Page 7 of Cut Off
Well, if I don’t do it, someone else will.
3
The Station
JONAH
“Asocial worker wants to talk to you, Mr. Holt.” The older officer—Stevens, I think he said—glances at me in the rearview mirror. The pity in his eyes makes me want to punch something.
I manage a nod, inhaling, and damn, it reeks in this cruiser.
My reflection stares back at me in the window—pale with hollow eyes and a twitching jaw. I still can’t believe it.
I have a son.
Nine years. Nine fucking years I’ve been a father without knowing it. First steps. First words. First day of school. Gone.
And Rosie.Jesus Christ, Rosie.
I close my eyes, and there she is—her wild copper hair and that smile that could light up an arena. The woman who upped and left town one afternoon, taking my heart and apparently my unborn child with her.
“Did they say—” I clear my throat, forcing the words out. “Did they say how she died?”
From the passenger seat, the younger officer turns around. “Car accident, sir. Outside of Portland. Rainy night. She was pronounced dead at the scene.”
Each word is a stab to the heart. Rosie died alone on some highway. She must’ve been terrified, frantic. She was probably thinking about the boy. Worried for him. Scared about his future. Did she regret running off, not telling me about him? God, I can’t believe she did this. Not just to me, but worse, to our son.
Our son. The words still feel foreign in my mind.
“What’s he like?” The question comes out before I can stop it.
Stevens meets my eyes in the mirror again. “Seems quiet. Smart. Angry, which is understandable given the circumstances.”
I wonder what Rosie told him about me. Did she paint me as the bad guy? The hockey player who didn’t want a kid? Or worse—did she tell him nothing at all? Is Eli facing a total stranger tonight?
Wait.
He came to Dickens. So he’s coming for me, and that thought settles my nerves a little.
My hand finds the old penny on a chain under my shirt—the one Gramps gave to me before my first NHL game that he’d always worn for luck. I’ve kept it close for fifteen years, and right now, it’s the only thing stopping a hole from burning through my chest.
“Does he know anything about me?” I ask.
“You’ll need to speak with the social worker about that, sir,” Stevens says. Professional distance. I get it. This isn’t his mess to sort out.
So… what kid stuff do I need to buy? A furnished bedroom. Food. Crackers and juice boxes. Oh, and Fruit Loops! Yeah, kids like Fruit Loops. And Disney. One hundred percent I’ll order the Disney channel. Does he like Elmo? No, that’s way too young. What do nine-year-old boys watch and play with? Video games for sure, but which ones? I have tons but Call of Duty and Grand Theft Auto are hardly appropriate for kids.
Before I realize it, the cruiser turns into the police station parking lot, and my stomach drops like I’m in free fall. The place is empty, Thank God, but I pull my baseball cap down on my head as we pull in, praying no one recognizes me. The last thing I need is “HOCKEY STAR DISCOVERS SECRET SON” splashed across tomorrow’s pages.
“We can take you in through the back,” Stevens says, though no press is here… at least not yet.
“Thanks.” It’s the first thing that’s gone right today.
We go inside through a back entrance, my legs heavy.
“This way, Mr. Holt.” Stevens leads me down an empty corridor lined with offices. I keep my head down, needing all my focus to just put one foot in front of the other.
“Is there anything else I should know?” I ask as we approach a door marked ‘Conference Room 3.’ “Before I meet him?”
