on the road as Brody gives directions. We head into the small upper-class suburb and pull in front of the house.
Both of us cautiously approach the door, we knock twice, and a woman opens the door with a smile.
“Hello, officers.”
“Good morning, ma’am. We got a call about a disturbance. Is everything all right here?” I ask.
She smiles warmly and opens the door. “Yes, my son is autistic, and well, sometimes he gets really loud. My neighbor behind us keeps calling. No matter how many times we explain that there’s nothing we can do but let him work it out, she continues to call the cops.”
“Do you mind if we come in?” Brody asks.
We’ve seen too many instances of a wife covering for her husband because she’s terrified of him.
“Of course,” she steps back, giving us room to pass. “Please, come in.”
“Thank you, Mrs. . . . ” I leave it open.
“Harmon. I’m Delia Harmon”
We step forward, and a boy around fourteen comes to the door, and I smile. “Hi.”
He stares off to the side and grunts.
“Sloane doesn’t speak, but he loves lights,” Mrs. Harmon explains. “It’s been a rough few months. His father took off a while ago, so it’s just us, but we’re doing fine. Aren’t we Sloane?” She looks adoringly at her son.
I smile, thinking of how lucky this boy is to have a mother like her. The way she stares at him reminds me of how my mother looked at me, and my mother was always brimming with love. Stephanie and I were her life.
“Hi, Sloane,” I kneel in front of him and his eyes dart outside.
“Can you say hello to the police officers?” Delia encourages.
Sloane doesn’t say anything. Instead, he points to the cruiser outside. The look of wonder in his eyes is shining bright. He starts to pull on her arm while she tries to pull him back.
“Would he like to see the police lights?” Brody asks, breaking his silence.
“Oh, he’d love that.”
Brody and I spend the next few minutes with Mrs. Harmon and Sloane. We show him the lights and watch as the joy spreads across his face. He seems much calmer, and I wish there were more we could do for him. Inevitably, another call comes in and we have to leave. Sloane starts fussing, and I know it’s only going to get worse. He wants us to stay, and I hate that we are leaving Mrs. Harmon to calm him down.
We head back on the road, and our day is filled with bullshit calls. Two traffic accidents, a possible shoplifter who ended up being the owner’s daughter, and a police report for a stolen car. Paperwork sucks.
“Do you mind stopping if we stop in and check on Steph?”
“You know I don’t.”
Brody calls in that we’re on break, and we head over.
When we get to the turn in by Tampa General, a sleek, black Bentley comes peeling out of the side street, almost hitting two cars in the process.
“Oh, hell no,” I say and flip the lights and sirens on. “I hate these assholes on this side of the island. They all think they can do whatever they want.”
Having money doesn’t mean you’re above the law.
Brody and I approach the car and the tinted windows lower.
“License, registration, and insurance,” I say without looking at the driver.
“Sorry, officer,” a familiar voice causes my eyes to lift. I stare into the green irises I doubt I’ll ever forget. A five o’clock shadow paints his face, and the sun only makes everything seem brighter. His mouth turns into a radiant smile, and my heart begins to race. “I was on my way to see someone. But it turns out she came to me.”
Chapter 6
Heather
My life . . . is . . . a freaking comedy show.
There’s nothing I’ve done to deserve this amount of bad karma. I’ve been a good friend, sister, daughter, I uphold the law, and I’m a good person by most people’s standards.
What the hell have I done to have this happen to me?
I release a deep breath and go back into work mode. “Do you know why I pulled you over, sir?”
“Are you going to pretend you don’t know me?” Eli asks with his brow raised.
“Mr. Walsh, we all know who you are. However, that doesn’t mean that nearly colliding with two vehicles is acceptable.”
Eli looks over at Brody. “What’s up, man? Is she always this way?”
“You two old friends?” Brody asks.
I clear my throat. “License, registration, and insurance . . .