“So will I,” a deadly soft voice says from behind me.
I look back and almost collapse when I see Ms. James leaning against the doorjamb, arms folded, lips set in stone, eyes lit with fury and indignation.
“My son is a good man.” Her eyes drift from Parker for a moment to me. “And Bristol is a good woman. Just try to hurt them again. You find a way to slip from the law, I got some street justice for you. Bet you won't get out of that.”
Greg steps into the fray before Ms. James can say anymore about “street justice”, whatever that means, and pulls Parker’s arms behind his back.
“Charles Parker, you have the right to remain silent . . .”
The Miranda Rights, the other cops streaming into my home, the flurry of activity all fade to the peripheral as I look at the three mothers who made my escape possible.
“Aunt Betsy, I'm so sorry.” I pull her into a hug, and she sniffs softly in our embrace. She did what was right, but Parker is still her son. Without the information she took from her husband's safe, none of this would have worked.
“No, I'm sorry.” Aunt Betsy pulls back, shaking her head. “The things he’s done to other women, to so many people all these years, we failed him somewhere along the way. He has to pay. I just hope he heeds our warning and doesn’t come after you again.”
“Oh, he won’t,” my mother interjects. “What he did to Marlon is child’s play compared to the things in that safe and the things your husband has covered up for him through the years. We’ll make sure he doesn’t forget what we have.”
“Thank you, Mother.” I’m not sure what else to say as our eyes lock and hold and soften. I know everything won’t be repaired between us in a day, but today was a big step.
“I do love you, Bristol.” Her voice doesn't waver, but her eyes, so like mine, for maybe the first time show me a little of what's in her heart. “I’m sorry Marlon believed that more than you did, but I know I’m to blame.”
The flawless red line of her mouth pulls into a grimace.
“I think it’s past time you joined your father, Rhyson, and me in sessions with Dr. Ramirez,” she continues. “If we ever hope to be a real family, that is.”
Her words ripple emotion through me, a tectonic shift in my own heart. I’ve disciplined my emotions over the last twenty-four hours, held in so much because I knew Marlon’s freedom depended on it. The possibility that the relationship I’ve always wanted with her is something she might want, too, unravels me. The tears that have been bound behind a wall of control trickle down my cheeks. A sob unleashed in my chest takes me by surprise. Before I know it, I’m in my mother’s arms. It’s still awkward. She pats my back and holds me stiffly, unrelaxed, her walls not fully down, but all that matters is she doesn’t let go.
I’ve always wondered if she’d lavished all her devotion onto my talented brother; if she’d squandered her deepest love on my unfaithful father, and there was nothing left for me. I know what it’s like behind that wall. It’s cold and lonely. It’s barren with no sun. God, I’m so glad I finally let Grip in. And as my mother and I regard each other with new understanding, with new respect, I hope that someday soon, she’ll truly let me in, too.
Over her shoulder, I encounter a darkened caramel gaze that’s warmed and melted with sympathy, with compassion, maybe with understanding. Through my own tears, I offer Ms. James a tentative smile, and slowly, she returns it.
Chapter 39
Grip
Bristol: I’m on my way.
I READ BRISTOL’S text and slip a soft cashmere sweater over my head. Freshly showered, I fall back on the bed and respond.
Me: I’m home. Upstairs.
Our exchange is brief, but the air buzzes with anticipation. The last time I saw Bristol, she was on her way to Parker. I wasn’t happy with her. I’m sure when I took matters into my own hands and had Ma call Mrs. Gray, Bristol wasn’t happy with me. This morning, I woke up in County, ate powdered eggs, and wore jail scrubs that scratched my skin. Tonight, I’m in my luxury loft, wearing a cashmere sweater and chilling a bottle of wine that costs more than I used to pay in rent. An astounding turn of events.
I’ve never been angry enough to actually kill someone, but if Parker were standing in front of me right now, I might toss him on my rooftop grill and watch the flames consume his carcass. Maybe I would drink my two thousand dollar bottle of wine with the aroma of his charred flesh wafting in the air. There is some base level of my soul that would prefer primitive justice over the legal route we’ve taken.
We’ll have to depend on the bounty of "insurance" Mrs. Parker found in that safe to keep her son on a leash. Though, I hope my conversation with him earlier dissuades him from bothering us, from bothering Bristol, again.
I wrestled with what to do about this menace. Street justice calls for me to use Corpse or any means available to protect myself, to protect my girl. I won't pretend I wasn't tempted to use Corpse. I was, but I wanted a better way. Greg and Mrs. Gray came up with a legal option, for which I'm grateful. If Parker ever tries to hurt Bristol again, directly or through someone she loves, I can’t promise them, or myself, that I won't find another means. I wanted to tell him that to his face.
It pays to have a family on the force, connections of my own. Greg managed to get me into the "special" private holding cell where Charles Parker is being kept, separate from general pop, of course.
He was taking a piss when I entered his cell. He studied me warily over his shoulder, and I smelled his fear. It curled around my leg like an anxious cat.
“There are cameras everywhere,” he warned. “Hurt me and you’ll be caught.”
“Just one for this room. It's looping for two minutes. That’s all the time I need."
“What do you want?” He managed a sneer, even though I could see the terror in his eyes. “Money? I can give you that.”