Chapter 3 #2
He sat up straighter, rubbing his eyes. “You always smell fancy. Do police have to smell good every day?”
I raised a brow. “What you mean?”
“Uncle Amahd smells like French fries sometimes.”
I laughed. “That’s because Chambers eats like French fries are vegetables.”
EJ giggled, respectful but quick with it. “Can I tell him that?”
“Only if you duck after,” I said, smirking.
He shook his head. “No, Daddy. I’ll just tell him I was joking. Mommy said jokes are supposed to make people smile, not cry.”
My chest tightened at the mention of her, but I nodded. “That’s right, champ. She did say that.”
His voice, raspy with sleep, was a daily reminder that love hadn’t left this house completely.
He dressed quickly, socks mismatched but proud of himself, then plopped down in front of the mirror.
As I grabbed the brush, he started humming, turning it into a freestyle under his breath—half cereal commercial, half Sunday cartoon jingle.
“Lucky Charms make me strong, Spider-Man all day long… put my shoes on the right feet, pancakes better than broccoli…”
He paused for dramatic effect, then grinned at me in the mirror and added:
“Daddy smell like cologne, Uncle Amahd smell like fries, if you brush your teeth right, you get candy as a prize…”
I burst out laughing, nearly dropping the brush. “Boy, you wild.”
He shrugged, all serious. “It rhymed, Daddy. You can’t get mad if it rhymed.”
I shook my head, brushing through his little curls. He winced, scrunching his face. “Ow, Daddy! You brushing like you mad at my head.”
I smirked, steady with the strokes. “Your head started it. Sit still, champ.”
He made a face in the mirror but then softened. “You’re doing good, though. Not as good as Mommy, but… almost.”
I paused, brush midair, swallowing grief sideways. “Almost, huh?”
“Yeah. You’re better at eggs. Mommy always burned the edges.”
That made me laugh for real. “Facts. I’ll take that win.”
He looked at me in the mirror and asked, “Are mommies in Heaven allowed to watch TV?”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. Grief wasn’t linear; it hit you sideways, especially when expressed in a child’s innocent logic.
“Yeah, lil’ man. The good channels, too. No commercials.”
He grinned and nodded in satisfaction, like that was the kind of Heaven he could believe in, one where joy streamed without interruptions.
“Good. Then Mommy can still watch cartoons with me.”
I kissed the top of his head, and for a split second, I felt whole. The weight in my chest eased just enough to breathe. Not healed, but a torn quilt stitched by my Nana Nell still keeping me warm.
We finished up, and as he put on his sneakers, he looked up. “Daddy,… when I grow up, I want to smell fancy too. Like pancakes and cologne.”
I smiled. “You will, champ. You gon’ smell like fresh fades, good grades, and a daddy that got them hands.”
He laughed so hard he almost tipped over. “That don’t sound fancy, Daddy.”
“Trust me, it is.”
He grabbed his backpack. “Daddy?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for brushing my hair, even when you don’t know what you doing.”
I laughed, shaking my head. “Boy, go brush your teeth. And don’t forget your tongue.”
He gave a sheepish grin. “Yes, sir.”
He ran back down the hall, his feet pounding joy into the floorboards. That boy carried the sound of hope without even trying.
I stood up, grabbed my badge, and my Sig Sauer.
Not just the piece on my hip, but the one in my chest that I fought to maintain every day.
I slipped on my Timbs and adjusted the chain I wore every day, the one with her name etched into the back of a small cross, a prayer carved in metal I refused to stop saying.
“Let’s get it, God,” I whispered to the mirror. “You lead. I follow.”
Even when the path is jagged, even when the silence is loud, even when my faith is faltering, I’m still walking behind You.
Little Legends Day Academy always smelled of fruit snacks, fresh crayons, and baby lotion. It was the place where childhood thrived with bright walls, cozy story time corners, and tiny backpacks brimming with dreams.
EJ skipped beside me as if he didn’t have a care in the world. He wore a Spider-Man hoodie, his curls wild from my half-hearted attempt at brushing them. I adjusted his collar mid-step and tightened the straps on his little backpack.
“Why you always do that, Daddy?” he asked, looking up at me with those big, brown eyes that looked too much like his mama’s.
“Doing what?” I responded, smiling at his tone.
“Checking on me. Touching my backpack. Wiping my mouth. I’m big now!”
I chuckled. “You’re four. You still eat yogurt, and it looks like a crime scene.”
He gasped. “That was one time!”
“One too many, lil’ man.”
