Sawyer Bennett - Off Chance

That earned me a good ass chewing from the Chief, which only goes to prove he cares, right?

Motherfucker!

To make matters worse, Rowan kept texting me. I’m not sure exactly what she wants, because she never comes out and says it, but she’s begged me to come home when I get off shift. I’ve been non-committal and just asked that she give me space.

I haven’t heard from her in over twenty-four hours, and for all I know, she’s moved out of the apartment.

My anger has dissipated some but it’s still there. I’m pissed at Rowan for not having the guts to be stronger, but I’m more pissed at her parents for making her this way. If her dad were standing in front of me, I’d throttle him. I’ve been thinking that over and over for the past three days.

Which gave me the most fucked-up idea I’ve ever concocted.

As if the stars were aligning, my phone rings and I see it’s Buzz.

I connect and don’t bother with pleasantries. “Did you find what I need?”

“Hello to you too, buddy. But yeah, I got the information.”

“Let me have it.”

“Okay, seems like the esteemed Judge Cleeden is medically retired. He apparently had a pretty bad stroke and is in a rest home. Word is he was a tough old goat... really hard on crime, but then I think most judges in Texas want to hang you for mugging little old ladies.” He laughs over his joke but I don’t have time for it.

“What else?”

“Well, it appears he and his wife, Susan Cleeden, divorced two years ago. She’s actually remarried now to Peter Grantham, and he owns a construction company in Dallas.”

“Addresses?” I say.

“Geez... you’re in a mood.”

“Yeah, I am, and you don’t want to see it turn darker. Just give me the addresses.”

After I take down the information from Buzz, I disconnect and head to the Chief’s office. I have four days off starting tomorrow but I might need another day or two. It seems I’m making a trip to Texas.

Well, the trip to visit John Cleedin was a bust. I got admittance to visit him easy enough but I left wholly unsatisfied. My dreams of punching him in the face evaporated after I saw the shriveled old man lying in the hospital bed. The nurses assured me his mind was still good, but he just couldn’t communicate well. Once I realized I wouldn’t be getting physical satisfaction, I did get a measure of joy by sitting in a chair by his bed and telling him about his daughter, knowing he couldn’t stop me.

I told him all the ways that she proved him wrong, and how strong and wonderful she turned out, despite his best efforts to fuck her up. There was no way I’d ever let him know that he left her with unimaginable insecurity, because I’m still banking on the fact that she’ll overcome that one day.

Before I left, I asked if there was anything else he wanted to know. He did nothing but glare at me, his body shaking, and he said “Fuck you” as a pool of saliva spilled out of his mouth.

I reached over, took the towel draped across his chest, and carefully wiped his face. I knew he’d hate being cared for that way, a reminder of how weak and powerless he was now, and I smiled at him the entire time.

I turned without a word and left.

Now I walk up to Susan and Peter Grantham’s home. It’s a modest ranch house outside of Dallas. There are two vehicles in the driveway, one a truck that has Grantham Construction on the side.

I ring the doorbell and hear a booming bark near the door. It opens and a man of about fifty is standing there. He’s tall, well built, and tanned from hours out in the sun. He looks at me pleasantly while he holds a dog back by its collar that is straining to see who has come to visit.

I look at the dog and I’m almost knocked backward to see it’s a Bernese Mountain Dog. I’m so stunned in fact, I can’t think of anything to say.

“Can I help you?” the man asks.

I raise my eyes to his. “Yes... I’m looking for Susan Grantham. Is she here?”

The look on his face remains pleasant but he’s not about to let me in his home. “She is. Can I ask what this is about?”

“My name is Flynn Caldwell. I’m from New York. I came to talk to her about her daughter.”

Alarm fills the man’s face and he pushes the dog back, stepping out onto the porch. He shuts the door behind him and turns to me.

“Is she dead?” he asks, his voice filled with fear.

“God, no. She’s alive and well, and well... I wanted to talk to your wife about her.”

He stares at me for a moment, his eyes grave. He nods his head and says, “Come on in.”

I follow him into the kitchen, with the Berner trotting on my heels. I can’t believe they have the same type of dog that Rowan has. Unbelievable.

I get my first look at Rowan’s mom. She’s an older version of Rowan, except she wears her dark hair short in a pixie cut. She’s dressed in a t-shirt and jeans, and she’s pulling some muffins out of the oven.

“Honey,” Peter Grantham says hesitantly. “We have a visitor.”

Susan Grantham turns to me with a smile on her face. She sets the muffins on the counter and takes the oven mitts off, extending a hand to me. I shake it and say, “Mrs. Grantham... I’m Flynn Caldwell.”

She gives me a warm smile. “Please... call me Susan.” She spares a glance at her husband as if asking, Who is this strange man?

I don’t hold back. “I’ve come to talk to you about your daughter.”

Susan’s face goes white and she reaches a hand out to brace herself against the counter. “Anne Marie? She’s alive?”

I nod. “She goes by Rowan now... Rowan Page.”

I’m not sure what reaction I expected, but it certainly wasn’t this. Tears start pouring down her face and she sags to the floor crying. Peter rushes over to her and kneels down at her side, holding her in his arms.

She looks up at me, disbelief in her eyes. “I thought she was dead. I searched for her for so long, but we couldn’t find anything.”

“You looked for her?” I ask, disbelieving her words. This is the lady that stood by while Rowan was practically kicked out of her home and told never to return.

“Yes,” says Peter as he helps his wife from the floor. “Up until about a year ago... when the fifth private investigator we hired couldn’t find anything.”

Following my meeting with Satan’s Spawn—aka John Cleeden—I really had some poor expectations for this meeting. I expected to find a socialite living in the lap of luxury with her new husband and new life, completely having forgotten about the daughter she had forsaken.

Yet, here I find a woman who has apparently been grieving over a supposedly dead daughter.

“You abandoned her though... all those years ago,” I accuse.

“Now wait a minute,” Peter says, stepping toward me.

“No, Peter,” Susan says, laying a restraining hand on his arm. “He’s right. I failed my daughter in many, many ways, and I’ll answer for it. I hope I can answer to Anne Marie. I hope she’ll let me beg her forgiveness.”

“It’s Rowan,” I snap.

Susan nods her head at me in cautious agreement. “Of course… Rowan.”

“Do you have any idea the damage you inflicted on her?”

Susan bows her head, sniffling. “I know I destroyed her.”

“Wrong! You damaged her, but you could never destroy someone as strong as her.”

She looks back up at me, taking a step forward to grab my hand.

“Please,” she begs. “Tell me everything about her. Give me something.”

I shouldn’t. I should walk out that door and let this woman suffer under her guilt. But there is something in her eyes that stops me. She looks like she has truly suffered, and damn if that doesn’t pull at my heart just a tiny bit.