Chapter 31
Marissa
“Marissa, Junior’s been in a car accident.”
My phone drops from my hand. Once the words register, I fall to my knees to pick it back up.
“Dylan, what happened?” I ask while clutching the phone in my numb hand. “Where is he? Is he alive? Please tell me he’s okay?”
“He looks fine, but please get here as soon as you can. They’re doing some tests now.”
“Okay, okay, bye.”
I run downstairs in a trance, holding the towel around my body with one hand and my phone with the other. The now-cold water from my hair is sliding down my neck and shoulders.
“Baby, what’s wrong?” Hawk asks me, frowning.
My face contorts into sobs. “It’s DJ. He’s been in an accident.”
“Tell me what you know,” he says as he takes the phone from me so he can hold my hand.
His touch steadies me.
“Dylan called. He’s at the hospital. We have to go down there,” I manage to say after a while.
“Okay. Here’s what we need to do. I’ll turn off the stove, grab a protein bar and some fruit for you. You go get dressed, alright? We’ll then pack Eddie and a change of clothes for DJ, and we’ll drive down there, okay? I’ll call everyone from the car.”
“Okay,” I struggle to breathe through the terror that is squeezing my ribcage mercilessly. “Okay. I’ll go put some clothes on.”
“You can do this,” Hawk says against my temple before kissing it gently; so gently I start crying again. “Shhhh, it’s okay. Let’s go see our boy.”
On the drive to Tucson, I can’t stop bouncing my leg or running the palm of my right hand over the fabric of my cut. My left one is trapped in Hawk’s tight grip.
He occasionally shoots me a concerned look, but he’s mostly focused on the phone calls he’s making. Each person is on speakerphone, but I don’t hear a thing they’re saying.
The woman at the front desk tells us where to go, and we run like we’re being chased.
The hospital smell triggers the memory of the aftermath of my kidnapping.
I think I’m going to vomit.
I’m out of breath by the time we stumble upon Dylan arguing with two police officers and a middle-aged woman in a blazer and a pencil skirt.
“Dylan, what happened?” I yell out, and they all turn towards us.
Dylan looks both upset and confused.
“I was helping set up for the party,” he whispers while looking through me.
“It was so perfect, Riss. The theme was wolves, and we had Sly’s backyard all decked out.
The brothers got him a little Harley tricycle and a huge stuffed wolf, and I bought the biggest wooden backyard playset that the store had, and it was all… ”
He never finishes that sentence. After staring at the wall for a while, he shakes his head as if to remove the cobwebs that are affecting his vision. “I did everything. She only had to drive him there. Nothing else.”
Hawk and I exchange a confused look.
He then addresses the cops. “This is Marissa Johnson, Dylan Junior’s mother. I’m Randy Hawkins, former detective for the Violent Crimes Bureau with the Phoenix PD,” he says as he shakes hands with them before stepping back and putting his arm around my waist.
I lean into him for support, since my legs feel like jelly.
“I’m Officer Cummings, this is my partner Officer Williams. And this is Charlene Richards from Arizona Child Protective Services.”
I look at Hawk, panicked. Why is CPS here? What is going on?
The taller cop tells him, “I know Sergeant Morales from Bias Crimes.”
“I’ve worked with her many times. She’s tough,” Hawk says, and the cop nods his agreement. “Can you please bring us up to speed on what’s happened here and where my girlfriend’s son is?”
“Mrs. Barnes, the child’s stepmother, ran a red light and hit another vehicle while transporting your son,” the shorter officer says.
“When first responders arrived at the scene, they immediately tended to the child, who appeared uninjured. When they examined Mrs. Barnes, however, they noted her dilated pupils, uncoordinated movements, and generally suspicious demeanor, so they suspected intoxication. My partner and I searched her vehicle, and we found a clear plastic bag filled with white powder and another one filled with small blue pills, alongside smoking paraphernalia, so Mrs. Barnes was placed under arrest, and CPS was called.”
“Bullshit, there’s no way,” Dylan spits at them, but the officer simply puts his hand up to silence him.
“Sir, your wife's blood and urine are being tested as we speak. This is not a matter of opinion, be it mine or yours. The tests don’t lie.”
“Besides,” the partner chimes in, “she already admitted to using, although she insisted it was only recreational smoking and that she wasn’t an addict.”
Hawk huffs like he’s heard that one before, and the cop makes a face that says, You know how it is.
“What happens now? When can we see DJ?” I ask.
“Ma’am, we understand the two of you share legal custody of the child, but you’re the custodial parent?” Charlene Richards asks me.
