Chapter 3
CROW
I wake up to three texts I really don’t want to see.
One of the texts is from Arrow, this guy who runs a small PI agency in the strip mall the Club owns. Morris hooked me up with Leo and Tim at the auto body shop, but it’s only part time.
Arrow wants me to come work for him. Full-time hours, good pay.
Some shitty overpriced health insurance plan, but it’ll be better than prison doctors.
The thing is, he wants me to work the street with him.
Take pics of cheating husbands and people bilking their workers’ comp for more payouts long after they’re healthy enough to go back to work.
Something about the whole thing feels…too close to criminal activity.
Maybe it’s not. Maybe I should give that shit a try and just consider all the options, but something like what Arrow’s doing somehow doesn’t sit right.
So I swipe away the notification of the text from him and groan at Leo’s message.
Sorry, man. Slow day today. Will text tomorrow if we need an extra set of hands.
So now, I’m out of work for the day, with nothing but time to fill. Fuck if this doesn’t feel a lot like prison in that way.
The third text, I delete without reading.
It’s from my brother, and I’m in no position to connect with my family yet.
I may be out, but I’m not ready to talk to my brother or listen to my dad.
They let me rot without contact for years.
I was glad for it, because other than talking about the latest flavor of instant noodles at the commissary, there was literally nothing to say to my dad.
Retired military. Active in local politics back home in New York.
We had nothing in common before when I was a grease monkey spending all my free time and money on women and bikes.
Now? That I have a record, no job, and not much more than a cell phone to my name?
“Hey there, sexy.” Madge is in the kitchen of the compound making coffee. “You’re up early again. You know you can sleep in now. Nobody’s blowing a whistle or smacking the bars to wake you up.”
I know Madge means well, but the prison jokes just don’t land for me. It’s not that it’s too soon. It’s always going to be a sore spot.
I give her a wave and, without a word, slide a pair of sunglasses over my eyes.
When I was locked up, I worked out with weights and sometimes played basketball in the yard. But every time I think about going out back and lifting weights in the compound yard, something inside me panics.
So, I’ve taken up a new hobby.
The road open before me.
Sun on my face and wind in my hair.
A sense of freedom.
Now, I run.
Sunglasses over my face, I head out into the morning.
I sprint past the compound grounds, down the long road, and through the surrounding neighborhood, pounding my feet hard and gripping my hands into fists.
I sweat and run until my body burns and the muscles in my thighs tell me I have to stop.
I break in the middle of a block, bend over, and rest my hands on my knees, gasping for air.
I take a breath and keep going. I run farther, never faster, every day training myself to go another block.
Another two blocks. Past a house with a blue door.
Past a yellow car. Anything and everything I can do to push myself ahead, to go farther today than I did yesterday…
To find a small, attainable landmark in the distance that I can reach.
To me, that’s progress. On some level, if I can do it this way, maybe I can do it in other areas of my life too.
Today, I set my sights crazy far. I don’t know why. My skin itches and my hair drips sweat into my eyes, but the ache inside me is deeper today, urging me to push myself, maybe until I physically can’t go any farther. Until I can’t feel the failure weighing down on me.
I see a beat-up red car and decide that will be my next break.
I’m going to sprint to the car. Give it all I’ve got.
And then, I’ll walk back. Catch my breath.
Use the couple of bucks I tucked inside Morris’s armband with my phone and grab a bottle of water or a coffee on the way back to the compound.
Then it’ll be time to shower and face another day.
But the next few blocks are my therapy. I won’t check my phone, won’t delete texts.
No one is waiting for me, and no one is expecting anything.
I’m alone and as close to alive as I feel these days.
I take off running, eyes set dead ahead on the red car. As I get close to it, I see a little girl out in the yard, but I mind my business and stay focused on the goal.
Red car. Blot out the pain. Ignore the fresh burn in my chest and thighs as I run away, run toward, fuck, as I just run.
Nobody to stop me. Nobody to tell me I can’t go there or I’ve gone too far.
The fact that I can run where I want to, without the threat of punishment behind me, is a gift I don’t think I’ll ever stop appreciating.
