Chapter 2
Savvy
I watched him get into the black truck, Gaines Contracting painted on the door panels, along with a website and phone number I memorize.
I’ll satisfy my curiosity later in the privacy of my home, but first I need to call my chief deputy to let him know his son is playing hooky.
“Don’t be too hard on him,” Bess pleads, blocking my path when I walk inside, my eyes on the teenager who was smart enough to stay put like I told him to.
“He comes in here occasionally and sits in that booth by himself, staring into his drink. Today was the first time I’ve seen him with someone else. That boy is hurting.”
It shouldn’t surprise me Bess, my sweet, soft-hearted friend, has quietly adopted Carson into her protective field.
She’s the one who—at six years old—scooped up a baby bird that fell from a tree and rushed all the way home from school to see if her mom could help her save it.
Although the memory is a little fuzzy, I’m pretty sure the poor thing perished, but it did start a trend of Bess taking in hurt creatures of all kinds and creed in an attempt to rescue them.
Some successfully so, but some—mostly of the two-legged variety—would abuse her kindness.
I don’t like seeing my friend hurt, but that doesn’t stop me from giving her a stern look.
“Fine, but don’t think you’re off the hook for not giving me a heads-up about Silence’s prodigal son returning.”
Then I step around her and walk up to the aptly remorseful looking boy.
“Your father is on the way,” I inform him.
The news appears to deflate him even further, so I slip into the booth across from him. Bess hurries over with the coffee I’d almost forgotten about and slides it in front of me.
“Is Tatum okay?” he asks, his head hanging low as he peers at me from under his eyebrows. “Her dad seemed angry.”
I’m glad for the question, it reassures me his heart was and is in the right place.
The mention of her father requires a little more processing, something I will save for later, when I’m home and can safely throw things.
Nate Gaines is the last person I would ever have imagined in the role of a parent, or back in Silence for that matter.
“She’s fine,” I reassure him, quickly adding, “Other than the trouble she’ll be in for skipping school. I don’t think you’re her father’s favorite person right now though. You may want to keep your distance.”
He shakes his head. “Her locker is across from mine. A couple of little bitches were razzing her. I overheard them say something about her mom being a junkie and killing herself.”
I wince at the derogatory term but let it go since it apparently was deserved.
“They made her cry and she ran,” he continues. “I told them off and followed her outside, but she didn’t want to go back in so I brought her here.”
There is definitely a good kid hiding inside the troubled teen the world sees.
“She lost her mom,” I surmise.
He nods. “She said it was an overdose. Just three months ago.”
Christ. Poor kid. I feel a rush of sympathy not only for the girl, but her father as well. Like Carson, I know what it’s like to lose someone you love, but losing them like that is particularly harsh.
“A little close to home, right, Carson?”
“Yeah,” he mumbles, wiping his nose with the back of his hand.
At sixteen, Carson isn’t small; almost six feet and with a good set of shoulders, but in that moment he’s just a little kid trying to deal with the loss of his own mother.
“You did a good thing stepping up for her, but can I make a suggestion?” I offer gently. I wait for his eyes to come up and meet mine. “Next time, take her to the school office, or at least let someone know where you’re going. She’s only fourteen and her father was really worried.”
He snorts.
“I doubt there’s gonna be a next time. Her dad already hates me.”
“I’m sure he’ll be more understanding after Tatum explains to him what happened,” I assure him.
But just to be safe, I might actually run Nate down to make sure he’s aware. From my experience, fathers can be quite protective of their daughters.
Talking about fathers; from the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse through the coffee shop’s window of Hugo’s cruiser pulling up to the curb. I quickly get to my feet to intercept him before he stalks in here with proverbial guns blazing.
I catch him right outside the door.
“Where is he?”
He looks like an angry bull, nostrils flaring, and I’d swear you can see steam coming from them.
“Ease up,” I caution him. “And once you’re done barking at him, don’t forget to listen too. His heart was in the right place.”
Of course, I’m one to talk, I didn’t exactly stop to listen first either.
Hugo does little more than grunt before pushing past me.