We walked through the front doors, greeted by Ms. Tricia at the desk, her tight twist-out, long lashes, and the voice of a pre-K queen who ran her class like a tiny kingdom.
“Detective Edmonds.” She smiled. “You have EJ smelling like cocoa butter and baby cologne again.”
“You know I have to keep my son moisturized and marketable.” I winked.
EJ rolled his eyes like he was grown.
I knelt to his level and zipped his hoodie all the way up. “Be good today. Listen. Share. Don’t push anyone unless they push you first.”
“Daddy!”
“I’m just kidding. Well, kinda.”
He giggled.
I prompted our little affirmation we always did before we left each other.
“I’m a young king, strong and brave.”
EJ responded, “I’m a young king, the world I’ll pave.”
I continued, “My dreams are big, my light will gleam.”
EJ followed with, “My voice is power, I dare to dream.”
And we finished together. “I am important, I am seen.”
We did our secret handshake. I kissed the top of his head, stood back up, and watched him walk away like it was nothing, like he hadn’t been the only thing holding me together for the last two years.
The thing about EJ was that he was joy personified.
He didn’t know that his mama died in my arms. He didn’t understand why I flinched when I heard gunshots just two blocks away from our house.
He didn’t realize that sometimes, when he laughed really hard, I had to step into the next room to cry because the sound of joy still felt like a betrayal to my grief.
But I carried it well because he deserved to laugh without any echoes of the past.
As I turned to leave, I paused by the window just long enough to watch him settle in. He took a toy dinosaur from his pocket and handed it to a little girl who seemed to need a friend. That was how I knew we raised him right.
As I walked to my truck, her face came back to my mind.
Jonay.
That strong name with soft syllables and a weary voice that carried deep truths tucked inside it. That stare was sharp enough to cut, yet soulful enough to soothe.
I didn’t know her, not truly. But her pain felt familiar, as if it were drawn from the same grief I’d been concealing in my beard and burying in my badge reports.
And I kept asking myself: Why can’t I stop thinking about her?
I sat in my truck for a second, hands on the steering wheel, eyes closed. She wasn’t ready. Hell… maybe I wasn’t either.
But I knew one thing: whatever she was running from, maybe I’d be the one to catch it or crash while trying to protect her from it.
The cemetery was too quiet, eerily still, not just peaceful. It felt as if the trees were holding their breath out of respect. I parked my truck near the oak tree, right next to the crooked stone that bore a name I still wasn’t ready to stop saying out loud:
TEMPEST NICOLE EDMONDS
1989 – 2023
Wife. Mother. Warrior.
That last line was my idea. She ain’t want anything fancy. Swore she’d haunt me if I put butterflies or hearts on it. So I kept it simple but genuine—just like her.
I sat down cross-legged in the grass, elbows on my knees, fists pressed under my chin. The stone blurred the longer I stared, and before I knew it, memory pulled me under.
Papers stretched across the kitchen table, government seals stamped at the top. Next-of-kin boxes, pension percentages, burial instructions—all the things nobody in love wanted to think about. But I had to.
Tempest sat across from me, bonnet tilted, robe sliding off her shoulder, one hand cupped over her belly. EJ had been restless all night, kicking like he already had something to say about the whole thing.
She groaned, dragging her hand down her face. “Eli, I can’t believe you. We got a baby on the way, and you got me talking about tombstones and wills. You tryna depress me into contractions?”
I reached across and slid my palm over hers, pressing firmly against her stomach where EJ kicked. “My love, this ain’t about funerals; it’s about life. Yours. His. I can’t put this badge on every day in South Self without having this in writing. If something happens, I need to know y’all straight.”
Her eyes watered, but her chin jutted stubbornly. “You talk too calmly about it, like you know you not coming home one day, baby. Eli, he gon’ need his daddy. I need my husband.”
I leaned back in my chair and smirked a little, just to take the edge off. “Baby girl, you gon’ live to be old and gray, fussin’ at our grandkids for tracking dirt through the house. Me? I’ll probably end up in some wild shootout in South Self. You know the block don’t love nobody.”
She popped me so hard across my arm the pen flew out of my hand. “Don’t you dare say that. Don’t you dare speak that over yourself!”
I caught her wrist and kissed her knuckles. “Alright, alright. My bad, my love. But that’s exactly why we do this. So if God call me first, my queen and my son ain’t ever left wondering what’s next.”
She narrowed her eyes, lips twitching at the corners. “Mmhmm. And if you ever get slick and put butterflies or hearts on my tombstone? I swear I’ll come back and haunt your behind.”