Chapter 21 Alice
ALICE
“Rayne hasn’t heard another word from Jerry.” Morris and I are heading back to the kitchen to grab Zoey from where we left her sipping juice with Midge.
“Yeah?” Morris asks. “Maybe the asshole figured he’s been outmaneuvered. You left him, and he’s going to go home and eat crow.”
“I don’t think so,” Alice says quietly. “He’s probably working out his next move. I told my sister we’ll be getting a new number, so to wait to hear from us next.”
“You just missed Lia,” Midge says as we round the corner and head into the kitchen. “She’s out moving Zoey’s booster seat into her van.”
Tiny lumbers into the kitchen and yanks open the fridge. “Whoa,” he says, looking from Alice to Zoey and then back at me. “Last thing I expected to see here this morning.” He grabs two cans of Coke and cracks them both open.
“Tiny, are you going to drink both of those? For breakfast?” Zoey’s eyes are wide.
Tiny looks down at the cans in his hands like he’s been caught stealing. “Uh, no. No. Here, Midge.” He sets a can down in front of her.
“I don’t drink that crap, and you know it.” Midge scowls, but then she looks at Zoey and rolls her eyes. “They were both for him,” she says, ratting him out.
“I know,” Zoey says and giggles.
“Dad, I’m glad you’re up.” Lia comes running into the kitchen, all three dogs trotting at her heels. “I don’t think I’m going to be able to use my van to run errands today. Zoey’s booster is too wide to fit on the vintage seat. Can I borrow yours? I’ll leave you my van keys if you want them.”
Tiny shakes his head. “Nah, kid, I’m good. Take my truck. Whatcha doin’ today?”
“We’re going to the craft store!” Zoey practically shrieks.
Tiny flinches at the high pitch of her voice, but he recovers and nods. “All right, all right. Yeah.”
He heads out to help Lia get the booster seat moved into his truck, muttering about dog hair on his seats. I can hear Lia’s twinkly laugh as she promises to clean up after them.
She’s a good egg. A good kid. I’m happy at the idea of her spending the day with Zoey.
They won’t be far, and Morris has her number. She’s promised to check in every hour, and we’ll be meeting up at the building by lunchtime.
This will be good for Zoey. Good for all of us.
As we split up and head out to tackle the day’s to-do list, I can almost start to breathe freely.
Morris is at my side. My daughter is with friends. We have a plan and work to do. I can almost imagine this feeling, this sense of lightness and freedom in my belly, is what hope feels like.
I learn a lot about Morris by the way he handles his business at the utility companies.
The long lines, the completely disengaged employees, and the simmering morning heat have me frazzled and crabby, but Morris seems to take every moment in stride.
He sweet-talks the grumpy old lady in line in front of us, who seems to have no concept of what it means to use an “inside voice.”
When it’s our turn at the counter, and the gas company employee tells Morris something completely opposite from what he was told on the phone this morning, he doesn’t lose his cool. Doesn’t threaten, doesn’t pound his fists.
He respectfully explains what he heard and walks the grizzled man behind the counter step by step through what he thinks he should do.
I watch him as he talks, the way he uses his body to disarm people.
He’s a huge man and the tattoos, beard, and boots make him appear imposing, but I notice when he’s talking to the morbidly obese man behind the counter, he lowers himself and leans on the counter so he’s meeting the man at eye level.
He’s never unkind.
Never loses his cool.
Morris is a true gentleman.
By the time we finish, we’ve gotten texts from Leo confirming that we have electricity at the building. The gas will take a little longer, but we have every assurance from Thad, Morris’s new best friend at the customer service counter, that the gas will be back on before the end of the day.
We climb into his truck at the end of a productive morning.
I slide my sunglasses over my eyes, and Morris reaches across the center console for my hand.
We don’t talk, but we make the ride from Daytona back to the shop with the lull of the road noise for company.
Morris is quiet as we’re driving and seems a little distracted. Maybe preoccupied with the work ahead.
It’s funny how foreign this thing between us feels. How close we can be under the sheets or at the dinner table, but every new thing we do together reveals a fresh layer of him to understand. To interpret.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
He flicks a glance to the rearview mirror and then back at me. “Absolutely. You?”
“Mmm.” And it’s true. I am okay. Better than okay, actually.
My mind wanders to Jerry. How different this morning would have been if he’d been the one dealing with the utilities. Jerry only knows how to communicate through manipulation and force. Coercion and belittling. And when none of that works, threats.
“You were amazing today,” I say, squeezing Morris’s hand.
Morris flicks me a confused look. “Hmm? Just getting shit done, sweetheart.”
I shake my head. “No, really. You were so patient and respectful. Even when everything seemed to be ten times more complicated than it needed to be.”
Morris lifts my hand to his mouth and plants a kiss on the back of it. My skin tingles at the friction of his scruff.
We ride a ways more in silence, but I notice Morris’s hand goes a little bit lax holding mine. He pulls away and starts holding the steering wheel with both hands. He’s checking and rechecking the mirrors and changing lanes.
“Morris, what is it?” I ask. I peek into the passenger side mirror to see if there’s a problem. “Are we being followed?”
Morris nods. “I think so. Not sure.” His lips are a thin line, and I can tell he’s squinting by the crinkles around the side of his eye barely visible with his sunglasses.
