Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 84871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84871 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 424(@200wpm)___ 339(@250wpm)___ 283(@300wpm)
“How did the graduation party go anyway?” Aisha asks, done talking about kids for two seconds to mention something else.
I shrug as I turn down Cedar, curious to see if there are any vagrants taking up residence in the blue house that’s had a “for sale” sign in the yard for as long as I can remember. “It was fine. The kids like their gifts.”
“What kid wouldn’t?” Aisha says with a chuckle. “I mean, you got them both iPads. That makes you like the best auntie ever.”
Auntie.
It’s pretty bad I’m a better “auntie” to Dempsey and Gemma than I am to my own nieces and nephews. Guilt niggles at me, but I attempt to squash it. My older sisters, Nevaeh and Rhiannon, had a mess of kids each. Nevaeh and her five still live with Mom in the old house I grew up in. Rhiannon is shacked up with some loser, Lenny, who’s playing stepdad to her three kids. I hate Lenny because he’s a drunk like Dad was and causing chaos. If he keeps it up with the drunk and disorderly conduct, he’s going to earn his ass a spot in prison beside Dad too.
My silence urges Aisha to continue babbling about anything and everything. Sometimes, I think if we weren’t partners, Aisha would never in a million years waste her breath on someone like me.
I’m not exactly friendly, nor am I that great of a friend.
I care about my job and the found family I have in Jamie and the kids, but other than that, I’m not fun to be around.
Because you saw what fun brings. Your parents had fun all the time and look where that got them…
Honestly, I can’t remember the last time I had fun. Maybe when I finally beat the super hard level on Candy Crush? Yeah, that’s the kind of fun I have.
“Whoa,” Aisha says, flinging her finger up to point ahead. “That idiot just flew through the stop sign and narrowly missed two cars!”
My heart rate speeds up as I flip on the sirens and lights to go after the rule breaker. We typically respond to calls around town, both emergency and non-emergency, but we’ve made our fair share of traffic stops when someone blatantly breaks the law in front of us.
The car—a dented-up Dodge Caravan from the early 2000s—continues to cruise without a care in the world. It could be an elderly person who didn’t see the stop sign or even a distracted mother dealing with crying kids.
Or it could be something darker and more sinister.
That’s what always keeps me on my toes with this job. You never know which way things will go. If you’re always ready, nothing will surprise you.
“They’re pulling over,” Aisha grunts, already unbuckling her belt. “There’s a carful. I’ll signal you if I need you.”
As soon as we’ve stopped, she gets out while I run the tags on the vehicle. It’s registered to a man named Michael Dennison—nineteen years old. I keep an eye on Aisha, who’s speaking to the driver. She sets her hand on top of the vehicle, which is my cue.
Quickly, I climb out of the cruiser and make my way to the other side of the vehicle. The woman in the passenger’s seat is young—maybe seventeen or eighteen—and pregnant. There’s a person in the back. When I rap on her window with my knuckle, a pregnant woman rolls it down.
“Mr. Dennison here says he’s just taking his girlfriend and neighbor to Nadine’s Diner,” Aisha says over the top of the car to me. “Didn’t see the stop sign.”
I cringe at the thought of Nadine’s—a greasy spoon that I practically grew up in. Only the sketchy locals step foot in that place and it’s a known place to go eat after a night of drinking or to cure a hangover. All the normal folks of Park Mountain choose to take their business to the upscale places that litter Main Street.
A gust of wind blows through the vehicle and the distinct smell of liquor washes over me. There are two Yetis in the cupholders, and five bucks says one of them has alcohol in it.
“What’s in the cup?” I ask, nodding to the drinks.
Someone curses in the back of the vehicle.
“Pepsi,” Dennison grumbles. “Can we go now?”
Aisha continues to talk to the man and I take a step back to see the person in the back of the van. A kid with shaggy dirty-blond hair buries his face in his hands and shakes his head. He’s younger than the two up front and clearly frustrated by the turn of events.
I rap on the side of the van. “Open this door, please, so we can talk.”
The kid tenses and then does as instructed. When I lock eyes with the familiar blues, my heart sinks.
“Hey, Aunt Sloane.”