13. Chapter 13
Chapter 13
Derek
I wasn't sure what to expect when Mrs. Sampson called me to arrive at her house an hour earlier than usual, but I knew it had to be about what happened with her pathetic excuse for a son, Gregory. Armed with the largest coffee Starbucks could sell and a face that's seen better days, I prepare for the worst and hope for the best. But deep down, I have a feeling she might be firing me for beating her son.
Lucas answers the door, surprised to see me so early, then taken aback by the sight of my face. "Good morning, Derek," he says as he lets me in.
"Good morning."
"Uh, I know I normally ask how you're doing, but uh," he starts, then points to his face.
"Let's just say it's part of the reason Mrs. Sampson wanted to see me so early," I tell him. He gives a quick nod before leading me into the den, where Mrs. Sampson is accompanied by her husband as they sip their morning coffee.
"Derek is here to see you," Lucas announces. The couple turns, both slightly shocked at the sight of me. I'm wondering if my face looks worse than I thought it did this morning.
"Thank you, Lucas," Mr. Sampson says. "Please, have a seat, Derek."
I sit across from them, the mahogany coffee table between us. That's so fancy, and I don't dare try setting my coffee cup next to their fine China set. Instead, I rest my forearms on my knees, then decide against it when my right arm stings with the pain of last night.
"I'm guessing you know why we called you in so early," Mrs. Sampson says, but I can't hear a hint of anger or seriousness in her voice.
"I do," I reply.
They look somberly at each other as Mrs. Sampson reaches out to hold her husband's hand.
"We wanted to apologize for what our son did," Mr. Sampson says. "Not just for last night."
I clear my throat, which is suddenly run dry by his words. "Uh, thank you, sir."
"May I ask something?" Mrs. Sampson says.
"Of course," I reply.
"Why didn't you tell us that you knew our son?" she asks gently. "Why take the job here?"
"My supervisor at the protection agency refused to have me moved to another protection detail," I explain. "When I couldn't be moved, I decided that a job was a job and that I would protect you like I would protect any other client. I figured after a few years, I would be able to apply for another client before Greg got out, and all of us could just move on. But that didn't happen, as you can tell."
"What did you think when I told you and Wally that I would need Greg picked up from jail?" she asks.
"I'll be honest, I wanted to throw up," I say as kindly as I can. "Wally knew my history with Greg, so that's why he volunteered to do it himself. As far as what would happen after that, I hadn't thought that far."
"We've already heard his side of what happened," Mr. Sampson says. "Would you be willing to share yours?"
While I recount what happened, I can't ignore the annoying itch under my arm's bandages or how tight my face suddenly feels with the current state of my nose. Somehow, I manage to keep a calm, steady tone while I finish what happened. By the time I finish, the couple looks far more disappointed than they did before.
"I had a feeling he drank more than he said he did," Mrs. Sampson sighs. "He tried saying he only had one."
I scoff. "I wouldn't have been so mad if that was the case."
"He was honest in that he started the fight," Mr. Sampson tells her as if that makes it any better.
"Is he doing okay?" I ask, and I can't believe the words fall out of my mouth; I don't give a rat's ass. Really, I just want to know if he's in as much pain as I am, if not more.
"He's pretty banged up, but he'll live," Mrs. Sampson rolls her eyes. "I can't believe going to a bar was the first thing he did."
"He apparently phoned a friend to pick him up rather than Wally," Mr. Sampson explains. "We found out through the police officer who called us to pick him up from jail."
"What a mess; I'm sorry to put you both through this."
"But how are you doing?" Mrs. Sampson asks, suddenly reminded that I had a rough night, too.
"Nothing a couple of Tylenol and an ice pack won't fix," I assure her, but when I attempt a grin, it's met by the clashing, stiff pain of the bruises that feel like they've traveled down my cheeks.
"Not that this takes away from what happened, but we'd like to offer you a couple of days off," Mr. Sampson says. "Paid, of course."
"Uh, are you sure? I mean, that's very generous of you."
"Given the circumstances, we think it's stupid to ignore what's going on," Mrs. Sampson says.
"Does this mean you're not firing me?"
"Oh, heavens no," Mrs. Sampson insists. "You and Wally have some of the best personal protection we've hired in years. The last thing we want is to lose either of you."
"That's very good to hear," I reply. "But what about Greg? I mean, we all know he and I aren't the best of buddies."
"Greg is being sent to a treatment center in California after the new year," Mr. Sampson says, trying to hide his disappointment. "We thought time in jail would do him good, but last night proved that he has bigger problems to work out. That is unless you want to press charges."
"Which we completely understand doing if that's what you wish to do," Mrs. Sampson asks.
"It's like you said. Jail didn't do him much good. I think treatment would be the better option," I say, and a wave of relief washes over the two of them.
"You're a good man, Derek," Mr. Sampson says as he stands and extends his hand to me. With a firm shake, I hold back the wince I feel when the sutures pull at his grip.
