Page 63 of Wayward

“Then you get it.”

“I do,” I said solemnly. “The first time it happened, when he fell in love with the drugs, I couldn’t believe that he would give up everything so fast for his next fix.”

“Did you take him to rehab?”

“Three times,” I admitted.

“Dean refused to go, and then he did something even worse—he double-crossed the cartel.”

From what Gale explained, Dean was given product to move, and the only directions he was expressly given was not to cut the product. Even if you could double or triple your money, the important thing was to have the best product, the most potent. By cutting it, Dean made a fatal mistake.

“What happened?”

“The DEA turned their attention to busting the new player in town, and you know who it turned out to be.”

I was quiet, not wanting to push.

“Bored already?”

I glared at him. “No, but I’m sure we’re getting to the hard part.”

“We are,” he agreed, leaning against me so we were shoulder to shoulder.

I wanted to save him some of the telling. “Did he fire on you and his old team?”

“He did, but we weren’t the only ones there.”

There was silence for long moments until I grabbed his hand with both of mine, holding tight. He had been staring at the coffee table, but lifted his head to meet my gaze.

“That’s a horrible story, Deputy Chief Malloy. Remind me never to ask you to tell me a bedtime one.”

His smile was rueful. “I could kiss you right now for making me feel even a fraction better.”

“I can’t even imagine what you went through with his family.”

“No, you can’t, because he’d never said a word about me to them. They didn’t even know who I was.”

He had knives sticking out of his heart, and I’d missed that on first glance. But now the man’s soul was showing. Hard to see the pain on his face, the hurt in his eyes, and all I could offer was to keep him grounded by holding on. It didn’t seem like nearly enough.

“I haven’t told anyone here that story,” he confessed. “I left all of it behind when I moved out of New York. Thank you for listening, and even more for wanting to know in the first place.”

“You’re welcome.”

“It’s so odd,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Like we’re already friends.”

Strangely, it was the same for me.

Then he said, “I would really like to stay here with you instead of going home if that would be okay.”

I just stared at him.

“Was that weird?” He chuckled, sounding both awkward and embarrassed. “It was, wasn’t it?”

“Not at all,” I murmured, smiling at him. “I think that would be good.”