Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 71843 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71843 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 359(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
“Why are you drinking?”
It took a second for him to turn to me, but he didn’t say anything, just stared.
“Sam,” I said, getting up and taking the glass from him. Crossing to the railing, I set his drink there and then returned to him, sinking down into his lap, my legs folded on either side of him—we bought the chairs big just for that reason—and put my hands on his chest. “Tell me.”
He cleared his throat, swallowed hard, and then took a breath.
“Please.”
“There’s a picture in the living room of the guys I served with when I was a marine.”
Oh no. “Yes.”
“I talk to them all now and then, you know, but a couple of them live right here in Chicago, and before this whole thing with Covid, I’d see them occasionally.”
“Yeah, I know,” I agreed, making conversation, petting him, touching his hair, the stubble on his cheek, the side of his neck. “You even took Mark—I think it was Mark—with Pat and Chaz a couple of times when you went fishing.”
He nodded.
“I’m so sorry, Sam, did one of them die or––”
“No,” he husked, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Can you get up?”
“I will,” I answered, “if you look at me.”
His eyes flicked to mine, and they were misting now.
“If you were sad, you would let me hold you and comfort you, and we’d talk about the funeral, but you want me off, so…something else.”
His face tightened, and I shifted to get up, but before I could get my feet on the ground, he grabbed me.
It was violent. The clutch was hard and tight, and his breath caught as he hugged me to his chest.
“Oh, baby, please,” I crooned, turning my head so I could press my face into the side of his neck and place several soft kisses there.
The hold loosened, gentled, and I felt his chest swell and then deflate. “The guy who isn’t Mark, that’s Vince Wilson.”
I jolted, because everyone in Chicago knew that name this week. “Ohmygod, Sam, the guy from the news. The one who lost his family in that home invasion four days ago. I had no idea. Why didn’t you tell me? I feel terrible that I didn’t––”
“We were close, you know, when we were in Iraq. We were together in Fallujah.”
Wait. “Sam?”
“He was our medic and just the best guy, dependable and loyal and…so good at his job, and beyond that, he really cared.”
I had a million questions, but I stayed silent, like I normally never was, so he could get whatever he had to say, out.
“And we were friends, but you just don’t see anyone as much as you’d like, especially now, and we’re all working and living, but, like, in June or—I don’t remember exactly—I saw him at dinner. I was working late, and he was with a woman.”
He was quiet again, thinking.
“His wife?” I asked.
“No, she—not his wife. She was young, and Diane is my age, so…I waved but I didn’t go over.”
“She wasn’t his assistant or just a colleague?”
“No. Not with how they were…no.”
I took his face in my hands. “Tell me now.”
“He’s been on the news. You’ve seen him.”
I had seen him, handsome man, a bit younger than Sam, a husband, a father, pleading on air, on every channel, for any help that the public could offer in the senseless attack on his family. There had been a tip line set up, a candlelight vigil in Naperville, where they were from. His wife, his son, and his daughter had all been killed, and their dog, a golden retriever named Ducky, was still missing.
“Yes. I’ve seen him.”
“I went out there this morning, to Naperville. I was waiting. I didn’t want to intrude.”
“Of course not.”
“I mean, we’re friends, but…I’m law enforcement too, and he had enough of them there.”
“Sure.”
“But I thought today, first thing, before work, that it would be all right to go see him. And his parents were there, and his sisters, they were all with him, comforting him, loving on him, and the funerals are this weekend and…”
“And?”
He shrugged, and I moved my hands back to his chest.
“Sam?”
“He wasn’t right.”
“What do you mean?”
He choked on a sob. “If I lost—if you—how could I breathe? How could I talk or move or—he was laughing. And they were telling stories, and we would do that when we lost guys. We’d talk about them and laugh, and everyone grieves differently, and I get that too. I’ve seen people go mute and others wail and scream. Some people cry, and others never do, but it felt wrong to me, and the lead detective, Courtney Reyes, I know her, and I saw it on her face. Like she was trying to figure something out.”
Listening was the best thing I could do; that, and stay close to him.
“I told her. I said, ‘I saw Vince—Dr. Vincent Wilson—out with a woman.’”