“But we shut down Fleming Street,” one of the young guys at the front of the room said, obviously uninterested in the history lesson. “Did we miss something?”
“Yes and no,” Simms said, clearing his throat. Marley was pretty sure he was in his mid-fifties and was a serious, old-school type police officer. “Our take from Fleming Street included the three high attain street drugs, the equipment needed to manufacture at least one of those drugs, and a drug we had assumed to be an opioid, but we couldn’t be sure so sent it off for analysis. We don’t have the results back yet, but it looks like that substance is what’s causing the problems.”
Simms paused and looked at Sergeant Crawford, who walked to the front of the room.
“The substance is at the lab in Ottawa for analysis. The issue we’ve got right now is a red flag from Public Health.” Crawford let the surprised chatter from the room die down before carrying on. With the onset of the opioid crisis across North America, the public health agencies had moved from tracking childhood disease and salmonella outbreaks to encompassing a generation of communities affected by instant drug addiction. For them to be involved this early meant something was up. “Since our takedown of Fleming Street and subsequent removal of Fleming Street’s products off Hamilton streets, there has been an uptick in people seeking medical attention for a series of unexplained symptoms including vomiting, facial muscle paralysis, rash, and hallucinations.”
“How many are we talking, Sarge?”
“Currently five.”
“Not many,” the cop said to the murmurs of agreement around him.
“Let me be clear,” Crawford said, raising his voice a little over the din. “We have made no definitive link between the unknown Fleming substance and the uptick of hospital visits for these symptoms. But I’m not liking the coincidence of the timing, and if we’ve learned anything from fentanyl, it’s to pay attention early. That means all of you on the front line are paying attention. You’re listening to your sources and flagging members of the public who exhibit these symptoms.” He paused for a moment and looked out over the assembled team. “We’re all in this, not just the drug squad.”
Marley raised her hand, pretending her body didn’t protest the movement.
“Marlowe.”
“Just so I’m clear, these symptoms weren’t seen before the drugs were taken off the street? So it’s a result of the detox, not an effect of the drug itself?”
“That seems to be the case. Our Public Health liaison will give us more information when they have it, but they’re telling me they need to know what this drug is before they can comment on the side effects of the drug or the effects of detox.”
“Any other jurisdictions seeing this, Sarge?” Superman said.
“I’ve spent the morning on the phone, and no. So far it’s just us. Public Health and the OPP will be going through their sources as well, of course.”
Marley felt a shift in the air at that information. This targeted but unknown threat aimed at their city became an enemy. The energy in the room swelled in response, the silent agreement to take on and eliminate the threat, no matter what. For some it was puffed-up arrogance, a superhero complex that had gotten them into uniform in the first place. For most, though, like Marley, it was simply a combination of instinct and oath to protect.
“Eyes and ears open, people,” Crawford said. “That’s all I’m asking. Simms is taking point, so leads and questions to him. Watch for memo updates, and I’ll recall the team if we make any more definitive links.”
Crawford looked around the room, and when no one said anything, he dismissed them with a short bark.
Marley let the team disperse around her, most heading to their desks or their patrol cars, their shifts delayed by this meeting. She got a few claps on the shoulder and a couple of sexist jokes about cute nurses at the hospital. Most officers barely spared her a glance. Superman sent her a questioning look on his way out, and Marley waved him off. She’d get a cab home. Lasagna and a nap in her own bed was sounding really good.
She was easing her way to standing and trying not to show how much it hurt when she heard her name being called. Crawford and Simms were walking toward her.
“Constable Marlowe,” Simms said, shaking her hand. “I hear we’re getting you as desk jockey when you’re back on duty.”
Marley glanced at Crawford, whose expression remained impassive.
“I should be back in a day or two,” Marley said, basing her answer on want rather than fact.
“Good. Great,” Simms said. “We’ve got a ton of intel to sort through and not enough eyes. We could use your help.”
