Molly O'Keefe - Tyler O'Neill's Redemption

It had happened with the last two teenagers she’d sent to the Department of Corrections.

“Where’s your father?” she asked.

“Don’t know,” he said. “Don’t care.”

“How about you tell me what happened?”

Miguel shook his head. “He was drinking and he went after Louisa.” He shrugged, his thin shoulders so small. So young to have to carry so much. “I said something and he picked up this frying pan off the stove.”

She winced. That explained the bruises and burns.

“I’ve got to call community services—”

“I’ll tell them I fell down the stairs.” Miguel shook his head, emphatic.

“Miguel, you can’t be serious. You want to stay with your dad?”

“No, I just don’t want to go to no foster home. Louisa and me will get split up and I ain’t having that.”

“You were going to leave last night, Miguel,” she reminded him. “You would have been split up anyway.”

“I was going to take her,” he said. “I wouldn’t ever leave her behind.”

Great. Kidnapping on top of grand theft. “I can arrest him, bring him—”

“Yeah, right,” he scoffed. “How long this time? Overnight? A week? Last time you did that he came out more pissed off than ever, and me and Louisa had to stay with Patricia.”

“But, Miguel, he hit you.”

“You think this is the first time?”

“Why haven’t your teachers reported this?” she asked.

“I skip if it’s bad. But it’s not usually bad.”

“It’s my job to report this, Miguel.”

“You do what you gotta do, but no social worker is taking me nowhere.”

Rock. Hard place. The kid didn’t trust the system and frankly, she didn’t blame him. Bonne Terre, much less the parish, had no place for a kid like Miguel. It was the streets, holding cell four, or DOC over in Calcasieu Parish. Bonne Terre didn’t have a whole lot of crime, but what they did have was largely juvenile-perpetrated and they just weren’t equipped to help.

Punish, yes. Help, no.

And this was one of those situations that defined the differences between her and her father. These circumstances dictated that she help this kid.

“We need to get you to the doctor,” she said, deciding to put off the question of community services until she had a better answer.

“Am I going to jail?” he asked, and for the first time, something scared colored his voice.

Not if I can help it, she thought.

“Well, it’s not up to me. It’s up to the guy whose car you tried to steal.” He sniffed, the big man, as if it didn’t matter, as if jail would be no problem. And maybe, when push came to shove, it was better than home.

But, man, she wanted to give him another option. He was bright. Smart. Compassionate. He loved his sister, laid down his body for her.

The boy deserved a choice. A chance.

A safe home.

You’re soft, her father’s voice whispered. You’re way too soft.

The door to the holding cells opened and Owens walked in, his tall frame casting a long shadow down the hallway. “Got a name on that Porsche,” he said, coming to stop in the open door of cell four.

“Yeah?” she asked, her stomach tight. If she could just convince the owner not to press charges, to give the kid a pass, then she’d think of something. A way to give the kid a real opportunity, maybe get him out of that house.

But it all depended on the owner of that Porsche.

“You’re not going to believe it.”

“Who does the Porsche belong to, Owens?”

“Tyler O’Neill.”

JULIETTE TOOK MIGUEL to the clinic before heading out to Tyler’s. She bypassed urgent care altogether and headed straight to the new family doctor who had an office in the clinic.

Dr. Greg Roberts was a good guy. He’d keep his mouth shut, unlike the nurses in the urgent care who lived for cases like this. Bonne Terre was a small town and the most exciting thing the clinic had seen in the past month was when Mrs. Paterson had gotten a little overzealous with her weed whacker and had taken a chunk out of her husband’s ankle.

The gossips had turned it into a domestic abuse case before Mr. Paterson’s bandages were on.

“Boy said he fell down the stairs,” Dr. Roberts said, his voice indicating he didn’t believe it for a moment.

“That’s what he told me, too.” Juliette looked him right in the face and lied, knowing that if she told Dr. Roberts, he’d have no choice but to call in the social workers. Hell, she was supposed to be calling them in herself.

“Chief Tremblant,” he whispered, and she knew he was on to her. “What are you doing with this kid?”

His brown eyes were soft and sympathetic and for a moment she was tempted to tell him the jam she was in. They were friends. Sort of. And Greg was smart. Maybe he had an idea, something. Because right now, she had zip.

But Miguel, nearly passed out in the chair outside Greg’s office, shifted and moaned slightly in his doze and Juliette shook her head.

“My job,” she told Greg. “I’m doing my job.”

“He’s what, sixteen? The boy should be in foster care.”

“You want to call Office of Community Services? Do it.”

“I don’t want to fight with you,” he said. He stepped closer, the warmth from his body making her slightly claustrophobic. He was a young guy, and occasionally she got the vibe that he was interested. Why she couldn’t relax and just go with it was a mystery. “If this kid needs help, I’m on your side.”

The man was handsome, and sincere, she had to give him that. But she still wasn’t about to let him in.

“I appreciate that, Greg. I do. But I know what I’m doing. There are…circumstances,” she whispered.

Greg watched her for a long moment and then held up his hands, indicating he’d back off.

He took a small handful of packaged pills out of his lab coat. “I’ve given him two. He’ll need another two in six hours.”

He dumped the samples in her hands, his fingers brushing hers.

Feel something, she willed her nerve endings, come on, just a little zing.

But there was nothing.

Of course, because she was an idiot, Tyler O’Neill and his broken-down face and heartless grin popped into her mind, and just the thought of him electrified her, put the hair on her arms on end.

That’s what you want? she asked herself ruthlessly. The answer, of course, was no, the by-product of all that fire had been third-degree burns, a life-altering pain.

“Come on, Miguel,” she murmured, giving the boy’s shoulder a shake. Miguel flinched, then came to, clearly disoriented and drowsy, and she helped him to his feet.

Fifteen minutes later, Juliette stopped in front of The Manor, stared through her window at the red door and took a few deep breaths.

“Hey, Ty,” she whispered, practicing her cheerful approach. “You’ll never guess, it’s funny really, but your car almost got stolen last night.”

She pressed her fist to her forehead. “Okay—” she tried straightforward “—look, Ty, we’ve got a situation. Your car is fine and I need you to work with me. I need you—”

I need you.

Her stomach rolled and her skull pounded. Ten years later and she needed him. Frankly, she’d rather take out her gun and blow off her left toe than face Tyler, but Miguel needed her.

She glanced in the rearview mirror to where Miguel slept, his head pressed to the backseat window, his black hair flat against the glass.

“Please, you son of a bitch,” she whispered, “please be reasonable.”

FIRE ANTS WERE EATING Tyler’s brain and it was making him acutely, painfully unreasonable.

Or maybe it was just his father.

“I’m telling you,” Dad said, scrambling eggs without his shirt on. Sunlight coming in through the kitchen window hit his chest hair and put a halo around him.