"You both are good people and great clients to work for," I return as I shake Mrs. Sampson's hand as well, grateful for her gentle touch.
"You can take all of next week off," she says. "We plan on staying home most of that time, so Wally won't be spread too thin."
"He'll appreciate that," I assure her.
They give me a few more thanks before Lucas walks me to the door. I am just as surprised as I am to hear that I still have a job and a whole week off.
When I get to my car at the bottom of the driveway, my arm is itching for relief, but the idea of trying to take the bandages off just too lightly scratch it screams terrible idea. The slight annoyance makes me think of Faith and her careful handwork back at the ER. Being reminded of someone by discomfort is not the most sentimental thought, but I decide she deserves some thanks, too, so I head to the nearest cafe.
As I wait at the counter, which is dawned with glitter garland and paper snowflakes, I realize I have no idea what her coffee order is, so I settle on two hot chocolates before heading to her house.
When I pull into her driveway, I can't help but think that Chelsea would be proud that I'm finally doing what she's been asking me to do for years now: simply reaching out. I walk up to her front porch and ring the bell, only to find a wide-eyed Faith whose gaze searches behind me before giving me a quiet smile.
"Hey, what are you doing here?" she asks, her eyes flickering to the pickup truck driving down the street behind me.
"I wanted to thank you for last night, so I thought I'd bring you this," I say, handing her the hot chocolate. "I didn't know how you took your coffee."
"This is perfect, actually," she says, taking the first warm sip. "Would you like to come in?"
"Sure," I say as she steps aside. I catch her stealing one last pan over her driveway and street before locking the front door behind her.
"Is everything okay?" I ask. "You seem a bit worried."
"Oh, it's nothing," she says, guiding me into the living room, where she curls up on the end of the couch as she enjoys her cocoa.
"Really? Because you were looking around like you were waiting for something to jump out at you," I say, and as I hear my own words, I realize what's going on. "Is it Ryan again?"
Silence.
"Do you have an alarm system?" I ask.
"Yeah, I use it all the time."
"Good," I nod. "What about a weapon? Last I remember, you grew up with guns, yeah?"
"Yeah, but I haven't bought one of my own," she admits.
"I'd get on that, just to be safe," I tell her, and she nods in agreement. "Has he tried threatening you?"
"I'd rather not talk about this anymore," she says, shifting in her seat.
"Faith, I–"
"I appreciate you coming by with cocoa and checking in on me, but I've got it handled, okay?" she interrupts.
I want to lecture her about taking every precaution if she's this jumpy every time her doorbell rings, but her sad, hurt look stops me. The last thing she needs is a lecture, so I simply step back and honor her wish.
"Like I said, I'm a phone call away," I say as I get up and start making my way to the door. She follows close behind me, surely to lock it the moment I'm outside, but something stops me in my tracks.
When I reach for it, the doorknob feels slightly loose as it wiggles in my hand.
"Have you been having trouble with your door?" I ask, jiggling the knob again.
"It's an old house," she answers nervously.
"I can tighten it for you," I tell her.
"Really?" she asks, her eyes hopeful.
"All I need is a screwdriver."
She disappears into the kitchen, and I hear noises rattling in the back before a drawer slams shut. She returns with both a flat head and a Phillips head for me.
"How long has it been like this?" I ask as I kneel down and open the door just enough for me to see both sides.
"Uh, maybe a week or two," she answers, carefully watching what she can see on the street through the crack in the door.
"I can open it wider if you'd like," I say, and the look on her face tells me she's been caught red-handed.
"No, this is fine," she replies. "Don't want to let the cold in."
"Of course not," I go along.
I can't decide if I should tell her, as she's already on edge from this guy, but the more I work on the doorknob, the more I get a horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach. There are several scratches on the tumblers and a few on the keyhole on the outside knob.
Someone's been trying to break in, and I'd bet it's Ryan.
He's also been unsuccessful at getting inside but tightening it back down should make getting in a lot harder. Once I get everything back in place and working like new, I stand up to find Faith watching me with careful eyes.
"Since I'm here, would you mind if I checked the other locks?" I offer, "Just to be safe."
"Are you sure? You don't mind?"
"Not at all," I assure her, and she takes me to every entrance point of her one-story house.
Thankfully, all the locks and doorknobs haven't been tampered with like the front door. For good measure, I checked the locks on the windows, finding that they, too, had been left untouched and in working order.
"Motion lights," I say when I return the tools to her.
"What?"
"If you get motion lights installed, they often scare away intruders," I explain. With lights often come cameras, and they don't want to get caught on film. This is a little security trick for you."
"Thank you," she says. "For the hot cocoa, too."
"No worries," I say as I finally head out the door. "Just a phone call away."
"Thanks, Derek," she says, carefully shutting the door behind her, the lock clicking right after.
I find myself surveying the area as I make my way back to my car. Nothing stands out, butlike Faith, I'm not about to let anyone catch me off guard.