Before Marley could speak, Crawford jumped in. “Paperwork in my hands, Marlowe. Then you can report to Simms.”
“Yes, Captain,” Marley said and smiled a little when Crawford shook his head.
As Crawford and Simms walked away, Marley opened the taxi app on her phone and ordered a cab. She felt giddy as she shuffled back to the front desk. Exhausted, yes. In pain, absolutely. Her abdomen never seemed to stop itching or throbbing or generally reminding her that a blade had severed tissue and muscle less than a week ago. But she would be coming back to work, and she already had a role that would keep her close to the Fleming case and close to any information she could use to keep Carla and Aimee safe.
Chapter Five
Devon had run on her treadmill, showered, eaten breakfast, and was grabbing her keys and phone to head out the door when the panic hit. The dual waves of anxiety and self-hate made the edges of her vision blur as she stood in her front hallway, legs trembling.
“Breathe,” Devon said to herself through clenched teeth. “Can’t fight if you don’t breathe.”
She breathed. A deliberate act, willing each inhalation and exhalation to allow the panic to leave her body and replace it with rational thought. It took so long that shame wormed its way in, and Devon almost let herself sink down and curl herself up against the wall.
I can stay standing. I will stay standing.
Small, attainable goals. One step. Focus on the present.
Devon endured the alternating waves of anxiety and shame, each one cresting in a sea of hurt until the waves lost some of their power, until she no longer felt pulled under. Until her legs felt solid, and the haze around her cleared. She emerged from the undertow. Shaken, but she emerged.
Devon left her keys and phone where they were and walked back to her kitchen for a glass of water. She added some ice and took a few moments to listen to the crack of each cube. The coolness of the water was soothing, the ice against her lips a spark of sensation.
Devon hadn’t had a panic attack for weeks. Now that rationality had returned, Devon could begin to see the attack not so much as a regression but more a culmination of the last week, ever since finding Marley in the alley. Senses wide open now, Devon could feel the stiff cotton of Marley’s rain-soaked shirt, the warmth of the blood mixed with the warmth of the rain. Grit beneath her knees and water dripping into her eyes. Marley’s pain was a palpable sensation Devon allowed into her chest and breathed in with every beat of Marley’s pulse against her fingertips.
Devon held the glass to her forehead and closed her eyes, letting the rawness of the encounter surface as it obviously had needed to do for the last week. She and Ash, her therapist, had talked about how that would happen. To accept it when it did. To try and see it as a gift of moving forward, even if it hurt.
It hurt.
Devon knew she should cry the tears that followed on the exodus of the panic. A few escaped and she trapped them with the cold, sweating glass of water against her cheeks. She breathed, she calmed, she opened her eyes.
Devon’s phone chimed near the front door, and Devon went to check it out, grateful she felt steady. Marley had texted her saying good morning and wondering when they might be doing a video chat since she wanted to make sure she’d had coffee and put on pants.
Devon laughed out loud and reread the message. She took a mome
nt before she replied, mentally replaying the steps of leaving the house, going to the grocery store, and making it to Carla and Aimee’s hidden studio. She felt confident she could do it, her recent panic attack aside. Now she could do it.
An hour maybe? Devon texted. Does that work?
Works for me. I’m just sitting here holding down the couch and building scar tissue.
Sleep okay last night? Devon typed the question, then sent it before she could worry that it was too forward.
12 hours. I’m reliving my toddler years.
You obviously needed it.
Suppose so. Your day okay? You don’t mind an errand?
Devon paused before she responded. It would be easiest to say yes, no problem. Everything was fine. It didn’t feel right, though. Not with Marley.
Tough morning. Errand will be good for me.
Marley’s response didn’t come through right away, and Devon tried not to let her anxiety fill in the blanks.
Come by and tell me about tough morning after errand? If you’re up for it.
Devon didn’t hesitate. I’d like that.
