not press charges.”
“All right. Agreed,” he replied, folding easily.
“And, second, you and I”—I turned toward Patrick—”are gonna drive him home and sit there while he and his old man have a good ol’ heart-to-heart.”
The look of pride on Dad's face made my heart soar as Patrick nodded approvingly.
“All right, Officer Mason,” he said, clapping Dad's shoulder in lieu of a goodbye before walking away, “let's go drive the little thief home.”
***