Collateral Damage

  Chief Anderson leans closer and whispers: "Relax, Whalen."

  The committee head adjusts her glasses, moving on, unfazed. "When you fired at Vince De Luca..."

  When I fired at.... When I fired at him?

  The chair scrapes the floor as I rise, the noise bouncing off cinderblock walls. "Look. I didn't want to kill the guy. I knew when I became a cop that I would have to make tough decisions. I watched him break the window. I watched him drag Jaden out of the car. I watched him slam her head against the frame. I watched him put a gun to her head and threaten to kill her. I saw a moment, and I took it. We're not always afforded second chances in this line of work. He fired at me. I fired at him. And if I did something wrong by doing what I did, I'm sorry. I was only thinking of her." I slam my chair beneath the table.

  "Officer. If you can remain seated, we have a few more..."

  "No," I interrupt. "I'm done here. If, after all the people you've talked to, you still can't see that I did the right thing, then there's nothing I can say that'll convince you otherwise."

  I escape that conference room, tear through the lobby, out the door, and into sunlight. I inhale as much fresh air as possible, yanking my tie loose, unbuttoning the top button of my dress shirt.

  "Whalen?" the familiar voice calls. I turn to face Chief Anderson, and wait for him to catch up. "I'm not a big fan of all this running you're doing lately," he says.

  "Come on! It's obvious they're biased. They're trying to trick me into saying something they can use against me!"

  He frowns. "No one is trying to trick you, Officer. We just want to get to the bottom of this."

  "It was like the Grand fucking Inquisition back there!"

  "They're just doing their jobs," he reminds me. "I've read the notes from that day, Chris. I've listened to the tapes. You did what you were trained to do—what any of us would've done. Your testimony aligns with everything the detective and the other members of the operation witnessed that afternoon. It aligns with Tony and Blake's confessions. It aligns with Jaden's statement."

  "Then why is everyone trying to make me feel like shit?"

  "No one can make you feel anything you don't want to feel, Officer. And, after reviewing the evidence, no one in their right mind would recommend anything but getting you back on the job. You have two more weeks of leave, then I want you back at our precinct ready to work."

  He spins on his heel, walks away.

  I chew on the inside of my cheek, watching him, curious, desperate to know: "Why was she there?" I call after him.

  He stops mid-lot, turns to face me, eyebrows drawing together. "I'm sorry?"

  "Jaden. Why was she still at school that day?"

  "According to her statement," he says, shoving hands in his pockets, "she was speaking with the guidance counselor. College planning. It was an unscheduled meeting."

  A coincidence.

  Of course it was.

  "Two weeks," he reminds me.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  "Buon giorno! Welcome-ah to-ah Guidos!"

  The manager greets me as I enter the restaurant. "I'm meeting someone," I explain, searching the dining room. I spot him at the other end, sitting in a booth, waiting. I suck in a breath, nod toward the guy.

  "Help-ah yourself-ah!"

  I cross the room, weaving around tables. The place is half empty. Apparently weeknights in Bedford aren't great for business.

  I reach the booth, slide onto the seat across from Daniel McEntyre. The server follows with a paper menu, takes my drink order. When she leaves, I'm left alone with Daniel, who has scrutinized my every move since I walked into this building. I'm the one who clears my throat, who finally speaks: "You called me," I remind him. "You wanted to talk. I'm here. So talk." I lean back in my seat, trying to appear comfortable—confident—even as my knee refuses to stop shaking and perspiration gathers between my shoulder blades.

  "I know we haven't officially met," he says, scratching his eyebrow.

  "I know who you are. You know who I am." I shrug my leather jacket off, set it on the seat beside me. "You asked me to come for a reason."

  "I did. It's about Jaden."

  I expected this to be about Jaden—from the moment Daniel McEntyre's name appeared on my cell phone, after trying to contact me through the station, after finally getting ahold of Rusch, after begging him for my number. I prepared myself for this going in. But now, hearing her name—having someone give me permission to think about her, to talk about her, to ask how she's doing.... I swallow the lump tightening at the back of my throat, crease the edges of my menu, folding the corners into triangles.