Before I can twist in my seat and look behind us, I hear the chirp of a siren and see flashing lights behind us.
“Okay, okay.” Morris lifts a hand and waves it, then signals and pulls off to the side of the same busy highway where just a day ago my car stalled. “Let’s see what this is all about.”
“Were you speeding?” I ask. There’s a Florida Highway Patrol car behind us, and a uniformed officer is sitting behind the wheel, fully stopped.
“No,” Morris says. “I wasn’t.”
We watch in the rearview as the officer gets out of the vehicle and walks up to the rear of the truck. He looks at the back of the SUV and sets a hand on the rear driver’s side door. He stays there a moment, peering into the windows.
“What’s he doing?” I ask. “Looking for something? Why is he touching the car?”
Morris cracks a smile. “Haven’t you ever been pulled over, darlin’? Cops leave their prints on cars when they make a traffic stop alone. That way, if I pull out a weapon, shoot, and flee, he’s left some evidence on my car that will help them find me.”
“Oh my God,” I say. “Is that true?”
He nods. “And since we’re in an SUV, he’s taking his time coming to the window to see if he can make out movement, anybody hidden in the back seat or on the floor. Any suspicious or unusual movements.”
“Jesus.” My heart rate picks up, not because we’re doing anything wrong, but because all of a sudden, it feels like we’re in trouble. And we haven’t even done anything. I can’t imagine how people like this officer put his life on the line every day like this.
What if we were bad guys fleeing a crime?
What if we were doing something illegal?
The idea makes me feel vaguely sick. The reality of the danger, of the risk, feels all too personal.
“Hands on the dash, darlin’,” Morris says. He rolls down both of our windows all the way and puts both hands on the steering wheel at ten and two, just like they teach in driver’s ed, and he nods at me to put my hands on the dash in full view of the approaching officer.
The officer steps up to the window, and I notice Morris nod.
“Good morning, Officer.” Morris smiles.
“License and registration,” the officer barks at us, not a greeting, not a kind note in his voice.
“Yes, sir,” Morris says. “Happy to do that. My license is in my wallet, which is in my jeans pocket here. May I grab that for you, sir? My girl can pull my insurance and registration from the glove box when you say it’s all right.”
The cop points a finger at Morris. “Step out of the car, sir. You can get your wallet while keeping your hands in my line of sight. Miss,” he barks at me, “I’m gonna ask you not to move until I tell you to.”
I swallow hard against the thudding of my pulse in my throat. What the hell did we do? Why is he acting like we robbed a bank?
While I sit there and try not to burst into tears, Morris negotiates every move he makes out of the truck, answering questions about whether he has any weapons or drugs in the car or on his person.
Thankfully, the answer to all of that is no.
I strain to hear what the officer says, but I keep my hands fixed on the dash while he runs Morris’s license and radios in.
The next thing I know, he’s got Morris in cuffs, and he’s sitting on the curb. The officer comes around to the passenger side window and starts barking questions.
“Ma’am, what’s your name?”
“Do you want to see the registration?” I ask, confused for a moment.
“Ma’am! I asked you a question! What’s your name?”
I tell him my name as my voice shakes. I have no fucking idea what’s going on here. “Officer, what’s wrong? What did we do?”
“Do you have any identification on you?” he asks, ignoring my questions.
I take my lead from Morris and politely ask the officer if I can get my driver’s license from my purse. He agrees and watches me open my purse, pull out my wallet, and hand over my license. He checks it over carefully, and then he leans close to me.
“Ma’am, who is this man to you?” The officer’s tone hasn’t lightened up at all. “How do you know this man?”
“Morris?” I ask. “Morris is my…my boyfriend. Why?” I ask. “What’s going on? I don’t understand!”
“Your boyfriend,” he says, shaking his head. “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to get out of the car. I’m going to put your boyfriend in the squad car, and then I’m going to ask you a few questions. You’re not in trouble, but I’m going to need you to do exactly as I say.”
“I don’t understand!” I’m confused and crying now, the tears running down my face.
As the officer moves Morris into the back of his car, a second and then a third police car pull up and create a formation around us, blocking us in. I wish I could call someone, or at least talk to Morris.
Does he have some kind of warrant out there that I don’t know about? Does he have some shady criminal past that’s just now coming back to bite him? Why the fuck is this happening?
Once Morris is secured in the first car and all the officers are surrounding us, a female officer approaches me.
“Alice Sparrow?”
I nod. I still have my hands on the dash, and tears and snot are running down my face.
I follow the officer’s instructions to the letter. I get out of the car and keep my hands where they can see them. They separate me from Morris, and when I try to look back at him, the female officer yells at me to look straight down and not back.
I sit on the curb where they tell me to sit, out of sight of Morris in the squad car. I have never been so terrified in my life. I’ve never had a ticket. I’ve never been pulled over. I have never so much as had a detention before, so I’m completely unprepared for this.
I’m afraid. I’m angry. And I’m thoroughly confused. That is, until the female officer approaches me and starts asking questions.
“Why did you tell us your name was Alice Sparrow, Mrs. Cruz?”
I’m stunned by that. I’ve never taken Jerry’s last name. Since he didn’t plan to adopt Zoey, I wanted to share the same last name with my daughter. That was the name on my license and everything legal… I just…
Oh fuck.
Now the pieces are starting to fall into place.
That motherfucker Jerry.