The law of deceit, p.2
The Law of Deceit, page 2
Knowing she was there when I was born, hence how she knows my birthday, is a bit of a buzzkill when it comes to my crush on her. I mean, she saw my naked, screaming crybaby ass, for fuck’s sake. She will never see me as a romantic interest. And I will forever be bitter over that fact.
The iPad shines brightly and I look over the apps, most of them I know well. She points an unpainted, filed-down fingernail at the Procreate app.
“It’s for drawing. I know you do a lot of sketching in your drawing pads and notebooks, but I thought you might like to try your hand at digital art.” She digs into her purse and retrieves another item, this one not wrapped. “This came today and I didn’t have time to wrap it up. It’s an Apple pencil. You use it to draw with.”
Her thoughtfulness for my gift pushes away all my previous awkward feelings. Warmth blooms inside my chest and that familiar longing aches.
“I love it, Sloane.” I love you. “Thank you.”
She grins at me, relief shining in her eyes. “Good. I can’t wait to see what you come up with. You’re really talented.”
I blink at her, soaking up her words. She thinks I’m talented?
“You want to see what I draw?” I ask, sounding dumb as fuck. “I, uh, sure. Yeah, I’ll text you.”
Carefully, I close the iPad and tuck it back inside the box, stacking the Apple pencil box on top. The paper I’d ripped off litters the floor in front of me. As if we both come to the conclusion that it needs picking up at the same time, we kneel, faces inches from each other.
Amusement dances on Sloane’s usually stoic face and I can’t look away.
She’s so fucking beautiful.
“I guess you got this,” she says, reaching over to ruffle my hair. “Stay out of trouble, kid.”
And just like that, I’m reminded again of what I am to Sloane Thurman.
Her best friend’s son.
That’s all I’ll ever be.
Sloane
A stifled yawn manages to escape and earn me a chuff of laughter from one of the detectives who’s taken up residence at the coffee machine.
“Late night, Thurman?”
Detective Ethan Montgomery spends more time yapping his jaws than doing actual police work. I give him a tight smile, pushing past him to make my own cup of sludge.
“Aww,” Montgomery teases, “I see how it is. Ignore your best friend in the whole world then.”
As if I’d ever willingly hang out with that douchebag outside of work.
Andre Bishop, another detective, playfully punches Montgomery in his side and saves me from a response. “You wound me, bro. I thought I was your bestie.”
I leave the two knuckleheads to sort out their bromance once my coffee is filled to the brim with enough cream and sugar to mask the tarry taste. One of these days, I’m going to spend my hard-earned money and buy this department a real coffee machine. Maybe even one that wasn’t born in the late ’70s.
The station is filled with the usual crew this morning. Even our new chief of police, Hiroshi Tanaka, is hard at it already in a meeting with what looks like the mayor. Tanaka is your typical COP—a suit-wearing top brass who schmoozes with the upper echelon of Park Mountain, Washington. We snagged him from Seattle and supposedly, he’s the best of the best.
If he was so great, why’d he leave his cushy job in a big city then?
“You know, Sloane, if you keep glaring at the chief all the time like that, he’s going to give you one of the shitty shifts,” my friend and patrol partner, Aisha Patel, says with amusement. “What’s your beef with Tanaka anyway? He’s kind of cute.”
I grimace at the realization I’m so transparent. If only I could learn to control this resting bitch face I have. “He’s married.”
Aisha shrugs. “So am I. Can’t blame a girl for looking.”
Bringing my steamy paper cup to my lips, I swallow down some of the bitter excuse for coffee, needing caffeine to jump-start my internal engine. You’d think someone like me, who grew up in the diner my mom worked at, drinking their own version of shit coffee, I’d not be so particular.
But I am.
I’m a snob who knows all the great local spots to grab the best coffee.
“Are you finished?” I ask, setting my cup down on my tiny desk. “I’d like to hit the streets early today. Being here in the station is making my skin crawl.”