  "Is she okay?" Though I've mustered enough courage to ask the question, my voice breaks, and I know my cover is blown.

  "No. I don't think so."

  I didn't expect this—this transparent honesty. No. His sister's not okay. Jaden—she's not fine. I also didn't anticipate my body going weightless at the news. "W—what is it?" I stammer. "I mean, I thought the doctors…"

  "No. Not like that. She's okay," he clarifies. "I don't think she's sleeping all that great, though. And she's had some pretty bad headaches. The doctors say it's from the concussion. They put her on migraine medication, but it knocks her out. She tries to stick with the over the counter stuff, but we can tell it's not enough. She's so fucking stubborn."

  I force a laugh. "That's Jaden for you."

  The waitress returns with my drink, ready to take our order.

  "You like pepperoni?" Daniel asks.

  My shoulders lift. "Whatever."

  While he orders a medium pepperoni with thick crust, I wonder what kind of pizza Jaden prefers. If she's an extra sauce kind of girl or none at all—if she likes those breadsticks topped with cheese. It's the little things. The little things I never had a chance to discover. The layers I never had a chance to peel—because, even from day one, we never stood a chance.

  "The thing is," Daniel continues as soon as the waitress leaves, "she's different now."

  Of course she's different. The guy selling marijuana to her boyfriend held her at gunpoint. He smashed her head against a car. You don't forget something like that. You can't just "move on." There's no such thing, even. "One of the perks of blunt force trauma," I reply.

  "No, it's not just that." He heaves a sigh. "You have to understand where we were coming from. I wasn't exactly the guy you wanted your daughter to bring home, you know what I'm saying?"

  I nod. I understand exactly what he's saying.

  "When you came to town, you sounded an awful lot like me when I was your age." He stops, thinking. "Wait. How old are you, anyway?"

  "Twenty-one," I reply.

  "Jesus," he mutters, rubbing his eyes. "Twenty-one. Okay, so I thought the eighteen-year-old you was like the eighteen-year-old me. And, for that, I think I owe you an apology."

  I shake my head. "No, you don't. The eighteen-year-old me was just like the eighteen-year-old you, only I had a 'Get Out of Jail Free' card in the form of my girlfriend's father, who was an attorney."

  "So you know about my past," he confirms. "Did Jaden tell you?"

  "No. I wouldn't have even known, except you're linked to Vince De Luca in our databases."

  He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Shit. That one mistake is going to haunt me forever." He massages the back of his neck, frowning. "I knew Vince," he admits. "We played ball together in high school—hung out on weekends."

  "So what you're saying is Bedford High athletics has a long history of users."

  "You have no fucking idea."

  Somehow, this doesn't surprise me. "Yeah, well. At least you walked away from it."

  Another sigh. "Look, I know what happened that day was an accident. And I didn't exactly convey this the last time we were together, but my family and I are grateful Jaden's okay, and I know we have you to thank for that."

  That knot jams my throat, closing it. I try to force it away. "Just doing my job."

  "No, you weren't. You wer
e protecting someone you care about. Vince got off lucky, as far as I'm concerned. Because if you didn't take care of him, I would have, and those possession charges would've been nothing. Anyway. We should've said something sooner, but thank you. For everything."

  "Not everything," I clarify.

  "If you're talking about taking my little sister all the way to Hamilton to see some pandas when she should've been in school, then yeah. I'm still pissed to hell about that. Phillip, on the other hand—he thinks you were good for her. And since everything that's happened...I'm starting to think that maybe he's right." He hesitates, running his hand across his mouth. I watch the struggle in his eyes, the pursing of his lips, the emotion—the reality of everything that's happened—catching up to him. "It's just...it's not every day someone comes along willing to take a bullet for your little sister."

  I swallow back a laugh, try to lighten the mood. "Nah, I'm sure Hanson would've stepped up."

  Daniel rolls his eyes, reaches for his drink. "I hated that kid."

  "Jaden thought he was perfect."