Instead of returning inside, I choose to head back to my office.
Hugo can handle his son, and I’m not ready to get into a conversation with Bess.
I’m going to need some downtime to come to terms with the fact he’s back in town before I tackle the subject of Nate.
The moment I walk in to the lobby, Brenda pokes her head out of her office.
“There you are. You turned off your radio.”
Shit. I did when I called Hugo, not wanting any interruptions, but I forgot to turn it back on. I immediately reach for the radio clipped to my duty belt and turn the dial to the on position.
“Sorry. What’s up?”
“KC took a domestic call on Quarry Road.”
“By himself?”
KC Kingma is a good deputy—one of my younger ones—but I still would’ve preferred he not take a domestic call alone.
We generally pair up for calls like that since they involve more than one individual and can be very unpredictable and, therefore, dangerous.
Especially when there is only one deputy to try and control the often volatile situation.
“We’re shorthanded, and with Hugo bolting out of here and you incommunicado, there wasn’t anyone else to send after him.”
I’m already on my way back out the door when she calls after me.
“Dozer called it in. It sounds like Ben is on a tear again.”
Oh, great. Ben and Wanda Rogers are what we call frequent fliers, who live in a modular home just outside of town, and Dozer Combs is their neighbor.
Ben is an angry drunk, which he is often, but since he lost his job as a long-haul trucker after I pulled him over for driving under the influence about six months ago, it’s gotten progressively worse. This is not the first call this month.
I groan when I pull up and see KC ducked behind the driver’s side door of his vehicle, sidearm drawn. On the small porch of the house, I can see Ben stalking back and forth, waving his hands. One of them is holding a nasty looking gun.
Just what I need on a Friday afternoon.
Nate
I take another sip of beer, walk over to the sliding back door, and step outside.
The house was in decent shape, but the backyard was sorely neglected by the previous owners.
Maybe tackling that is a better outlet for my frustration than pacing around the house, waiting for my stubborn daughter to come out of her bedroom, where she barricaded herself the moment we walked in the door.
Kids, man. I don’t know.
When she first came to me, I’d taken her to see a therapist recommended by the social worker.
The woman suggested Tate might need some help processing her mother’s death, but it was clear after a couple of sessions she wasn’t engaging.
She wasn’t with me either. Wouldn’t talk about her mother or much of anything else, for that matter.
Although I’m probably as much to blame for that.
I was far from prepared to take care of a young teenage girl, living in an apartment that suited my solitary lifestyle just fine, but was not really suitable for her. That’s when I started wondering if it might not be better to get a fresh start somewhere.
Here we are, a trip down memory lane for me, but a fresh start for Tatum.
A safe place, where people will keep an eye out for her, should I fall down on the job.
I scoff at the irony. Yet, Tate is still not communicating.
Still not letting me in, and I’m scared shitless I’m already fucking up, and we haven’t even been here two weeks.
Yard work proves to be therapeutic, and by the time I have weeds yanked, the soil turned in the beds, and what passes for a lawn mowed, I’m feeling a lot better. Even a little accomplished.
Working with my hands has always been an outlet for me, hence my chosen profession.
I was a pissed-off teen, and physical labor was a way to stay out of trouble.
Those hands have been able to build me a good living over the years.
A solid reputation for quality work. But I’m a long way from Las Vegas and I don’t think my reputation stretches quite this far.
I need to get my hands on some work. I’m not hurting for money, but I can’t sit by idly. I’m better when I’m busy.
I glance over at the stairs when I walk into the kitchen, hoping perhaps Tate has surfaced, but I can hear the muted sounds of Taylor Swift coming from her bedroom.
After a lifetime of listening to rock, my ears took a little time to adjust to the perky sounds of the pop diva.
I’ll never admit it, but the music may be growing on me.
I wash my hands at the sink and check the fridge in search of inspiration for dinner.
That’s another thing that I’ve had to adjust to.
I don’t mind cooking when I’m in the mood, but since Tate moved in with me, it has become more of a chore.
Especially since she’s so damn picky and if she doesn’t like it, she just won’t eat.
