Seven
Sam’s family came home on Sunday, cutting their trip short by half a day, and since I knew they would all be exhausted, I invited them all over to the loft for a quick dinner before they went home.
Regina was so thankful and said the antipasto salad I had made, along with lasagna and garlic bread, was a blessing.
When Chaz and Pat showed up with wine later, when I was serving dessert, I had enough leftovers, so I fed them as well.
It was helpful to have them there, as they got to add to what I was telling my mother-in-law, my father-in-law, and Sam’s siblings.
Everyone loved the hideout, as they called it, and over dinner and after, we all talked about Sam’s case and the missing witness and the handsome man—Rachel’s words—who had left with Sam.
“He’s not handsome,” Pat assured her. “He’s a—”
“Kids,” I cut him off.
“Jerk,” Pat finished, passing judgment on Detective Stiel.
“He is handsome though.” I smiled knowingly, thinking of the detective’s impressive build, sharply cut features, and gunmetal-gray eyes.
The man was gorgeous actually, and I would have been impressed if an even more beautiful man didn’t sleep in my bed.
When Sam called me later that evening to say good night to the kids, it was quick. But he called back right before I went to bed to rumble in my ear that he missed me and he loved me and to please keep his side of the bed warm.
“Dane moved us.”
“I know; he told me. I liked his idea better, and the Chicago PD really appreciated not having to park a patrol car in front of our house indefinitely.”
“I bet.”
“Hey, Chaz and Pat are gonna come check up on you, okay?”
“You’re late; they were here earlier.”
“Oh, okay, good.”
“I’m glad they didn’t fly out to Phoenix. That would have been a wasted trip for them.”
“Well, I’m lucky I stopped them before they paid for plane tickets.”
I chuckled softly.
Heavy sigh. “I really do.”
“What’s that?” I fished.
“Love you.”
“I know, Sam.”
“ ’Kay, good. It’s good you know.”
My whine was soft, but he still heard it.
“I’ll be home soon, baby.”
I could only nod.
Labor Day was spent doing absolutely nothing.
We watched movies, Kola read us Dr. Seuss books, Hannah did her flash cards with words and named objects, and Kola made her recite, then write the alphabet.
She was very good at making her letters.
He also asked her colors and threw in ridiculous ones, like turquoise, cerulean, and aubergine. I was wildly impressed.
We had charcuterie plates for lunch; along with prosciutto and smoked gouda and dried apricots, we also had Goldfish crackers and apple wedges.
We watched movies, and I hoped Sam would call, but it didn’t happen.
I knew I had to prepare myself for the radio silence that would probably occur until he got back.
Investigative work was not for the faint of heart.
Tuesday morning, I got to work fast. It was easy to just zip down to my office from where the hideout was.
Dane was right; there was something to be said for a quick commute.
I greeted Dylan with her six-shot vanilla latte, gave Fallon his scone, and was about to sit down at my desk when I got a call from Hannah and Kola’s school.
True to her word, Hannah had packed a water gun—the same Super Soaker her uncle had made sure to bring from our house—and tested her theory on witches and melting.
Kola was in trouble as well. He had apparently taken exception to being told that his set painting for the school Thanksgiving opera was not good.
We were working on him accepting constructive criticism, but at present, he didn’t like to lose—his tantrums gave new meaning to the words poor sport—or be told something he was doing wasn’t right.
Questioning him to try to bring him to the right conclusion was also on his list of pet peeves.
The thing was, he was a sweet kid, loving and considerate, but he was turning into a real brat … but only sometimes.
Playing anything with him was getting harder.
I, of course, gave him chance after chance, and Sam just stopped whatever they were doing as soon as he showed even a hint of a tantrum.
We had to come to some agreement until he either grew out of it or we changed the behavior.
Sam had suggested we beat him, and I had just shaken my head.
I knew he was kidding, but I really did want to wring Kola’s little neck sometimes when he was crying and stomping his foot.
At the school, Hannah was sorry about the water gun.
Miss Chun, her teacher, was biting her bottom lip every five seconds so she wouldn’t laugh; the principal, Mrs. Petrovich, had her closed fist pressed over her mouth so she wouldn’t either.
The only one who was annoyed at all was, of course, Ms. Brady, their music teacher.
So not amused with being soaked with a water cannon.
“I am so sorry, Ms. Brady. It will never happen again.”
Miss Chun nodded and squinted before turning around fast to hide her face.
Mrs. Petrovich let out one snicker, looking very pained, and then gestured for Ms. Brady to go ahead out. Hannah was sent to sit in the hall, and as soon as the door closed behind her, both women dissolved into fits of rolling laughter.
