EDGE OF REASON

by Barker, Freya

  “Rob?” Mom guesses accurately before she starts digging through the box. “There’s an envelope.”

  “Put it down, Mom,” I say urgently when she tries to hand it to me. “Put it down on my desk.” I immediately pick up my phone and dial Keith Blackfoot.

  _______________

  “Do you remember when it was delivered across the street?”

  Special Agent Gomez has been letting Detective Blackfoot do most of the talking until now.

  “It must’ve been early January. I remember the Benedetti boy saying it had been in their garage a few weeks already, and he brought it over the day of Tahlula and Evan’s wedding. I didn’t look at it too closely because we were already late.” I look at the box on the coffee table. “What I don’t get is why it would have my name and address, but it was dropped off across the street? How he has my address to begin with?”

  “Not sure,” Blackfoot answers. “Let me give the boss a call.” He gets up and steps outside.

  “Anything you can think of that might’ve triggered this?” Gomez asks when door closes behind the detective.

  “River’s birthday,” Mom pipes up.

  “When was that?”

  “Three days after Christmas,” I confirm.

  “That could do it,” he mumbles, using a pen to turn the card he carefully fished out of the envelope to face him.

  Bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh,

  remember he is MY blood.

  My son,

  take your hunting gear, your quiver and bow,

  and go out in the field to hunt some game for me,

  then wash your feet in the blood of the wicked.

  Trunk

  “I grew up in Denver with my mother and my sister. I never knew my dad. All I know is he was black, but my sister’s father was white.”

  I keep an eye on Matt as I share a little of my upbringing, in a last ditch effort to get the kid to talk. Maybe if I can see a reaction to something I tell him, I can wedge open that door.

  So far, no reaction at all. Fuck, but the kid is tough. Time for the heavy stuff.

  “My mother was an addict and a drunk. She couldn’t hold down a job, other than spreading her legs when she needed her next fix. There were periods of time when she tried to be a parent, but most of the time the parenting was up to me. We moved around a lot. Most of the time she was able to find a roof over our heads, but there were times we lived on the street.”

  A tiny spark of interest shows in his face, but he quickly slides the impassive mask back in place.

  “I’m not gonna tell you what all I did, but I was doing my part bringing in money—or food—from the time I was eight years old. When I was fourteen, I stole a car from a neighbor in the trailer park we’d been living in for a while, so I could drive my mother to the hospital. A john had beaten the crap out of her.”

  That earns me a wince. Going in for the kill.

  “I’d just turned eighteen and my sister was fifteen when we found her lying on the couch. She’d overdosed and choked on her own puke.”

  Immediately his eyes dart out the small window, avoiding mine, but I see a muscle in his jaw ticking.

  “You have a mom, Matt? Is she waiting for you?”

  A knock at the door draws a loud curse from me. Wapi sticks his head inside.

  “You best have a damn good reason,” I bite off.

  “Ouray says it’s urgent.”

  Fuck.

  I glance at Matt, who turns his head to me, a triumphant grin on his face. Jesus. I just spilled my guts, could stand to lose my license to practice after the unorthodox treatment tactics, and the kid thinks it’s funny.

  “We’ll pick this up later, Matt.” Wapi steps aside to let him pass. “Where is Ouray?”

  “Office.”

  Ouray is sitting at his desk when I walk in. “Have a seat.”

  “What’s up?” I almost add he interrupted a near breakthrough with Matt, but swallow it. In hindsight, I may not have been as close as I’d hoped.

  “I just got a call from Joyce Mangiane, from Child Protective Services in Monticello. You’ll remember we’ve worked with her before.” His eyes drift out the window as he continues, “Three days ago, a boy was found in a local park. Unconscious and severely beaten. He’s since woken up, but they have no idea who he is or where he’s from, and the kid won’t talk.”

  My hands are clenched in fists at the thought of someone beating up a child. It sickens me. I’m not sure why Ouray is telling me about a kid in Monticello, but I’m sure he has his reasons. I don’t have to wait long.