When I reach the car, I stop, fully winded, but I hear through my breathing that the little kid is in a full-on meltdown.
“Help me! Somebody, please!”
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, and I debate for a split second not getting involved, but I can’t leave her here.
“Hey, where’re your parents?” I ask.
“I can’t find her phone to call 9-1-1. She’s just lying there…” She speaks so fast, I barely understand the words.
“What happened?”
“She fell. Please, help her.”
I yank the phone from my armband. “You need a phone?” I ask. “You need to call 9-1-1?”
She nods and doesn’t hesitate before walking across the yard and meeting me on the sidewalk.
“Thank you,” she says, her voice so weak and small I don’t know how she’s going to talk if she can make that call.
“Yeah, yeah, sure.”
I unlock the device and hand her the phone. I look over my shoulder and can’t shake the feeling that this is trouble just waiting to find me.
My stomach flips over and my legs tense like I want to run away, but the kid’s small hand is shaking as I see her carefully type in 9-1-1.
As soon as she punches in those numbers and hits send, everything inside me starts to panic. She’s using my phone to call the paramedics. Maybe the cops. They’ll have my number and this location. And they’ll be coming here.
It’s okay, I assure myself. I haven’t done anything wrong. As soon as she hangs up, I’ll take the phone and run off. I’ll be gone before they get here.
“Just tell them you borrowed a neighbor’s phone,” I say, but the little girl is already talking to a dispatcher and doesn’t hear a word I said.
“I’m seven,” she explains. She glances up at me and looks a little confused but then answers whatever the dispatcher asks with, “Yes. Okay. Hold on.” The kid holds the phone out to me. “They want to talk to a grown-up.”
I freeze and stare at the phone like it’s somehow going to attack me. I can hear the dispatcher calling through the line. “Is anyone there? Honey, can you put a grown-up on?”
“Yeah,” I bark into the phone as soon as I take it from the little girl. “We need an ambulance.” I hope they’ll just send EMS and no squad car.
The operator starts asking me the usual questions. First, my name. Goddammit, that’s the one thing I don’t want to give.
“Logan Taylor,” I snap.
She wants to know where we are.
“The address?” I repeat.
I look up and down the block, searching for street signs.
There are a couple black metal numbers on the front of the house, the one with the door partway open, so I read the numbers off to the operator.
Then I repeat it, looking at the little girl, and she nods, confirming that I got the number and street right.
“Okay, sir, now can you describe the injuries? Can you tell me what happened while I dispatch EMS?”
“Hang on,” I say. I hit mute on the phone and ask the kid, “What’s your name? Your mom’s name? They want to know what happened.”
“I’m Mia,” she says. “My mom’s Birdie. Bridget Connor, but everyone calls her Birdie.”
“Ma’am?” I unmute the phone. “I’ve got Mia Connor here…” I look at the kid because I didn’t confirm that her last name was the same as her mom’s. Could be anything. But she nods, so I go on. “Her mother Bridget took a fall on the stairs.”
The dispatcher starts talking over me. “All right, sir, I need you to…” She starts asking me specific questions, like is she bleeding, is she breathing, so I look at little Mia.
“Can you take me to your mom? The 9-1-1 lady is sending help, but I need to see your mom.”
Mia nods and breaks into a full run.
I unmute the phone. “On our way to her now.”
I jog to the front door and peek inside. When I see a woman lying on a cold tile floor, blood on her shirt and the floor, I don’t hesitate.
I motion Mia away. “Honey, why don’t you step aside and give your mama some air.
” I kneel down beside the woman and quickly try to piece together what I see.
The woman’s dressed professionally in a white shirt and pencil skirt.
There’s a cut on her forehead right at the eyebrow, and I’m pretty sure that’s what’s caused all the blood.
Her hair is wet, and there’s a towel on the steps.
I scan the staircase and see the old carpet, and the best I can piece together is that what the kid said is what happened.
“Ma’am?” I say to the dispatcher. “I’m with her.”
“All right, sir, is she conscious? Is she breathing?”
“Breathing, yeah. But she’s not conscious.”