Aisha sighs heavily before plopping down in her seat across from me. In the mornings, we spend about a half hour catching up on paperwork before we cruise around, doing our part to keep the streets safe.
Since it’s been fairly quiet this week, my report completion goes quickly. In record time, I’m hustling Aisha along so we can get out of the station that reeks of chauvinism and Old Spice.
Once I’m behind the wheel of my cruiser, I finally relax. Patrolling the town of Park Mountain eases something that’s always been locked up inside of me. I like being able to do my part to clean the delinquents off our streets.
People like my dad.
Aisha fiddles with the dials of the air conditioner while I take us to Main Street. My thoughts drift to when I was ten years old, living in the run-down, crime-ridden neighborhood of Walter Oaks. It was when I really began to realize my family sucked and I didn’t want anything to do with them. It’s also the year I met Jamie Park—Booker before she married—and discovered there were other people like me.
Good people.
Nice people.
People who didn’t scam the system, get into whatever trouble they could find, or hurt others because they could.
“We’re getting out of here one day. I promise.”
Me and Jamie had a pact. As soon as we were old enough, we’d run away to some better town and start a new, happy life together as roommates. It was a solid plan until she got involved with the Parks.
Aisha rambles about her toddlers and how they can’t keep out of the dirt of her potted plants. This is the norm for her. She tells me all about her wonderful husband and kids to fill the silent squad car and I listen, wondering how I came to be almost forty and never having thought of marriage or kids.
My mind drifts back to my best friend. Though we’re worlds apart these days—me, a cop who makes mediocre pay, and Jamie, a stay-at-home wife and mother who’s treated like a queen—we’re still as close as two women can be.
“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.”
Jerking my head from my nephew to Aisha, I see her eyes widen in response. She gives me a nod to let me know she has things handled.
“Kaden,” I grit out. “Come on. Let’s take a walk.”
He groans but obeys. Even though I don’t see my family much, I still keep up with them. Kaden is Rhiannon’s youngest boy. At thirteen, he’s already falling in with the wrong crowd.
Once we’re several feet away from the van and out of earshot, I put my hands on my hips and frown down at the scrawny kid.
“What are you doing, Kaden?”
He crosses his skinny arms over his chest and shrugs. “Going for pancakes.”
“You should be at home with your mom, not riding around with a guy who’s clearly been drinking,” I hiss, pissed at both him and his mother. “This is dangerous.”
“Mom doesn’t care,” he mutters, not making eye contact with me. “You don’t either.”
The guilt I feel when it comes to my sisters’ kids once again punches me in the gut. I want to be the aunt he needs by pulling him to me and hugging him, but I’m on duty and he’s in trouble.
“I’m going to call her to come pick you up,” I tell him. “And we both care. You know that.”
His lip curls up and he gapes at me as though I’ve lost my mind. “Do you know when the last time she bought groceries was? Me neither. Mikey and June, our neighbors, feed me more than she does.”
Anger chases away any lingering guilt. He looks a little bony, but I thought maybe it’s the age. Is Rhiannon really so far up Lenny’s ass that she’s letting her youngest starve?
“Where are Lucy and Trevor?” I ask. “Why aren’t they making sure you eat?”
“Lucy moved in with Grandma and Aunt Nevaeh. She’s been with them since Christmas. Trevor is never home and always off with his stupid friends.” Kaden scowls at me. “You’d know this if you cared.”
I don’t let the guilt trip work this time. I’m not his aunt right now. I’m the law. And right now, Aisha is giving Dennison a breathalyzer test. If he’s been drinking and driving with a minor in the car, the law will have to intervene.
“Once we sort out what’s going on here,” I tell him, my eyes darting back over to Aisha and Dennison, “I’m taking you back home.”
Kaden winces and a flicker of fear shines in his blue eyes. “Whatever.”
Taking a step closer, I study him. He smells like he hasn’t bathed in some time. There are dark circles around his eyes from apparent lack of sleep and his hair is greasy. The kid looks exhausted and tired.
Exactly like I did at thirteen.
When all I wanted was for someone to rescue me from my shitty home life.