They signed off, and with only a moment to remember the panic attack that had gripped her twenty minutes ago, Devon grabbed her keys and walked out the door.
The humidity was an oppressive weight Devon felt as soon as she walked outside. Southern Ontario in July usually saw weeks of heat and humidity, but this summer had been especially intense with storms that built and crested every few days but never seemed to disperse the heat. Devon put her sunglasses on against the glare of the morning sun, already sensing the afternoon storm that would darken the sky and flood the streets with rain.
The streets were busy, but the grocery store was quiet. Devon found the few items on her short list and was back in her car, air conditioning blasting, heading to the east end within twenty minutes. She felt a little raw from her morning, like an emotional workout that stretched her muscles and made her ache with the reminder of the exercise. Moving helped, purpose helped. Knowing she’d see Marley again helped.
When she arrived at the apartment, Aimee was waiting at the door, peering through the crack. Aimee swung the door wide as Devon approached and jumped and spun in silent excitement before racing up the stairs. Devon laughed and followed, first locking the door behind her.
“Hello again,” Carla said, taking the bags from Devon as she hoisted a folding chair with the other.
“It’s good to see you again,” Devon said. “I hope you don’t mind I brought a chair.”
Carla waved her away, taking the bags to the kitchen.
“If I could get out for a bit, I was thinking of heading to a re-shop for a few things, chairs included. But…” Carla trailed off and looked at Aimee, who was standing by the window flipping through one of the books Devon had brought. “That’s not in the cards right now.”
Devon wanted to offer to stay with Aimee so Carla could go out. This wasn’t good for either of them. Concern snaked in her stomach, and Devon acknowledged its presence. Before anything, Devon needed to talk to Marley.
“A paper,” Carla said, looking through the bags. “Two!” Her eyes lit up, looking shockingly like her granddaughter. “Bless you.”
Devon smiled. “It did sound like something you’ve been missing. It’s amazing how the small things can make a tough situation seem normal.”
Carla looked hard at Devon for a moment, and Devon wondered if she was searching for pity or condescension. She obviously didn’t find it because she relaxed in the next breath.
“Tea or coffee?” Carla said. “I know it’s warm out.”
Aimee scrambled into the kitchen at the question and tugged on her grandmother’s sleeve, then she opened the fridge door. She pulled out an orange juice container filled with brown liquid and held it up.
“Yes, of course. You can offer that to our guest.”
Aimee looked up shyly, hugging the juice container to her chest.
“We made iced tea,” Carla said. “Just some cold tea and lemonade, but the little chef here liked making it.”
“I’d love some iced tea,” Devon said to Aimee.
The young girl scrambled onto the counter, pulling down three plastic cups and filling them carefully, then distributing them around.
“Delicious,” Devon said once they all had their drinks and were sitting down. “Perfect for this hot day.”
Aimee grinned.
“We’re lucky with the building,” Carla said, resting her cup against the arm of her chair. “The brick stays cool on the alley side, so we’re quite comfortable in here. Though I imagine it’s another story in winter.”
Carla sat back in her chair, looking defeated.
“Worry for another day,” Devon said.
“I suppose it is,” Carla said sharply. “Though this is not how I like to run my life. None of this is.”
Aimee had begun shrinking down the wall until she was huddled on the floor. A look of distress passed over Carla’s face.
“Ah, pet. It’s okay. Grandma’s got worries on her brain. But nothing is wrong.”
Aimee clutched her drink and stared up at her grandmother.
“Say it with me?” Carla said. She put a hand to her forehead, and after a moment’s hesitation, Aimee mimicked the gesture. “My thoughts are clear,” Carla said as she moved her hand across her forehead. Aimee did the same, then they put their hands around their shoulders in the imitation of a hug. “My body is safe.” Grandmother and child then placed hands on their chest. “My heart is healing.”