  "I think Jaden started to see a new kind of perfect when she met you."

  He stares directly at me as he says this—his eyes, so serious, reminding me so much of Jaden's it's hard to focus. "Trust me. I'm the last thing she needs," I mutter.

  "Sarah and Josh—that's all I need, man. Becky is the only thing Phillip needs. My mom and my dad.... Jaden is still in love with you. Whether she wants to admit it or not, she loves you, and that makes you exactly what she needs. If you don't feel the same way about her, fine. We can end this conversation right now—pretend it never happened. But if you love her...."

  He takes a deep breath, shoulders lifting, exhales days, weeks, months, years of being the brother tasked with the responsibility of looking after a little sister who means the world to him. Then, like the protective older brother he is, he issues a single, solitary threat: "Don't fuck this up. I'm serious."

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  I lift the wiper of Jaden's windshield and place a red rose beneath it—what has become my calling card. A hackneyed gesture of both love and please forgive me. The little white Civic is recently washed and detailed, the driver's side window replaced. I'm glad her car is not her house, that someone handled the repairs quickly—Daniel, probably.

  And just in case I can't win her heart with flowers, I circle the building, heading toward the front of the school. The secretary in the main office eyes me curiously when I tell her I need to speak to Principal Howell. I know what she's thinking: Parker Whalen? Undercover cop?

  His office door is already open. He stands, greeting me as I enter: "Afternoon, Officer. What can I do for you?"

  I shut the door behind me, shake his hand. "First, I'd like to apologize about the basketball team."

  He returns to his chair, removes his glasses, wipes his eyes, exhales a troubled sigh. "Yes, that was disappointing, but the school board appreciates the job you did here." He replaces his glasses, sits taller. "Even if things didn't go exactly as planned, I think it taught everyone a valuable lesson."

  A valuable lesson. I can hardly imagine what Jaden endured when she returned to this place. The gossip. The speculation. Conversations dimming every time she walked into a room. And I realize, and not for the first time, that it's going to take a hell of a lot more than flowers to regain her trust.

  A valuable lesson.

  "Yeah. The reason I stopped by is because I was hoping to speak with Ms. Tugwell. It won't take long."

  "Your final project?"

  I nod, producing the red folder containing my essays. "Yes, Sir."

  He slides his desk drawer open and removes a visitor's tag. "I'm sure she's in class, so it would be best to talk to her between periods. The bell is about to ring, anyway."

  I clip the tag to my jacket. "Thanks. I won't be long."

  The hallways are deserted, classes in session. Already it feels like a million years ago that I sifted through these lockers searching for a lead I would never find, that I sat in these seats, that I was more than a visitor with a tag. And with Jaden on the other side of one of those doors, these halls are everything to me.

  I wait outside Ms. Tugwell's room, even after the bell rings, watching the line of students exit. Several make eye contact, recognizing me. As soon as it's empty, I slip inside. "Ms. Tugwell?"

  "Mr. Whalen. This is certainly a surprise." She finishes erasing notes on the white board.

  "I'm full of those."

  "So it would seem. To what do I owe this unexpected visit?" She smiles warmly at me, pushes her glasses further up her nose, a gesture I never imagined I would miss. This room, this teacher, these ridiculous posters on the wall—they're more reassuring than I care to admit. I follow Ms. Tugwell as she moves toward her desk.

  "I wanted to drop off my English project. Since it was a team assignment, I didn't want my...Jaden's grade to suffer."

  The I don't want Jaden to suffer at all hangs left unsaid between us.

  I don't know how much she knows, after all. If any conversations were overheard. If the gossip ever made its way to the teachers' lounge. I don't know if she knows that this project—her project—started it all.

  "It's red." Her smile broadens, knowing.

  "Seemed appropriate."

  "Ms. Wharton would approve, I think." She takes the folder from me, opens it, flips through the pages. "Ethan Frome," she mumbles. "May I ask how you and Jaden decided on this particular novel?"

  "It was short?" I reply.

