Rene Gutteridge - Listen

Kay smiled. “Sure. Go on. Hunter and I can eat three pounds of roast beef all by ourselves, can’t we, Hunter?”

“Thanks!” Damien jumped up from the table. “Hold on. I gotta run upstairs and get my briefcase and a tablet and pen. And a recorder.” He raced upstairs and flew into his bedroom, gathering his soft leather briefcase, which contained everything but a recorder. Nearly out of breath, he hurried to Jenna’s room and knocked.

“What?”

“I need a favor.”

“Come in,” the sulky voice said.

Damien opened the door. The first thing he noticed was the room was littered with clothes, shoes, papers, and empty fast-food boxes. It stunned him into silence because Jenna was normally compulsively neat. When was the last time he’d been in her room? How long had it been like this?

“What, Dad? You’re standing there like a moron.” She eyed his briefcase. “Going to work? At night?”

“I’m running to a crime scene or something with Frank. He says it’s a big story. I need a recorder. Do you have one?”

Jenna shook her head.

“Surely you have one, with school and everything. It usually takes a little tape and you-”

“They’re digital, and no, I don’t have one.” She sighed loudly, rolled her eyes, and got off her bed, walking toward him. She pulled his cell out of his shirt pocket, pushed a few buttons, then handed it to him. “You can record on this thing.”

“I can?”

“Just go to the utilities menu and there’s a recorder under there. It’s so unfair. You hate cell phones, and you’ve got the top of the line.” Back on her bed, she wrapped her arms across her chest.

Damien set his briefcase down and tiptoed over the junk to join his daughter on the bed.

“What are you doing?”

“Believe it or not, I’m concerned about you. You’re not acting like yourself.”

“Really.” Deadpan expressions came easy to Jenna these days. As a little girl, her face would light up with all kinds of expressions. Her eyebrows rose high on her head. She blinked when she got very excited. She grinned, even when she was doing something wrong.

“Tell me what’s going on,” Damien said, daring to reach out and pat her foot, which she quickly retrieved and stuck under her pillow. “You know you can talk to me. You’ve always talked to me about everything.”

She stared at her pillows. “It’s nothing. Just hormones, as you keep saying.”

“Do you want to see a doctor for that?” Damien asked.

Jenna looked at him, her eyes narrow and scornful. “Is that it? You think a pill is going to solve all this? solve me?”

“That’s not what I’m saying. At all. You’re taking it wrong.”

“Yes, well, that’s my calling card these days. I’m overly emotional and taking everything the wrong way, so you better leave now while you can escape with your life. When my hormones get disheveled, I’ve been known to eat people alive.”

Damien smiled. Disheveled. He loved when she used words in unique ways. Disheveled hormones. Now that was a word picture.

His smile faded as he met her eyes. Nothing but contempt seemed to live inside them. He wanted to hug her, hold her in his arms, but she could hardly stand to be touched. He was left with nothing else to do but get up and go. At the doorway he turned and said, “Thanks for the help on the recorder.”

She didn’t look up.

“Take your dishes downstairs when you’re finished and help your mother clean up.”

That, at least, evoked something. Disdain? Who cared. He needed her to be something more than absent.

Grabbing his briefcase, he hurried downstairs, stopping by the dining room. He found Kay sitting alone at the table, her hands folded and her chin resting on them. It was as if she’d prepared a huge feast for only herself and didn’t have the stomach to eat it.

“Where’s Hunter?”

Kay nodded to the window. “He wanted to walk Frank out.”

Damien stared out the window. The two of them leaned against Frank’s truck, talking. He turned back to Kay. “I won’t go if you don’t want me to.”

“Why? Of course I want you to go.”

“You look sad.”

“I’m okay. Go. Get those facts. Write a killer story.”

Damien laughed. “I don’t even know what I’m going to, but if Frank thinks it’ll make a good story, he’s probably right.”

He pecked her on the cheek and hurried out the front door and down the sidewalk. Hunter, upon seeing him, stood erect and stepped away from Frank, shoving his hands in his pockets and taking a sudden interest in the dead winter grass.

Frank regarded Damien as he went around the truck. “I don’t think breaking news is your forte.” He glanced deliberately at his watch. “It usually means you have to be quick on your feet.”

Damien waved at Hunter as he got into Frank’s truck. “Sorry. I’m ready now.” He snapped his seat belt on. “What were you and Hunter talking about?”

“You always hovering over your kids like this? No wonder they’re going berserk.”

“Is Hunter going berserk? Is that what you’re sensing? Because I think I caught him with porn the other night.”

“He was just getting some Uncle Frank time, okay? Sometimes it’s easier to talk to people outside your family.”

Damien sighed. “Yeah, okay. I guess. But you have to tell me if he’s getting into something he shouldn’t.”

Frank pulled the truck onto the neighborhood street. “You shouldn’t worry so much about him. He’s a good kid. He’s got a good head on his shoulders.”

“I know he is.” Damien pulled out his notepad. “So what is it that we’re going to?”

Frank gripped the steering wheel and focused on the road ahead as they turned onto Shelton Street. “You should prepare yourself. This might be disturbing.”

Frank parked his extended cab at the curb and got out of the truck, searching for Captain Grayson among a crowd of emergency personnel mingled with the curious neighbors. Damien came up beside him.

Frank spoke quietly. “I can’t say much here, okay? Just walk around, see what you can find out, ask a lot of questions. I’ll see you in a little bit.”

Frank walked along the street, the flashing lights of the cruisers leading the way to the house. An ambulance was parked on the other side of the roadblock, its back doors open and its bed empty.

The Shaws’ house bustled with activity. Several officers from the night shift milled around outside. Crime scene tape, tied from one tree to another, fluttered against the cold north wind. Frank followed the sidewalk and was about to enter the house when Detective Dean Murray exited.

“Hey, Frank,” he said. “Grayson’s looking for you.”

“What’s going on in there?”

“They’re working on the lady right now. Not sure if she’s going to make it.”

“What happened?” Frank asked, glancing behind him toward the reverend’s yard across the street. The couple stood by the tree where their cat had hung just hours before. “Are those two suspects?”

Detective Murray looked up to see what Frank was talking about. “No. The husband confessed. He’s in there right now. They’re taking him in for more questioning.”

“The husband? Tim?”

“Yeah,” Murray said, checking his notes. “That’s his name. Tim Shaw.” He continued down the sidewalk.

Frank gathered himself, unsure of what he was going to find.

Upon entering, he noticed the enlarged photo of the finance guy was tipped to the side, leaning against the drapes of the large window. Tim sat on the couch, crying, a night shift officer on either side of him.

“What have I done?” Tim moaned, shaking his head, hiding his face against the handcuffs around his wrists. He looked up at Frank.