Vicki Pettersson - The Given

Kit’s heart dropped into her gut. “Hello, Dennis.”

Dennis inclined his head at her feeble wave, eyes shifting to Grif and then back to her, and as was the case recently, he shook his head and sighed.

“Why is it,” he finally asked, “that I only see the two of you together when there’s trouble?”

“There’s no trouble,” Grif said, jerking his chin at the men on the other side of the car. “Is there, Justin?”

“Nope,” the big guy said, crossing his arms over his chest. They looked like giant clubs. “No trouble at all.”

But Dennis was still looking at Kit.

“You’re on patrol again?” Kit asked, wishing she could alleviate the weight of his look. It was also gratifying to see the men behind him shrink just a bit at they realized how well she knew him.

“Requested a transfer from Homicide after my leave ended.” Dennis shrugged, and then, unable to help himself, he added, “Getting shot was getting a bit old.”

He hadn’t just been shot. He’d thrown himself in front of a bullet meant for Kit, and the rub for him was that Grif could’ve prevented the shot from being fired at all. Dennis would have died if Kit hadn’t bartered with one of the Pures for his life; however, he didn’t know that. All he knew was that after Grif was out of the picture, Kit had chosen to be alone rather than be with him.

“So what’s going on?” he asked her, expression shuttered in professionalism.

Kit shrugged. “Just visiting a friend.”

“These guys your friends?” He jerked his head at the three men behind him.

“Sure. New friends, anyway,” the large man said affably, and Dennis turned full on him. “How you doin’? I’m Justin Allen. I’m the Life Enrichment Coordinator out here.”

“Life Enrichment Coordinator,” Dennis repeated, staring at the proffered hand so long that Justin finally withdrew it. Only then did Dennis look up. “What happened to your nose?”

Justin’s eyes flashed to Grif as he touched his broken nose, and so did Officer Stokes’s. Grif’s expression remained carefully blank.

“I took a fall helping one of our residents out to the car. This car,” he said, and smiled at Kit and Grif despite his crooked nose.

Officer Stokes leaned to peer around Kit and Grif. “Who is it?”

“Oh, that’s just Al,” she said, giving a little laugh, but her voice sounded unnatural even to her, and Dennis’s eyes narrowed. Behind him, Justin broke into a less careful grin.

“Could we meet him?” said Officer Stokes.

“Meet him?” Kit asked.

Grif took her by the arm and pulled her to the side. If he noticed the way Dennis’s jaw tightened when he touched Kit, he didn’t show it.

“Mind if I approach your car?” Officer Stokes said.

Kit and Grif answered at the same time.

“Of course not—”

“Sure—”

Now Justin chuckled.

Officer Stokes drew near just as a groan sounded from the front seat. “Is this man okay?”

Al Zicaro’s head popped up in the front seat so quickly that Officer Stokes took a full step back. “Sir? Are you all right?”

But Zicaro was squinting past him, rubbing his eyes like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. When he rose, Grif nodded and gave him a sheepish shrug. Zicaro broke into a giant grin and hurtled himself forward.

“Why, you old dog!” he shouted, using the car to steady himself before throwing his arms around Grif’s shoulders. Zicaro pounded his back with surprising strength before pulling away to regard Grif in closer detail. “Just look at you. Either my eyes are bad or your genes are good, because you haven’t changed a bit!”

“Hasn’t he?” asked Justin from his post behind Dennis. Kit shot him a dirty look, but that just made his smile widen. Dennis noticed it, and his frown deepened.

“Nope,” Zicaro said, oblivious to the tension around him. He removed his bifocals and rubbed them on his shirt. “What’s it been? Fifty years or so? Look at you, you look good !”

“Not quite that long, I don’t think,” Grif muttered, then rolled his eyes at Stokes, as if to say, These old-timers.

Officer Stokes relaxed enough to lean on the hood of the patrol car. “So if everyone’s so friendly here, why did we get a call that there’s trouble?”

“Sorry about that,” Justin said. “It was likely Mr. Blakely. He’s our newest resident. We try to monitor the phone in his room, but sometimes he slips one by us. Guess we’ll have to take it out altogether. We encourage our residents to be as independent as possible, but sometimes the elderly can be a harm . . . even to themselves.”

Kit filed away the lie, along with the knowledge that these men—no “caregivers”—didn’t want the police nosing around. For now, it gave her and Grif the upper hand. At least, until Zicaro spoke again.

“Jiminy Crickets, I thought you were dead!” he exclaimed, still shaking his head as he reached back for his wheelchair. He plopped down, exhaling loudly. “We all did!”

“Why would you think that?” Officer Stokes asked, also likely wondering why the man in their car seemed to be only now recognizing Grif.

“Yeah,” said Justin cheerily. “Why?”

“Because Griffin Shaw has a knack for getting himself in sticky situations,” Dennis said, out of the blue. Kit froze. All three men behind him beamed .

“He does?” Larry asked, earning an elbow in the ribs from Eric.

“You mean ol’ Griffin Shaw?” Justin said, drawing out the name. Grif sighed.

“Yup,” Dennis said, seemingly oblivious to the way the men were digesting this information. “And everyone around him, too.”

“Like who?” Justin asked, before jerking his head at Kit. “Like her?”

“Dennis,” Kit said, before he could say her name. “Can I talk to you for a moment, please? Privately.”

“Sorry. I’m on the clock,” he huffed, giving her and Grif one last glance before turning his back on them both. He jerked his head at Justin. “We’re going to have to make sure there’s nobody inside who needs help. It’s procedure.”

“Of course,” Justin said magnanimously, gesturing to the building. He shot a wink at Zicaro, then put a finger to his chin like he’d just remembered something vital. “But I don’t think the young lady signed in. If you’ll be so kind as to accompany us?”

Kit didn’t move.

“That’s okay,” Dennis said, misreading her hesitancy. She could tell from the way his gaze darkened that he thought it had to do with him. “She looks like she’s in a hurry.”

Kit almost breathed a sigh of relief.

“I’ll sign in for her.”

And then she wanted to cry.

Justin clapped his approval, then pointed one of his sausage fingers at Zicaro. “Now, Al, you make sure you get back before curfew. We don’t want to worry about you getting into any sticky situations . . . especially considering you’re with Griffin Shaw.”

“Ol’ Griffin Shaw,” said Larry, rocking happily on his heels.

“C’mon,” Dennis said, and without even looking at Kit, he and Justin turned toward the building. Officer Stokes gave Kit and Grif a polite nod, shut the door of the patrol car, and followed. The two orderlies, though, remained where they were. They watched Grif and Kit pile Zicaro and his wheelchair into her Duetto, memorizing Kit’s license plate. Watching them drive off.

Filing it all away for later.

Man, that was close,” Al Zicaro said as soon as they cleared the lot. He craned his chicken neck around, making sure they weren’t being followed, face bright and eyes shining. Kit and Grif flanked him, shoulders hunched in the tight front seat. Feeling their gazes upon him, Zicaro turned back around. “What? I haven’t been that close to being busted by the fuzz in years!”