Page 55 of Worth the Fall
GRANT
“Hello, are you Officer Malone?”
What the?
I look out the open passenger side window to see a fresh-faced kid, late teens, dark features, about five foot eight, two hundred pounds.
“Can I help you?” I eye him. My immediate hunch is that he’s harmless, but I don’t like that I can’t see both his hands.
“Yeah, I have a delivery for you.”
“You what?” I sit a little taller in the driver’s seat and study him closer.
“A delivery. Here.” He shoves a pink box through the window. “From The Donut Shoppe.”
“The Donut Shoppe?”
“Yes. There’s a note on the top.”
I eye him warily. “’Kay. Thanks.” The kid starts to walk away. “Hey, wait.” I dig into my wallet and pull out some ones to give him.
“Thanks,” he says, but I’m already looking at the top of the pink pastry box. “Donut think you’ve won this battle – Emerson”
I stare at the writing and do the only thing I can, laugh.
“What’s that?” Nate asks as he slides into the car.
“Emerson.”
“She’s sending you love notes on donut boxes now? I thought you were the one trying to get the upper hand.”
“I’m trying, dude. Believe me, I’m trying.”
“Well, try harder. If you play this game any longer, your balls will become bluer than your uniform.”
“Fuck off.”
He smirks. “At least someone would be getting some then.”
“Whatever. Dude, you wish—”
“All units. 10-16 at 12662 Serenity Court.”
I don’t even have to glance over to Nate to tell him to respond. He already has the radio in his hand as I throw the car in gear and flip the lights and sirens on.
It’s Keely’s address.
We make it there in minutes, and I turn the siren off but leave the lights on as I turn into the neighborhood. We’re parked in the driveway and out of the car, my fist banging on the door in seconds.
“Sunnyville Police Department, open up.” I pound a few more times as Nate steps on the planters to try to see inside the front window.
“There was yelling and screaming.” I round at the sound of a feeble voice, my hand automatically going to my weapon, but I ease off when I see the elderly neighbor from across the street.
“What else?” Nate asks as he steps forward, leaving me to man the front door. I hear words such as “shouting” and “threatening,” but when it comes down to being a witness to anything, she didn’t see much.
I pound again. “Mrs. Davis, open up. We just want to make sure you and Keely are okay in there.”
Glancing around, I note that a few other neighbors are home from work already, a few even nosing out of their houses to see what the problem is. More rocks are painted in the entryway—hints of a normal, creative child or signs of a little girl escaping the fighting inside her house.