I nod. “I have primary physical custody, and his father has him on the weekends.”
“The child will be released into the mother’s custody once he’s medically cleared. The father’s custody will be revoked pending the results of the investigation. Until its completion, he will only have supervised access to the boy,” Ms. Richards says.
Dylan clutches his hair with both hands and closes his eyes. It looks like he’s trying to wake himself up from what he believes is a nightmare.
“Thanks,” Hawk tells the cops as they leave, accompanied by Ms. Richards, after telling us they need to finish up some paperwork.
“Are you Dylan Junior Barnes’s parents?” The doctor approaches, and I nod, eager to hear news of my baby. “I’m Doctor Matthews.”
“I’m his mom. Is DJ okay?”
“He's made it through the accident unharmed. They’re finishing up an ultrasound of his abdomen to be sure. A nurse will be here to take you to his room in a few minutes.”
“Thank God,” I say through relieved tears.
Hawk rubs my back in silent support.
“What about my wife?” Dylan asks. “Rebel Barnes.”
The Doctor leafs through the papers in his hands. “Let’s see. Rebel Barnes, room 304. She has a broken clavicle, and they’re currently evaluating whether she needs surgery.” He frowns as he continues reading. “Oh, looks like we’re going to be releasing her into police custody.”
We thank the Doctor, and he leaves.
Dylan's phone rings and he glances at it, then sighs. "It's my lawyer. I have to take this, excuse me.”
Dylan walks off, and I turn to Hawk, who gives me an encouraging smile.
“Feeling better?” He asks me.
I sigh but nod. “I’ll feel even better when DJ is in my arms.”
“I know.”
When Dylan comes back, he looks like he’s been tumbling around in a dryer. “It doesn’t make any sense. There has to be some other explanation. I would have known if my wife was a fucking drug addict. I would have noticed.”
“Addicts are the best liars,” Hawk tells him, but Dylan doesn’t seem to register it.
“Fucking shit,” he exclaims, kicking one of the plastic chairs. “It’s just one blow after another. This is the last thing I need right now,” he says churlishly, and I’m upset that Hawk’s stepped in front of me when the tantrum started because it makes punching Dylan’s idiotic face more difficult.
“Your wife almost killed our son, you asshole! What the fuck is wrong with you?!”
My uncharacteristic display of ire seems to sober him. He looks around the waiting room as if he's seeing it for the first time.
“Shit, sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t know what the fuck I was thinking. Thank God Junior’s okay. Fuck. I’m sorry.”
His eyes are feverish while he rants, “Where would she even get the drugs? She was always...” Dylan breaks off, clenching his jaw.
“That fucker Claw. I covered that asshole’s bail.
” He shakes his head. “No. She was supposed to watch him for an hour and then drive him to the party. She wouldn’t have gotten high with my son in the house. There’s no way.”
His voice has been growing increasingly more desperate throughout his monologue.
I shoot Hawk a concerned glance. Could Dylan be having a nervous breakdown?
Thankfully, in that moment, a nurse walks up to us to take us to DJ’s room.
My boy laughs and babbles like nothing’s wrong, and I cry as I rain kisses on him. I clutch him to my chest for ten minutes, all the while thinking about what to do and how to do it.
This is Rebel’s third strike.
When Dylan cheated on me with her, I tried not to hold it against her. As morally bankrupt as she is, she wasn’t the one who owed me honesty or fidelity.
When she indirectly endangered my life through the mistaken identity kidnapping, I told myself that it wasn’t her fault. I mean, stealing from a drug lord was, but the two of us apparently looking alike and Beavis and Butthead being idiots - she had nothing to do with that.
But now… Now my hands itch to wring her neck.
That fucking bitch got high around my small child, maybe even exposed his system to the drugs, and then she put him in the car and drove while knowing she was impaired by whatever she took.
She could have killed him, I realize.
She’s pure evil.
“Can you two hang out with DJ for a while? I have to go to the bathroom,” I ask Hawk and Dylan, and both men nod.
One of the nurses directs me to room 304, and I carefully crack the door open to make sure no one but the patient is inside.
Pale, beautiful Rebel is lying in bed with all kinds of tubes attached to her. She looks much skinnier than the last time I saw her.
Her eyes are closed, but her breathing isn’t as steady as one would expect from a sleeping person.
“Hello, Rebel,” I say as I poke her bandaged clavicle.
“Ow,” she exclaims as she jerks away from me, but it only causes her more pain.
Good.
Her eyes fly open, and then narrow. “What the fuck do you want?”
I grab her by the hair and wrap it around my fist for maximum yanking power, then pull her towards me.