Page 32 of What Hurts Us

Ha. Suck it.

“Next order of business,” Chief Farnby said, moving right along. “Mrs. Gould called in this morning and said, ‘That dern robot vacuum my grandkids got me is gaining intelligence and learned how to open doors, and it escaped.’”

“BINGO!” Kate, our civilian administrator, cheered.

Lauren nearly spit out her breakfast sandwich. “You put ‘someone thinks robot vacuums are taking over the world’ on your bingo card?”

Kate did a victory dance as she shoved her creased bingo card into Lauren’s greasy fingers.

Holy shit. She had.

Then again, weirder things had happened in Falls Creek. That’s what got the department into playing seasonal bingo. Four times a year, we’d fill out blank bingo cards with the things that the population of Falls Creek did to keep us on our toes. Things likesomeone hands out Metamucil tablets instead of Halloween candyandRegina Wittenburg and Harold Pickens interrupt town council meetings to demand the sandy spot at the lake be made nudist-friendly.

Of course, the free space in the middle was always ‘Muriel the pig escapes.’ It happened so often that the novelty was long gone.

Chief pursed her lips, ever the professional, while she handed Kate the fifty-dollar gift card she’d won. I’d have to start thinking of new scenarios to fill out next season’s card.

“Any volunteers willing to check on Mrs. Gould and show her how a Roomba works?” Chief lifted an eyebrow. “Don’t make me assign it.”

It was probably best not to take an able-bodied officer off of calls that required full strength. On the upside, it would get me out of another mind-numbing day of desk duty. I raised my coffee cup. “I’ll check on Mrs. Gould.”

By any amount of luck, Estelle Gould would have whipped up some of those banana muffins that she made just about once a week. I would reassure Estelle that her vacuum wasn’t taking over the world, make sure she had groceries, and sit and talk with her for as long as I could get away with. On my way back, I’d give my Gran a call and have her and some of her friends reach out.

Mr. Gould had passed a few months back. I couldn’t imagine spending sixty years with someone, then waking up one day, and they’re gone. I imagined she was probably feeling lonely. Maybe a little lost.

I made it out to the Gould place, and to my surprise, Estelle had not one but three kinds of muffins waiting for me. I spent some time with her, then got back to the precinct to tackle the mountain of files on my desk. By the time I flopped back in my car and headed home, I was beat.

Layla would be at work all night. She’d probably roll in tomorrow morning around seven-thirty or eight, right as I was heading out for PT.

It was strange walking into my house—a place that for so long had been my sanctuary to hide from the world—and find her sneakers lined up neatly by the door. To see her hoodie on the coat hook. To find her shampoo and soap in the shower next to mine. Little reminders of her vandalizing my life.

* * *

I practically limpedinto the house. If it hadn’t been raining, I would have simply sat down and used my arms to drag my ass up the walk and onto the porch. Physical therapy was a bitch.

It wasn’t just the latent ache of the healing bone. It was the fact that I had to rebuild muscle that had been completely out of use for six weeks. Thank God I didn’t have to work today. Walking up the stairs, getting in my uniform, going back down the stairs, and driving to the precinct would have killed me.

Layla’s car was in the driveway when I got home from my torture session. Heavy storms rolled in this morning and threatened to linger for a few days. The AirCare crew would most likely turn down any flights that were requested due to weather. Part of me, a deeply buried part of me, felt better knowing that when she went back to work for her next shift, she’d be safe on the ground.

It wasn’t affection, that was for damn sure. I didn’t do affection. Didn’t do feelings. Didn’t do commitment.

I had neither the time nor the space for it. That’s why the plan to have a fake relationship was golden.

Layla got a place to stay, and I got peace and order back in my life.

I eased through the door, dropping my keys on the entryway table and toeing my mud-slicked shoes off onto the mat. Cutting through the living room on my way to grab a bite, I froze.

Layla was curled up on the couch with one of my Gran’s quilts half hanging over her legs. A mostly untouched bowl of cereal sat on the coffee table, Cheerios turning into a spongy mush. She’d stripped down to a sports bra and a teeny pair of shorts. Her work clothes and flight suit spilled out of the bag at her feet.

Her face was completely relaxed—something I’d never seen before. Every time Layla and I had run into one another, she had her guard up. I saw it slip the day she told me the reason she didn’t date cops. But every moment between had been a carefully curated façade of perfection and strength.

Perhaps she believed that if she pretended like nothing could hurt her, nothing would.

The protective flare I felt deep in my bones anytime one of my Creekers was in harm’s way doubled when I looked at Layla.

I couldn’t figure it out. She wasn’t in distress. She didn’t need me for anything more than a cockroach-free place to lay her head.

But my God… When I looked at her, my heart stopped.

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