RYAN
brick half-wall, enjoying the shade of the Riviera breezeways, the view of the lake, and a ham sandwich from Potbelly’s down the street. I figured I may as well take my lunch here and catch Bailey as she came off work.
Meanwhile, my thoughts constantly returned to last night. My stomach filled with butterflies, which made no sense. Monica had declined my lousy idea of date night—as well she should. But she had smiled. She had laughed. I felt as giddy as I had in high school when I first realized we were more than “just friends.”
A whistle blew. Moments later, the Mailboat eased around the end of the pier and nosed toward its berth. I smiled when I saw Bailey standing on the rub board at the bow of the boat, a coiled rope in her hand. She looked up and spotted me. I lifted my sandwich in a wave. She gave me a little wave back. The boat slid parallel to the pier, and she hopped off to tie her line. When she was done, she turned to me and lifted a finger.
I nodded. I was in no rush, unless my radio squawked. I remembered her routine from my own days as a mail jumper: Moor the boat, drop the gangway in place, disembark the passengers (probably pose for a few photos), then tidy the boat quick for the next round of tourists.
I watched her chat with the happy excursionists. One of them, an elderly lady, pinched Bailey’s cheek, and from my post ten yards away, I heard her call Bailey “so gosh-darn cute.” Bailey smiled. If she was offended, she didn’t show it. But she was good at looking cheerful, regardless of whatever emotions were going on inside. So, I felt offended for her. That woman had no idea that, for Bailey, human touch meant bruises more often than not. Much as I wanted to wrap that girl in a protective hug, I knew it was off the table until Bailey herself allowed it.
The passengers gone, Bailey exchanged a word with the second mail jumper, motioning to me. The other jumper, a blond-haired boy, nodded and entered the boat, where I saw him sort boxes of mail.
Bailey walked up the pier toward me. The lake breeze played with her ponytail, and she brushed fly-aways out of her face. Dressed in white shorts and a navy-blue tee shirt, she was the embodiment of summer in Lake Geneva. It was hard to think of the shadows that dogged her.
She pulled herself up onto the half-wall beside me. I held out my open bag of sour cream and onion potato chips, and when she cupped her palms, I poured some in. She popped one into her mouth and joined me in staring over the lake, as if our sharing a lunch were the most natural thing in the world. I guess you could say we knew each other by now.
“This is where we exchange the secret info, right?” she quipped.
“Yup.” I tried to keep a straight face and failed. I wanted to forget that I actually had come here to gather some info. “Sorry I haven’t seen you. They put me on a task force on top of my patrol duties. I’ve been busy.”
She shrugged. It was no biggie to her. But I couldn’t forget the challenge that Bill Gallagher had dumped at my feet before he died: Relentless love. A love that never abandoned someone, especially when they’d already been abandoned so many times. Bailey was in her fourteenth foster placement.
It suddenly dawned on me that the change in my job status might actually be meaningful to her.
“By the way, I don’t know if you even knew this,” I started, “but until last week I was just a reserve officer.”
She crinkled her nose. “Reserve officer?” She ate another chip.
“Yeah. A temporary officer. I was only supposed to be here for the summer.”
She popped her eyebrows. “Oh.” The information was new to her, but not earth-shattering. “‘Was’?”
“Yeah. They took me on permanent.”
She stared across the lake, her eyes distant, as if her mind were turning. “Because that other cop died.”
For a moment, I was knocked speechless. I’d forgotten how perceptive she could be. Her silence hid much. “Yes. Because the other cop died.”
She nodded, turning a chip in her fingers. “So… you’re staying?”
I nodded. “I’m staying.”
Her brow flinched in thought. “Cool.” And that was all she said. If my words meant anything at all to her, it was unreadable.
“How are you doing with Jimmy’s death?”
She looked down and shrugged. “It’s weird. His not being around. He had a crush on me, you know?”
I nodded, letting her go on.
“And sometimes I think… I don’t know. Maybe if I wasn’t so hard on him…?”
I saw the lost look on her face. The hopelessness. The second-guessing. I caught her eye. “Hey, Jimmy’s death is not your fault, okay? There were a lot of issues he was dealing with. Most of them had nothing to do with you.”
She dropped her head and nodded. I could only hope some part of what I said would stick. I couldn’t stand to think she blamed herself for what Jimmy had done.
“Did you ever hear him talk about his sister Amelia? I mean, besides that day?”
She shook her head. “No.”
“How about Bud? Did he ever talk about her?”
She looked at me sharply. “He doesn’t exactly talk about his past.”
“Even after a few drinks?”
“When is he not drinking?”
I tilted my head. “Touché. Has he ever done anything to make you think he’d be capable of such an act?”
Her eyes turned narrow. Angry. She plunged into silence. I should have known she was too smart to step into any trap I’d lay for her. She still hadn’t confessed that Bud was abusing her—and come to think of it, trying to trick her into saying something probably hadn’t been the right move. The warning look was her only retribution.
Since dishonesty had failed, there was nothing left but the truth. “Bailey, I’m worried about you. I don’t want you to end up like Amelia, okay? We’re investigating Bud for some very serious crimes. I’m going to talk to social services and see if I can get you a new placement.” When she was silent, I tried to find her eyes. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”
She nodded, emotionless.
“Are you okay with that?” I didn’t really care if she was or wasn’t. She wasn’t staying with Bud anymore.
Her only response was a shrug. Ironically, it felt like progress. Previously, she had been against leaving Bud. My best guess was that she feared punishment. That was usually the reason people protected their abusers.
“Bailey. I’m not going to leave you.”
That one seemed to take a moment to sink in, as if the concept were a little foreign.
“I’m seeing this thing through, and I’m not giving up until I see you in a beautiful, loving family, do you hear me? I’m going to be there on your adoption day, when the judge signs the paperwork. I’m going to be there the day you realize what love looks like and what it means to be precious to someone, okay?” I wasn’t sure what led me to choose the word, but my voice caught as I said it. “I’m making you a promise.”
A tear glittered in her eye, and I was afraid I’d said too much. But maybe tears were a good thing. Shedding a chrysalis that didn’t fit anymore couldn’t be pain-free.
And now I’d made a promise. A very thorough, specific one. To my shock, this one didn’t scare me spitless, as they usually did. I somehow knew, in the pit of my stomach, that this was a promise I would finally keep.
I gave her several moments, and when she said nothing, I balled the empty chip bag. “You working the next tour?”
She nodded, her expression vacant.
“Good.” Any time not spent with Bud Weber was good time. “I want you to stay safe, okay?”
Another nod.
“Okay.” I bounced my heel, but there seemed to be nothing more to discuss. I stood up. “I’ll be in touch.”
She offered half a smile—a friendly gesture. A plea for me to go and leave her to her own thoughts.
So, I left, praying to God that something I’d said had finally broken through to her dark, hollow world.