The sweetness and heaviness of the moment hit Devon in her own chest. It chafed against her own recently unsafe thoughts, her own healing heart. She struggled for a moment to not let tears surface. Such a raw moment between these two. Devon cleared her throat.
“What a perfect mantra to get you through tough times,” Devon said. “I’m going to remember that.”
Carla looked pleased, and Aimee looked more relaxed.
“We have some tough days, don’t we, pet?” Aimee nodded solemnly and drank her iced tea. “But we manage.”
“More than manage,” Devon said quietly. She didn’t push, though, imagining Carla would be uncomfortable with acknowledgement of how well they were both handling an incredibly difficult situation. “I wondered how you would feel about Aimee doing a video chat with Marley this morning.”
Aimee’s eyes lit up, and she gulped the rest of her iced tea and slammed it on the floor and stood up and shimmied her excitement. Devon laughed, and Carla cracked a smile, then looked pointedly at the cup on the floor. Aimee rolled her eyes but picked up the cup and ran to the kitchen, tossing it in the sink before racing back.
Devon texted Marley asking if she was ready and received an instant reply: yes. Devon connected the call and handed Aimee the phone, pointing over her shoulder where the camera was and where Marley’s face would pop up. It did a moment later, and Devon recognized Marley’s living room and what she suspected was Marley’s favourite chair.
“Squirt!” Marley said, and Devon heard a small, raspy, hiccupping sound. She realized it was Aimee laughing. Or maybe trying not to laugh. Interesting.
In moments, Aimee had taken Devon’s phone and was showing Marley her new book. Marley kept up a line of chatter and questions, though Devon recognized that Marley allowed time and space for Aimee to communicate in her own way.
“This will be good for them both, I imagine,” Carla said, watching her granddaughter race to the kitchen to show Marley the half-empty bottle of iced tea.
“Very much so,” Devon said. She had so many questions for Carla about Aimee and her health and the evidence of trauma that marked her. She wasn’t sure how to start the conversation or even if she had any right to.
“I worry about her,” Carla said quietly. “Like I’ve never worried about anything in my life. And life has thrown me a fair few worries, but this little one…”
“What worries you most?” Devon said.
Carla gave h
er an assessing look Devon was coming to recognize.
“It’s the things I don’t know,” Carla said. “I don’t know what happened to this little girl while she was living with her father. An eight-year-old at the centre of an illegal drug ring.” Carla shook her head, anger rising. “Who was she interacting with? What did she see every day? And the worst question…” Carla looked like she needed a moment to compose herself. “Why did my son want her in the first place? That man only looks out for himself, his only thought about others is how they can suit his needs. He’s been like that his whole damn life.” Carla looked at Devon and her eyes were angry and tortured. “So, what did he need from Aimee? When her mother died a year and a half ago, why did he take her in? He didn’t even know her.”
They both turned to look at a thumping sound. Aimee had dropped to the floor and was log rolling crazily across the hardwood, phone still in her hands. Marley’s tinny laughter filled the room.
Devon turned back to Carla. “Hard questions.”
Carla shook her head. “I can ask those. It’s the hard answers I worry about.”
Devon hesitated before asking her next question. Marley’s boundaries be damned, Devon had an ethical obligation to this child. “Do you know some of the signs of trauma and abuse to look for?”
“Some,” Carla said. “I guess the social worker ran a quick assessment before I arrived.” Devon made a mental note to find out if she could see the results of that assessment. Not that this was her patient. Not that she was at work. Not that she was capable…
Devon swallowed. “Did they talk to you about the results?”
“Briefly. Something about no immediate and apparent problem areas, but they recommended counseling. Their biggest concern was her lack of speech, but they said it was outside their expertise and to follow up with a pediatrician, speech and language pathologist, and child psychologist.” Carla snorted. “Like I’ve got those on my speed dial.”
Devon recognized the obvious gap between services meant to help individuals in need and their capacity to follow through. The best practice/best intentions trap, as Devon’s mentor had once called it.
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