  “Joyce says local police have been unable to match him with any missing child reports, and questioning him is almost impossible. Any time someone tries to approach him, he becomes like a caged animal. Joyce wants our help. Yours, specifically.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t fuckin’ take this the wrong way,” he says, leaning forward on his desk, “but you’re the only black child psychologist she knows.”

  “And?” My fists clench even harder.

  “And…” Ouray drawls. “The kid’s black. Some of his injuries suggest the attack may have been racially motivated. Joyce thinks he’s more likely to open up to you.”

  “Shee-it.”

  “Need you to head up there tonight, Trunk. That kid’s got no one he trusts. So terrified they have to restrain and sedate him so they can treat his injuries.”

  “How old?”

  “She’s guessing he’s seven or eight.”

  “Sonofabitch,” I bite off.

  “Yeah.”

  I push up from the chair. “Tell her I’m on my way.”

  “Thanks, brother. Booked a room for you at the Inn at the Canyons.”

  Glancing up I raise an eyebrow. “Presumptuous.” Ouray grins and shrugs his shoulders in response.

  The snow starts falling when I’m on my way home to pack a bag, and my thoughts immediately go to Jaimie with a pang of regret. I won’t be able to take care of her driveway. I should also let her know I likely won’t be able to make our dinner date for tomorrow night.

  It takes me a few minutes to grab my stuff at home, lock up, and head back out on the road, which is getting worse by the minute. “Call Jaimie.” I instruct my hands-free.

  “Trunk?”

  “Yeah. Look, something urgent’s come up and I have to head out of town for a while. Not sure how long I’ll be, but I’m not gonna be able to keep our date tomorrow night.” I’m met with a pregnant silence. “James?”

  “Whatever. That’s fine.” She sounds almost distracted. “I’ve gotta go, River just woke up.”

  Before I even get a chance to say goodbye, she’s hung up. I immediately call the club, and Ouray answers.

  “Need a favor.”

  “You’ve got it. What do need?”

  “Weather’s getting bad. Can you send one of the prospects to shovel the drive at 247 Animas Place?”

  “Jaimie’s place?”

  “I’ll get Wapi out there as soon as the worst is over.” He pauses for a minute. “Jaimie. So it’s like that, is it?”

  “Whatever,” I growl.

  Ouray’s laugh booms over the speakers as I reach to end the call.

  CHAPTER 9

  Jaimie

  I DIDN’T SLEEP much last night.

  When Gomez and Blackfoot left, they took the box, the gift, and the card with them, but the message is burned in my brain. So fucking creepy.

  Keith found out from Joe Benedetti that they often received packages for their former tenants, and the delivery guy may have automatically dropped it off with them when nobody answered the door here.

  That’s one mystery solved, but it doesn’t explain how Rob would’ve found out where I live. Because the box was from him, there’s no doubt about that. Gomez pointed out it wouldn’t have been that hard, if someone made an effort.

  I thought I’d been pretty good at closing down my life in Denver, but I guess there were some things I
hadn’t considered. I didn’t exactly go into hiding—something I have a feeling I may come to regret—I just didn’t expect for him to make the effort to find me. Not from jail. Not when the divorce was already finalized. To what point?

  The note, though. It’s clear he’s not as done with us as I thought he was.

  If that wasn’t enough to keep my mind churning all night, Trunk called. I’d been happy to hear from him, but that was short-lived when he told me—telegraph style—he couldn’t do dinner because he was heading out of town. The disappointment was sharp and immediate. I didn’t have a chance to ask for an explanation since he was in an obvious hurry to get off the phone, and I never had an opportunity to tell him about the package.

  I’m still bleary-eyed when I hoist River on my hip and make my way downstairs, where I can hear Mom rambling around in the kitchen.

  “Morning, sweethearts.” She comes over to kiss my cheek and the top of River’s head, before taking him from my arms. “Have you seen that snow outside? It must’ve continued through the night. I had to shovel the breezeway, it had piled up against the door.”