“You two aren’t helping at all,” I scolded them.
“It’s not even the first time it’s happened,” the principal told me as tears ran from her eyes. “I had a kid two years ago wear a lei made of garlic because he thought she was a vampire!”
Miss Chun was wheezing.
“Three years ago, two kids kept spilling water on her to see if she’d sizzle.”
I squinted at them. “Maybe it’s time to look at what she’s doing around here, education-wise.”
“Oh, no, she’s a very good teacher. It’s just that—”
“She’s a witch!” Miss Chun announced, falling down onto the couch, just done.
I threw up my hands and went to go find Kola.
His teacher, Mr. Michaels, who was just as cute as he could be, was sitting with Kola in the front row of the auditorium, watching the other kids paint and hammer and hang lights. There were a lot of parents there, and I got many waves as I came down the aisle.
Kola saw me, got up, and ran to meet me. He threw his arms around my waist and buried his face in my stomach.
“What happened?” I asked him.
“I didn’t do it this time, Pa. Ollie did.”
“Tell me,” I said, leaning him back as I went down on one knee so I could see his eyes, which were red, and his face was streaked with tears.
“Ollie wanted to use the hammer, but it was my turn, but he went and told his dad that it was his turn, and Mr. Parker didn’t even ask Mr. Michaels; he just came and took the hammer away from me.”
“Okay. What happened then?”
“Then I got upset and said it wasn’t fair, and Mr. Michaels brought me down here even though I told him that Mr. Parker had bent my finger when he took the hammer away.”
“What finger, buddy?”
The ring finger of his left hand, his writing hand, was huge. It was red and swollen and at least three times its normal size.
My eyes flicked to Mr. Michaels.
“Mr. Harcourt?”
“Did it escape your notice that his finger might be broken?”
He was up out of his chair and over to us in seconds. “He didn’t show it to me and—” He turned his head and yelled up to the stage, “Mr. Parker, could you come down here, please!”
A big man I didn’t know—obviously a new parent who had just enrolled his child, as I had never seen Oliver before—came down off the stage and lumbered over to us.
“Chet?” He addressed Mr. Michaels by his first name—not the way we were asked to address the teachers at school.
“Did you peel Kola’s fingers off the hammer when you took it from him?”
He shrugged. “Sure, he didn’t want to let it go and it wasn’t his turn.”
“As I told you, it actually was his turn, but that’s not the issue. Did you hurt him when you took it from him?”
“Nah.” He shook his head, reaching out to tousle Kola’s hair.
I knocked the hand away. “Don’t touch him.”
“Okay, sorry.” He put up both his hands. “But I didn’t hurt him.”
I gestured at his hand. “I think you broke his finger.”
“I did not. I didn’t apply that much pressure.”
The man was big though. He was not as powerfully built as Sam—there were no cording muscles—but he was certainly strong enough to hurt a little boy.
I looked back at Mr. Michaels. “You’ll both be hearing from my lawyer because you”—I pointed at Mr. Parker—“should never be touching any other kids but your own, and you”—my gaze fell on Mr. Michaels—“should have been there to protect him,” I snapped out before I turned, pulled my phone at the same time, and called Aja.
She had been the principal of a public high school; she would know what to do.
“Hi, honey. You’re not calling to cancel on my dinner—”
“If a man just broke Kola’s finger at school, what can I do?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
I repeated what had happened, and she gave me a barrage of quick questions.
“I’m on my way to the hospital now.”
“Which one? Saint Joe?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, I’ll call Rick. Either he or someone else will be right there.”
“Thanks.”
“Baby, do you need me there? Dane?”
“No, I’m fine.” I took a breath because who I needed was Sam.
“All right.”
I hung up, held the door of the auditorium open, and had Kola and Hannah walk out before me.
“So, we have to go to the hospital now, okay?”
Kola nodded and leaned into me, head on my hip. “I didn’t throw a fit that time, Pa, I promise.”
“I believe you, buddy, and I’m glad that you know when you do it, and I’m glad that you’re working on it. We just have to—”
“Mr. Harcourt!”
Turning, I saw Mr. Parker charging down the hallway after me. I shoved Kola and Hannah behind me.
“You don’t threaten me! It was an accident,” he yelled as he reached me.
“It wasn’t,” I corrected him, standing my ground. “You hurt him on purpose, and there’s no excuse for that. Like I said, you can talk to my lawyer.”
“Listen, you little faggot,” he sneered, driving his fingers into my collarbone. “You’re not gonna make any trouble for me. That pissant kid of yours—”