  She laughs again. "Forgive me, but neither of you seem the type to forego quality literature for 'length.'"

  "I guess not." I exhale a sigh. "We had some trouble agreeing on a book at first, so we decided to pick one at random. I closed my eyes and pointed and..."

  "And Ethan Frome was the winner?" she finishes.

  My shoulder lifts, half-shrugging. "It was an accident."

  "There are no accidents, Mr. Whalen," she says, re-adjusting her glasses. "I do appreciate you bringing this by. In light of the events that transpired, I didn't hold your lack of submission against Jaden. In fact, I was determined to waive the oral report requirement because of the headaches she was having. She wouldn't hear of it, of course, and proceeded to give me her entire speech right at my desk between periods."

  "Of course," I repeat. "That sounds...just like her." I laugh, but it's more sad than happy, and my cheeks burn at the realization. I run fingers through my hair. Clear my throat.

  Ms. Tugwell shakes her head. "Jaden is not Zeena Frome. She is not Mattie Silver. She will never be a victim of her circumstances."

  No. She's stronger than that—strong enough to tell me to leave. To walk away.

  A survivor.

  "Thank you for this," she finally says, breaking the silence. "I'll let Jaden know her partner held up his end of the deal."

  * * *

  My apartment is too empty—too quiet—so I go home early Friday afternoon. Just before the end of the workday, I get the phone call I've been waiting for. Chief Anderson.

  The committee made their recommendation: I'm officially clear to come back to work.

  My mom is thrilled to hear the news. My dad—he can think what he wants—because the truth is, I'm relieved.

  I did the right thing—what I had to do.

  And I might not be a street cop forever, but this is who I am right now, and I'll be damned if I'm not going to give it all I've got.

  My mom is in the laundry room, folding a pair of my jeans, when I approach her later that night.

  "You don't have to do my laundry. That's not why I brought it home."

  "I know. It's nice to be able to do something for you, though. You haven't needed me for such a long time now. You're so...focused. I hardly recognize you sometimes." She pulls a t-shirt from the dryer.

  Unfocused and undisciplined.

  "You're my mom. I'll always need you," I remind her.

  "Shame on you for making me feel so old, but I
'm really proud of the man you're becoming, Chris. And even though your dad can be a stubborn ass, I know he feels the same way."

  "Language, Mom," I tease.

  "It's true. We both know it. But deep down I know he's proud of you, too."

  Deep down I'm not sure I believe her, but I smile and nod anyway, because sometimes that's the best thing you can do for someone else.

  "So, I wanted to give this back," I say, reaching in my pocket, removing the gray ring box she handed me months ago. Her shoulders fall a little when she sees it.

  "Oh, Chris. I'm so sorry. I really thought Callie was the one."

  I'm not sure how to respond to this—what to say. Maybe, yes, she could've been the one. Probably not. Maybe we could've made it work. I don't know.

  "Have you heard from her?" she asks.

  "No. But she's not the one I want to hear from," I admit.

  She forces a smile. "So this girl from Bedford.... Any chance I'll get to meet her one day?"

  "I'd like to say yes.... For now, I want you to hold on to this ring for me."

  "Okay," she replies, sticking the box in her sweater pocket. "You ever gonna come back for it?"

  "Absolutely. I just need to make sure it's on the right girl's finger."

  That night I lie in my old bed, unable to sleep. I stare at the ceiling—the ceiling of my childhood—the same ceiling I stared at on a thousand sleepless nights like this one.

  Only this time, it's different.

  Because every time I close my eyes I see her. I see her tucking her hair behind her ears. I see her smiling at me from beneath those long lashes. I see her hair, shining in the sunlight. Tears filling her eyes. I feel her body, shaking as she sobs, arms wrapped around my neck. I feel her warm breath against my cheek. Her lips pressed against mine. I feel her body beneath me on that attic floor.

  I feel forever, staring at that ceiling, thinking of her.

  And, in that moment, I know what I have to do.

  The sun is barely over the horizon when I grab my cell phone off the end table, scroll through the list of recent calls and dial that number.