Page 60 of Welded Defender
Marcy finally texted me back in the middle of the night and hasn’t stopped since. It’s been mostly small talk—telling me about her aunt and the cookies they baked. Nothing about why she left or when she might come back. But I’m clinging to whatever scraps she’ll offer me. I want her back. Want her safein my arms where I can feel her breath against my chest. God, I miss her so damn much.
The bell over the door chimes—a cheerful, hollow sound that suddenly cuts through me wrong. Wes’s voice carries in from the lobby, casual at first, then sliced short mid-sentence. Too sharp. The kind of sharp that makes your spine straighten before your brain catches up.
Footsteps follow. Heavy. Deliberate. The unmistakable rhythm of authority.
I straighten just as two police officers in uniform fill the bay doorway, their broad shoulders blocking out the gray winter light. Melting snow darkens their jackets in spreading patches, dripping onto the concrete floor.
Their faces are professionally blank, eyes scanning the garage until they lock onto me.
“Landon Hale?” the taller one asks.
“Yeah.” My rag twists in my hands, grease-blackened cotton winding tighter around my knuckles until they ache.
“We need you to come with us to the station,” the shorter one says, pulling a folded slip of paper from his coat. “We’ve got questions about an assault. The complainant's name is Brett Kessler.”
The fluorescent lights buzz louder in my ears. Behind me, Joon’s pencil hits the concrete with a tiny plink that echoes through the silence. Wes mutters “shit” from the doorway, the word barely audible over the sudden rush of blood in my temples. My tongue feels thick when I speak. “He came onto my property. He cornered someone who lives here. I stepped in.”
“You can explain that at the station,” the officer says, his face as blank as a fresh invoice. “Right now, we need you to come with us. Voluntarily.”
My back teeth grind together, a muscle jumping along my jawline. Voluntary. Like the handcuffs hanging from his belt are just jewelry he hopes I won’t need to try on.
The bay door screeches open and Becket strides in, his eyes narrowing instantly. He takes in the scene in a heartbeat—the uniforms, my stance, Wes’s glare—and his shoulders square. “What’s this?”
“Complaint filed,” the taller cop says. “We’re just asking questions.”
“About Brett?” Becket’s tone could cut steel.
“What do you know about it?” the other officer asks.
“Enough to know that Landon’s not the one you should be looking at.”
The cop nods. “Then he’s got nothing to worry about. We just need him to come down to the station and answer some questions.”
Becket nods and reaches for his coat. “He’s not riding in the back of your car like a criminal. You want him to answer questions, fine. He’ll come. But I’ll be damned if you think you’re marching him out of his own shop like that.”
The officers exchange a look.
I let out a slow breath. “Becket...”
His eyes cut to me, sharp. “I’ll drive you.” He snatches the keys to my truck from the counter and heads outside.
The shorter cop gestures to the clipboard in his hand. “Station’s expecting him within the hour. Don’t make us come back.”
I nod. “You won’t have to.”
They step back, snow crunching under their boots as they disappear into the cold.
In the sudden quiet, I hear the cooling engine above us contracting with sharp metallic ticks. Wes paces three steps, stops, and kicks an empty oil can that skitters across theconcrete. His jaw works silently before he spits out “goddamn” under his breath. Across the bay, Joon’s fingers drum against the parts catalog, his eyes darting between me and the door, lips pressed into a thin line.
“You don’t—” Wes’s voice cracks. He clears his throat and tries again. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Yes, I do.” My throat feels like sandpaper. “Keep the place running. Don’t tell Marcy.”
Wes’s nostrils flare, a muscle twitching beneath his left eye. His fist clenches, unclenches, then falls to his side. I grab my jacket and push through the door to where my truck idles, exhaust billowing white against the gray sky. Through the windshield, I catch the tight set of Becket's jaw, the grinding motion visible even from here. The door groans as I climb in. Neither of us speaks as we wind down the mountain road, tires crunching over patches of dirty slush.
Becket’s fingers drum once against the steering wheel, then lock back into position, the skin stretched so tight over his knuckles I can see every tendon. A mile passes. Two. The wipers scrape across a windshield that isn’t quite wet enough, the sound grating in the silence.
“This is bullshit,” he finally says, his voice like gravel.