  “I could’ve done that, Mom.”

  She slips River in his high chair and hands him a sippy cup. “I’m not helpless, you know,” she says with a stern look my way, reminding me how I came by my independent streak.

  “I’ll head out after breakfast and start digging us out.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to.” She smiles over her shoulder as she pops bread in the toaster. “Someone is already working on it.”

  “What? Who?”

  I’m already moving to the living room window to check outside, a butterfly of hope spreading its wings. Sadly, my first glimpse of the much too lean figure, dressed in all black, shoveling my driveway squashes it instantly.

  “I’ll be right back,” I call over my shoulder as I shove my feet into boots and don a jacket before heading outside.

  I can barely see his eyes from under the beanie pulled low on his head. “Mornin’”

  “Uh, yeah, morning. Can I ask what—”

  “Trunk.”

  “Sorry?” I stop in front of him, planting my hands on my hips.

  “You were gonna ask what I’m doin’ here. Trunk wanted your drive clean so he sent me.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s very kind of you, uh…”

  “Wapi.”

  Fucking weird name, but what do I care? I’m too busy being annoyed.

  “Okay, Wapi. As I was about to say, it’s very kind of you, but I can take it from here.” I go for the shovel but he moves it out of my reach.

  “Not a big deal. I’ll just finish it up.”

  “Actually, that won’t be necessary. I’ve got this.”

  “Ma’am,” he says, clearly trying to stay polite but making me feel ancient in the process. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to get this done. Don’t wanna get my ass kicked and risk losing my chance at getting patched into the club.”

  “Ass kicked?” I’m shocked, and more than a little concerned. I got the impression the MC was not into violence, but I guess I was wrong.

  “You’ve seen Trunk?” he asks with a grin. “No one wants to mess with that brother. I won’t be much longer and then I’m outta your hair.”

  It’s clear the man-child won’t be deterred, so I simply nod and turn back to the house, where I stop and call out to him, “Perhaps you can pass on a message for me? Take that shovel with you and tell Trunk to stick it where the sun don’t shine.”

  His hearty chuckle follows me inside.

  “What was that all about?” Mom wants to know when I stomp into the kitchen.

  “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

  She wisely doesn’t say anything else after my snippy response and slides an omelet in front of me, but she does it with a tiny smile tugging at her lips.

  I cave when I’m halfway through my breakfast.

  “He irks me.”

  “So I gather,” Mom says, without even looking up from her plate. Also annoying.

  “I get maybe five words of highly unsatisfactory explanation on why he cancelled our date tonight, but he apparently had enough time left to call in the troops to clean our driveway.”

  “The gall of the man.”

  I shoot Mom a sharp look, but her head is turned to River, feeding him a bite.

  “I never know whether I’m coming or going with that man. One minute he has me convinced he’s interested, but it’s clear he doesn’t have a very long attention span. I don’t need that kind of aggravation in my life. I had that once, I’m not volunteering for it again.”

  “Oh, would you give it up?” Now it’s my mother’s turn to speak sharply and I look up surprised. “How can you even compare the two? When was Rob ever thoughtful enough to make sure you could safely get out of your driveway? The man would take off for weeks—even months—at a time, without a single thought for your well-being. Last I remember is you risking your neck on that godforsaken ladder, trying to clear the downspout in the spring, all because he was too busy to take care of that. Do I need to give you more examples?”

  “No.” Duly chastised, I put my fork down and shove the plate away. I’ve lost my appetite.

  “Look at me, sweetheart.” She waits until I do before reaching across the table to put her hand on mine. “Does Trunk seem like the kind of man who would ever have you climb on a wobbly ladder?”

  “Maybe not, but it’s not like I can’t do those things myself,” I sputter.