I had no one, but he does.
He has me.
“Are you safe?” I ask, eyes locking with his. “Tell me the truth, kiddo.”
His eyes water and he stares down at my feet. “I hate him, Aunt Sloane. I fucking hate Lenny.”
I’m not sure what’s going on, but until I get to the bottom of it, I’m not letting my nephew go back to that man who’s been nothing but an anchor weighing my already fragile sister down.
“You’re coming with me. We’ll get you some food and talk about what’s going on. Maybe you can stay with me a couple of nights or something.”
He searches my gaze, hope brimming in his eyes so bright I’m nearly blinded. “Really? I can stay with you?”
Before I can confirm, he launches himself at me, hugging me tight. My eyes sting with emotion, but I quickly blink it away.
Rhiannon needs to get her shit together and quick.
I’m tired as hell that our family keeps repeating the same mistakes, making each new generation of children suffer from the choices and consequences made by those who were supposed to love and care for them.
I’ll be there for Kaden because no one was there for me.
Dempsey
“There’s coffee and then there’s coffee,” Tate says, emphasizing the second time he uses the word.
“Coffee is the same everywhere. McDonald’s is closer. Why not just grab your iced coffee from there?”
We stop at a red light and he looks over at me, shaking his head in mock frustration.
“Coffee is not the same everywhere. If you’d actually try it, you might like it, and then we could be better friends.”
I snort out a laugh. “I tried it once. It was fucking sick.”
“You got the wrong kind obviously. I’ll make you a connoisseur yet. Just wait.”
I’m amused that he’s driving us to the other side of town just to get iced coffee from a place he and Willa deemed the best of Park Mountain. I never agreed to get coffee for myself. I’m along for the ride and in desperate need to escape my prison.
It’s technically not a prison, but Dad still refuses to get me and Gemma a car. We’re eighteen and getting ready to start our adult lives. It’s ridiculous at this point. He’s just being spiteful if you ask me.
Someone cuts Tate off and he bitches at them like a little Chihuahua even though the driver isn’t looking at him and certainly can’t hear him.
“Is Jude selling this thing?” I ask as I bump the roof with my fist. “I bet I have enough in savings for this piece of junk.”
“Junk?” Tate scoffs at me. “This Jeep is a classic. She purrs like a kitten too.” Then, to the damn car, he says, “Dempsey didn’t mean it. He’s just hangry.”
Hey, I was promised pastries on this outing…
“I obviously don’t think it’s that big of a junk bucket if I want to buy it,” I say, backtracking. “Seriously, tell your boyfriend I want it.”
Tate rolls to a stop at another red light. He glances over at me, seeing straight through my words and getting to the heart of the matter. His uncanny way of doing that is super annoying. “Nathan still hasn’t mentioned anything more on the car situation? I thought you were going to have a talk with him about it.”
Gritting my teeth, I shake my head. “Every talk with Dad ends with disappointment and anger.”
For the past month since graduation, he’s been putting pressure on me to go to college in the fall. I refuse to do any more school. He then refuses to buy me a car or even co-sign for one. By the end of the conversation, we’re both so pissed we can’t even speak without yelling.
A car honks behind us, signaling the light has changed. Tate gasses it but not before shooting me a concerned look.
“We’re not done discussing this,” Tate says as he pulls into the parking lot of the coffee shop. “But no talky until after coffee.”
I chuckle as we climb out of Jude’s Jeep. Even though Jude can drive and the vehicle belongs to him, Tate always drives them everywhere. It’s weird to see my brother out of the house and without a mask.
The coffee shop—Park Peak Brew—is rustic and has a bear sipping from a mug painted on the front window. It has an unobstructed view of Park Mountain in the distance. Naturally, idiots on their laptops who aren’t even appreciating the beauty of the view took all the window seats.
Inside, the place smells like caramel and coffee, a scent I admit is enticing. Gemma loves her iced coffees, so I think I hate them on principle. Not that I hate my sister, because I don’t, but I do love to be her polar opposite as often as I can.