“All right, is she bleeding? Any signs of visible injuries?”
“She’s got a cut on her eyebrow, and—” I kneel down beside her on the tile “—yes, she’s bleeding.”
“All right, I’ve dispatched an ambulance. They should be there within four minutes, but I’d like you to put some pressure on the wound to help control the bleeding.” The dispatcher keeps me on the line, asking me all kinds of questions—how she’s sitting, if I can get her to speak.
“Birdie,” I say, remembering what the kid said her mom’s name was. “Birdie, can you hear me?”
I’ve got the phone in one hand, and with the other, I take the towel and press it against her wound. She murmurs in response, which I take as a very good sign.
Mia drops to her knees beside her mom and grabs her hand. “Mama, please get up!”
I motion to Mia to step back, and in that moment, my instincts kick in. “The ambulance is going to be here soon, so can you find your mom’s purse? And if you know where she keeps her keys, she’s going to need them.”
Mia nods and rushes off to find those things, while I return my attention to Bridget.
“Bridget, Birdie…” I don’t know what to call her, but I try any name she might respond to. “Help is on the way, okay? Can you try to open your eyes?”
She flutters her lids and groans. “Mia,” she mumbles. “My daughter…”
“Mia is fine,” I assure her.
Mia comes back with her mom’s purse and keys. She hands them to me as if I’ll know what to do with them.
“Good girl,” I say, my voice tight.
The dispatcher is asking questions, but I’m only half listening.
Mia is crying and looks like she’s going to lose it, so I scramble my brain to think of another job for her to do. Anything to keep the kid focused on something other than her mom.
“Mia,” I say gently. “Do you have a favorite toy or book you want to bring to the hospital? When the paramedics come, they will probably want to take your mom to a doctor, so you’ll want to bring along some things to play with. Can you do that?”
Mia nods slowly but then dashes up the stairs and disappears into one of the bedrooms.
“Mia…” Bridget is moaning, but she must be coming to. She lifts a hand to her eyes but then covers her mouth. “I’m going to be sick.”
Oh fuck.
I drop the phone and grab her hand. I help her sit up just in time for her to vomit on the tile. Nothing much comes out, just a little saliva, but she groans like she’s in agony at the movement. I take her hand and crouch beside her, trying to remain calm.
“Hey, hey, you’re all right. Don’t you worry. Paramedics are on their way.”
She lets me hold her hand and looks into my face with confusion. “Who…?”
“I’m Logan,” I explain. “Don’t worry about a thing. You’re going to be okay.”
There’s a sudden knock at the door, which is still open. The paramedics announce themselves, and I wave them in. I release Birdie’s hand just as Mia comes barreling down the stairs with a stuffed giraffe in her arms.
When she sees the paramedics, she flies toward them, tears flowing anew. “Please help my mama,” she cries.
One of the paramedics glares at me, which sets my teeth on edge. “Can you give us some space?”
I nod. “Mia, come here, honey. Let’s let the paramedics do their thing.”
She looks at me reluctantly but then joins me on the couch. We sit quietly beside each other while the paramedics start assessing Bridget. I realize Mia’s watching every move they make, and I think the last thing the kid needs is to see that.
“Hey,” I say, trying to distract her. I tap the giraffe’s head. “Who’s this guy?”
She turns a little to face me. “Gavin,” she says.
“Gavin,” I repeat, a little surprised. “That’s a fancy name for a giraffe.”
I rack my brain for something to say to this kid, something to drown out the sounds of what they are asking Bridget and their obvious concern.
“Hey,” I say again. “So, do you know why the giraffe never gets invited to the other animals’ parties?”
She shakes her head.
“Because he’s a pain in the neck,” I say and give her a smile.
She looks at me for a minute, but then it’s like the joke hits her all at once and she giggles.
“Not Gavin over here, though,” I say. “I’m sure he has lots of friends.”
She’s smiling now, which is just the calm I need for what happens next. There’s a sharp knock on the door. Two uniformed police officers are peering inside. And they are looking at the bleeding woman on the floor. And then, they’re looking right at me.