It scares the crap out of me, I’ve read about eating disorders and I don’t want my daughter to fall victim to that.
It’s probably not something I can control with my cooking anyway, but I’m not taking any chances.
Tate likes Asian foods and it looks like I may have the makings for a decent pad Thai. I pull out bean sprouts, peppers, carrots, green onions, chicken, and an egg. I’ve barely started chopping when the doorbell startles me. Wiping my hands on a towel, I head for the door.
“Savvy?”
I realize too late I probably should call her Sheriff Colter instead of her given name, which rolls off my tongue with too much familiarity.
“Sorry to disturb,” she mumbles, the ball cap with her job title embroidered at the front of it pulled low, obscuring most of her face. “Rowan told me you bought the old Miskin place.”
If not for Grace and Gloria Miskin—the two sisters I grew up living across the street from—my childhood would’ve been nothing but bad memories.
They looked after me when no one else did.
Unfortunately, I lost touch with them after I left town, and apparently Gloria passed away and Grace moved to a care facility, but when I saw their old house was up for sale, I couldn’t resist.
On the other side of the street, where my childhood house used to be, is now a newer development of semi-detached homes, housing mostly younger families, which only added to the appeal.
Plus, whoever owned it in the interim had done some decent renovations to the place, giving it a more contemporary look but without taking away the warm, welcoming feel I remember from my younger years.
It seemed like a good place—maybe a healing place—to bring my daughter to, and I’m holding out hope for that to be true.
“I did,” I finally answer Savvy, returning my attention to her. “What brings you out here?”
I can hear the edge in my question. She hears it too and finally lifts her head so I can see her face.
A deep red mark, already turning blue in places, covers the right side of her face. Without warning, a hot rage bubbles to the surface.
“Who?” I bark, my hand involuntarily reaching for her face.
She winces and takes a step back, only adding to my anger.
“Who the fuck did that to you?”
“Calm down,” she snaps, placing her hands on her belt. “I got caught up in a domestic call. Bumps and bruises come with the job.”
“On your fucking face?” It flies from my mouth before I can check it.
Those big brown eyes narrow to glimmering slits and her lips press together tightly.
“Not your concern,” she articulates sharply.
I feel myself jerk back, as if she’d slapped my face. Put in my place, I take a deep breath and force all emotion from my face.
“Fine. What brings you out here, Sheriff Colter?” I repeat my earlier question.
I can tell she doesn’t buy into my attempt at a friendly tone, but she doesn’t call me on it.
“I don’t know if your daughter has had a chance to tell you what happened at school.”
“School?”
I instinctively dart a glance at the stairs over my shoulder, only to catch a flash of what I assume is Tate ducking out of sight. When I turn back to Savvy, a faint smile is playing on her lips.
“I remember what it was like to be a teenage girl and reluctant to share anything of a sensitive nature with my parents,” she offers, confirming her accurate read on the situation before she explains. “Carson, the boy from earlier, caught a couple of girls being cruel to your daughter at school.”
Instantly, my anger flares up again.
“What do you mean, cruel?”
She gives me a sympathetic look before she answers.
“It was about her mother. Carson mentioned she bolted out of the school and he took off after her to make sure she was okay. She wasn’t, which is why he took her to Strange Brew.”
“Her mother died a few months ago,” I share. Then I decide to add, “Of a drug overdose.”
“I’m so sorry for your loss. And I’m sorry to have to bring it up, but I wanted to make sure you knew what happened. In case you want to report the incident to the school.”
“No!”
This time Tatum doesn’t try to hide herself when I turn around. Her face is blotchy, probably from crying, and I feel instantly guilty. I should’ve made sure she was okay instead of assuming she was moping.
“It’ll only get worse if you do,” she cries, before turning on her heel and running upstairs.
Her bedroom door slams and Taylor Swift’s “Cruel Summer” suddenly blasts through the house. All designed to keep me out, but this time I’m not going to let it deter me.
I already have my foot on the first step when I hear Savvy behind me.
“I’ll just see myself out.”