Karin Slaughter - Broken

She settled on half of the truth. “Frank was drunk. I didn’t realize how much until …” She shook her head. “Maybe I just haven’t been paying attention. He’s been drinking a lot lately. He can usually handle it, but …”

“But?”

“I’m through,” Lena told him. “I’m going to resign. I’ve got some vacation time coming. I just need to get my head clear.”

“You can move in with me until you figure out what to do.”

“I’m serious this time. I’m really quitting.”

“I know you are, and I’m glad.” Jared put his hands on her shoulders so he could look at her. “But, right now, I just wanna take care of you. You’ve had a hard day. Let me be there for you.”

She relented easily. The thought of handing over the next few hours of her life to Jared seemed like the best gift in the world. “You go first. I’ll check in on Brad and then follow you in my car.”

He tilted up her chin and kissed her mouth. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

He reached for the door just as it opened. Frank stood stock-still, staring at Jared as if he’d seen a ghost.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered. She could smell the whisky on him from five feet away.

“Go,” Lena told Jared. “I’ll meet you back at the house.”

Jared wasn’t so easily directed. He stood his ground, glaring at Frank.

“Please go,” she begged him. “Jared. Please.”

He finally moved his gaze from Frank to Lena. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” she told him. “Just go.”

Reluctantly, he left. Frank stared after him so long that Lena had to close the door before he would look away.

“What the hell are you doing?” Frank demanded. He had to keep his hand on the wall to steady himself. “How old is he?”

“It’s none of your damn business.” Still, she told him, “He’s twenty-five.”

“He looks ten,” Frank countered. “How long have you been seeing him?”

Lena wasn’t in the mood to answer questions. “What are you doing here, Frank? You can barely stand up straight.”

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Did you drive here? Don’t answer that.” She didn’t want to think about how many lives he had risked climbing behind the wheel.

“Is the kid okay?”

He meant Brad. “They don’t know. He’s stable for now. Have you had anything to drink today that didn’t have alcohol in it?”

Frank’s footing was off. He didn’t go to the sink so much as fall into it.

Lena turned on the water for him. She had a flash of her childhood, her uncle Hank so drunk that he’d pissed himself. She tried to separate her emotions, to distance herself from the anger she was feeling. It didn’t work. “You smell like a bar.”

“I keep thinking about what happened.”

“Which part?” she asked, leaning down so that her face was close to his. “The part where we didn’t identify ourselves as cops or the part where we nearly shot a boy for holding up a letter opener?”

Frank gave her a panicked look.

“You didn’t think I’d find out about that?”

“It was a hunting knife.”

“It was a letter opener,” she insisted. “Tommy told me, Frank. It was a gift from his grandfather. It was a letter opener. It looked like a knife, but it wasn’t.”

Frank spit into the sink. Lena’s stomach roiled at the dark brown color of his phlegm. “It doesn’t matter. He stabbed Brad with it. That makes it a weapon.”

“What did he cut you with?” Lena asked. Frank had been writhing on the floor of the garage, clutching his left arm. “You were bleeding. I saw it. That’s what set this whole thing in motion. I told Brad he cut you.”

“He did.”

“Not with a letter opener, and I didn’t find anything else on him except a toy car and some chewing gum.”

Frank glanced at himself in the mirror. Lena stared at his reflection. He looked like he was two steps from falling into the grave.

She peeled off the Band-Aids on the side of her hand. The wound was red and raw. “Your shot went wild. Did you even realize I was hit?”

His throat worked as he swallowed. He probably wanted a drink. By the looks of him, he needed it.

“What happened, Frank? You had your gun out. Tommy came for you. You pulled the trigger and shot me. How did you get cut on the arm? How did a hundred-thirty-pound wimp of a kid get past you with a goddamn letter opener?”

“I told you that he cut me with the knife. He was wrong about the letter opener.”

“You know, for a cop, you’re a shitty liar.”

Frank braced himself on the sink. He could barely stand. “Tommy doesn’t mention a letter opener in his confession.”

Lena’s voice was more like a snarl. “Because I’ve got about two drips of loyalty left for you, old man, and they’ve been circling the drain all damn day. Tell me what happened in that garage.”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

“How did Tommy get past you? Did you black out? Did you fall?”

“It doesn’t matter. He ran. That’s the point. Everything that happened after that is on him.”

“We didn’t identify ourselves in the garage. We were just three people pointing guns at his head.”

He glared at her. “I’m glad to hear you admitting you did something wrong today, princess.”

Lena felt overwhelmed with fury, ready to do any kind of damage she could. “When Brad shouted ‘Police,’ Tommy stopped. He turned around. He had the letter opener in his hand. Brad ran into it. Tommy didn’t mean to stab him. I’ll tell that to anyone who asks me.”

“He killed that girl in cold blood. You telling me you don’t care about that?”

“Of course I care about that,” she snapped. “Jesus, Frank, I’m not saying he didn’t do it. I’m saying the minute Tommy gets a lawyer, you’re screwed.”

“I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Let’s hope the judge agrees with you, otherwise he’ll invalidate the arrest, the confession, everything that came out of finding Tommy in that garage. That kid’s gonna get away with murder because you can’t stand up straight without a bottle of whisky in you.” She put her face inches from his. “Is that how you want to be remembered, Frank? As the cop who let a killer get away because he couldn’t stay off the booze while he was on the job?”

Frank turned on the faucet again. He splashed water on his face, the back of his neck. She saw his hands were shaking again. His knuckles were busted up. There were deep scratch marks on his wrist. How hard had Frank hit Tommy that the boy’s teeth had managed to break through Frank’s leather gloves?

She said, “It’s your fault this went bad. Tommy got past you. I don’t know what you were doing rolling on the floor, how your arm got cut, but I do know if you had done your job and stopped him at the door—”

“Shut up, Lena.”

“Screw you.”

“I’m still your boss.”

“Not anymore, you drunk, worthless bastard.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out her resignation. When he didn’t take it, she threw it in his face. “I’m done with you.”

He didn’t pick up the letter. He didn’t shoot back a stream of obscenities. Instead, he asked, “Which pen did you use?”

“What?”

“Your pen that Jeffrey gave you. Is that the one you used?”

“Are you trying to guilt me into staying? You’re going to tread on Jeffrey’s memory so I’ll stick around to help you clean up this mess?”

“Where’s your pen?” When she didn’t volunteer it, he started searching her coat, patting her pockets. She resisted, and he slapped her around, throwing her against the wall.

“Get away from me!” She shoved him back into the sink. “What the hell is wrong with you?”