  “Anyone who spends five minutes in your presence knows you can do those things yourself, and then some. But that’s not really the point, is it? The point is he cares enough so you wouldn’t have to. I get your cold feet, Jaimie, and I’m not saying Trunk couldn’t do with some training when it comes to how to treat you, but you’ll never get that if you don’t give him a chance instead of focusing on his shortcomings.”

  I really hate it when Mom makes sense. Almost as much as when she puts me in my place. I’ll be forty in less than two years, and still she has the ability to make me feel two feet tall.

  “From what little I know about him and Tahlula, they haven’t exactly had the best of examples in their lives. Maybe cut him a little slack.”

  I pull my hand from under hers and get up, taking the dirty dishes to the kitchen.

  “I’ll think about it,” I say stubbornly.

  Mom rolls her eyes.

  By the time my phone screen shows Trunk calling, after I get into bed that night, I’ve convinced myself maybe I should.

  Trunk

  I didn’t think there was anything that could bring down my opinion on humanity lower than it already was.

  Apparently I was wrong.

  In the past twenty-four hours, the only information I managed to get from the little boy in the hospital bed was his first name—Ezrah—and he was only eight years old. I managed to glean that much through barely distinguishable mumbles, hand gestures, and a lot of guessing. His poor face was so badly battered; it was difficult for him to talk.

  Joyce Mangiane, the CPS caseworker, had made the right call.

  Ezrah’s initial reaction was to struggle against his bindings, but I sat down so I was more at eye level with him, and started to softly talk to him. I can’t remember what I rambled on about, but it seemed to calm him down after a while.

  I never used the room Ouray got me last night, but tonight I need a mattress. My fucking back is broken, sitting on that damn stool beside the kid’s bed.

  Ouray got an update on the way to the Inn at the Canyons, but I waited until after I had a quick shower and was lying down before calling Jaimie.

  “Hey.”

  I wasn’t expecting the soft voice. In fact, I wasn’t even sure she’d pick up, and at the very least had been prepared to get a strip torn off me. Getting sweet Jaimie is a nice surprise, one that is immediately noticed by my Johnson as well. Although she makes me hard, whether she blows bubbles or spits nails. My dick is an equal opportuni
ty cheerleader.

  “How are ya, Little Mama?”

  “I’m okay. You?”

  “Better now.”

  “How so?” I hear the rustle of fabric and imagine her lying in bed.

  “This mattress is the shit and I’m talking to you.”

  For a few seconds she’s dead silent, and I wonder if that was too much information. Shee-it, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.

  “Oh. I, uh…thank you for sending someone to do my driveway,” she finally says, a little uneasy.

  “Would’ve done it myself, but I’m in Monticello.”

  “Monticello?”

  “Yep. Wouldn’t a cancelled on you if it wasn’t an emergency.”

  She seems to think on that too before answering. “I thought you were—”

  “Bailing. I figured.” I take a deep breath to get rid of the tight feeling in my chest. “I wasn’t. Not anymore. Woulda called you sooner, but I just got out of the hospital. Ouray got a call from someone he knows with Child Protective Services. A kid was found earlier this week, hurt bad, but not talking. They thought I might be able to help. Fuck, Jaimie, you should see him, his face is so swollen he can barely see out of his eyes.”

  “What happened?”

  Her question is filled with compassion, warming me. I fold an arm behind my head, suddenly eager to share it all.

  “Boy’s name is Ezrah, just eight years old. He was found unconscious and covered in blood in a park. Someone not only beat the crap out of him, but he has burns on his arms and torso and that sick fuck carved a swastika on his chest,” I grind out.

  A sharp inhale precedes her soft, “Oh my God, you’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “He’s black, Jaimie. Just a little, eight-year-old black kid. Some days I just don’t get what this world is coming to.”

  At the discovery of the mark cut in his skin I almost lost my shit, but I had to keep it together for the boy. It’s a relief to be able to talk about it. Unfamiliar, but a relief.

  “I don’t either,” she says, and I’m reminded she’s just recently been introduced to that particular underbelly of society. “Trunk?”