Page 17 of Compassion

My smile softens while my tone remains kind. “Can you two please tell me why he’s being arrested?”

“Friend?” Brallon’s confusedly questions. “This man is yourfriend?”

“He’s not herfriend,” Mrs. Prescott sneers and seethes in an impressive tandem. “He’s a pathetic piece of garbage that goes around digging through other people’s personal belongings. Most likely looking for heroin or women’s undergarments to do unspeakable things with.” She tugs her black robe tighter together. “Come to think of it, he’s probably a serial rapist. In fact, I’m sure of it.”

“He’s not a rapist!” I loudly squawk.

“Ma’am,” McAdams firmly states, stare swinging her direction. “Please, be aware of the weight of such allegations, especially without proof.”

“How do you know I don’t have proof?”

Her question causes new pangs of anxiety to swell through my chest and my mouth to defensively hiss. “You don’t have any proof.”

She pulls her painfully thin lips to one side on a quiet snip. “Not yet.”

“Not ever, Gwenith, because he’s not a rapist!”

“Little Jaye Jenkins, please, lower your voice,” Brallon insists in such a manner I have no choice but to back down.

“Sorry, Officer Brallon.”

He gives me a kind nod of acknowledgement prior to investigating the accusation further. “Is this individual your friend?”

There’s no hesitation in my answer. “Yes.”

“Are you aware that he doesn’t have any form of valid identification on him?”

“He must’ve misplaced it again,” I casually lie.

Or hope.

Perhaps hope is the better term here.

Hope doesn’t leave me feeling shitty for lying to the law.

“You know how that goes for wanderlust lovers like him.”

“Got a cousin like that,” McAdams says on a heavy sigh, shaking his head. “Swear to him every time he visits another country that he’s just begging to be a target of identity theft.”

Small chuckles leave the three of us prompting Gwenith to viciously snaps, “What’s his name?”

Yup.

Should’ve seen that coming.

How did Inotsee that coming?

“Pizza Dude,” my mouth retorts without my consent.

Officer Brallon’s face bunches up in disbelief. “Pizza Dude?”

“Okay, so, you caught me.” The tiniest blush creeps into my cheeks. “I don’t…know his…actualname but tell me you’ve never had a friend who had a weird nickname that you always used to the point you couldn’t even remember their real name anymore.” My rushed response seems to be well received given the way that their shoulders slightly relax. “God, there was this guy I graduated high school with we all called Shaggy because he lookedexactlylike the dude fromScooby-Doo. To this very day, I still don’t know his name. I think it was Michael? Maybe Chad? Er…Brad?”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” McAdams states on an understanding nod. “There’s a guy I graduated with from the academy we call Snowy. He’s so fucking pale, he practically glows in the dark. No clue what his real name is.”

“Speaking of snow,” the segue to change the subject is swiftly stolen, “did you get to try those coconut snowball cookies I made for the precinct, or did dad eat them all before you could?”

Brallon warmly chuckles during the process of uncuffing the homeless man who looks almost as stunned as my neighbor that he’s being set free. “I had one.” His head rapidly shakes. “One.That’s all that monster was willing to share.”

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