unfolded before her that night. “Don’t let the fat Monday-morning quarterbacks sack you,” he’d said.
Brinna was more comfortable with the caustic cop than the reflective retiree. She’d spent the night in his guest room, but he’d been gone when she got up. He’d left a note next to the coffeemaker saying only that he had an appointment.
Still concerned about his state of mind but having no good excuse to hang around and wait for him to return, Brinna loaded up Hero to head home. She found a store that carried batteries for her cell phone on the way out of Santa Clarita. As soon as she powered the phone up, it beeped with several messages. Most were from friends, calling about the shooting investigation and offering support and encouragement. But there was one official-sounding message from Janet Rodriguez. She wanted to see Brinna about the shooting and had a meeting scheduled for Sunday night.
Brinna yawned as she wondered about the meeting and if something about the investigation had gone sideways. No, not possible, she thought. It was a pretty clear-cut situation.Smiling, she remembered Milo’s football analogy and vowed that she wouldn’t let anything about the shooting or investigation get to her.
Once home, she got out and stretched, while Hero did the same. She bent to pick up the newspapers piled in the driveway during her five-day absence. After tossing them in the recycle barrel, she surveyed the yard to see if anything else was amiss.
Her small two-bedroom house had been built in the thirties. The warm Craftsman style, with a welcoming front porch, was to Brinna what the house with the white picket fence was to dreamers in the fifties. Located on a quiet street in an area of Belmont Shore north of Second Street, the home had a nice-size yard and mature foliage that served to make it all the more comfy and inviting.
For Brinna, being close to the ocean was the best part of the house. Until the age of six, she’d lived in a desert portion of Los Angeles County, on the outskirts of Palmdale in a dust bowl called Lake Los Angeles. If there had been a lake there, it had dried up a hundred years before Brinna’s birth. She liked to tell people her soul was as dry as a desert dust storm until her parents wised up and moved to the coast. Stepping onto her small lawn, she never grew tired of inhaling air heavy with ocean moisture.
Brinna picked some weeds, tossed them in the trash, and turned the hose on. She’d sprayed about half the lawn when her cell phone buzzed. Dropping the running hose to water a flower bed, she checked the number before she flipped it open.
“Maggie, what’s up?”
“You home yet?” Maggie asked.
“Just pulled in the driveway. What’s going on?”
“A lot of nonsense, that’s what’s going on. Have you read any local papers yet?”
“No, like I said, I just got here. Just tossed a bunch of them, why?”
“Read them. You’ve been out of the loop. You need to know what’s happening.”
“Is this about the shooting?” Brinna turned the hose down to a trickle and sat on her front steps.
“You have heard, then.”
“All I know is that Janet called me and said she wanted to meet about the shooting. She didn’t elaborate.”
“I’ll elaborate. That moron reporter has had diarrhea of the mouth about the shooting.”
“Clark? What could he have to say about the shooting? He hid in the car the whole time, and when he got out, he puked all over the street.”
“That’s not what he’s saying. He’s teamed up with an attorney and the family of the dead kid. They’re saying you shot the kid for no reason.”
“What?” Brinna’s eyebrows scrunched together, and she reflexively scratched Hero between the ears as he came and sat next to her. “He shot at me first! And why are you saying ki d ? How old was he?”
“I forgot. They identified the dead boy after you left. He was only fifteen.”
“Fifteen?” Brinna nearly dropped the phone. “But I
Brinna was more comfortable with the caustic cop than the reflective retiree. She’d spent the night in his guest room, but he’d been gone when she got up. He’d left a note next to the coffeemaker saying only that he had an appointment.
Still concerned about his state of mind but having no good excuse to hang around and wait for him to return, Brinna loaded up Hero to head home. She found a store that carried batteries for her cell phone on the way out of Santa Clarita. As soon as she powered the phone up, it beeped with several messages. Most were from friends, calling about the shooting investigation and offering support and encouragement. But there was one official-sounding message from Janet Rodriguez. She wanted to see Brinna about the shooting and had a meeting scheduled for Sunday night.
Brinna yawned as she wondered about the meeting and if something about the investigation had gone sideways. No, not possible, she thought. It was a pretty clear-cut situation.Smiling, she remembered Milo’s football analogy and vowed that she wouldn’t let anything about the shooting or investigation get to her.
Once home, she got out and stretched, while Hero did the same. She bent to pick up the newspapers piled in the driveway during her five-day absence. After tossing them in the recycle barrel, she surveyed the yard to see if anything else was amiss.
Her small two-bedroom house had been built in the thirties. The warm Craftsman style, with a welcoming front porch, was to Brinna what the house with the white picket fence was to dreamers in the fifties. Located on a quiet street in an area of Belmont Shore north of Second Street, the home had a nice-size yard and mature foliage that served to make it all the more comfy and inviting.
For Brinna, being close to the ocean was the best part of the house. Until the age of six, she’d lived in a desert portion of Los Angeles County, on the outskirts of Palmdale in a dust bowl called Lake Los Angeles. If there had been a lake there, it had dried up a hundred years before Brinna’s birth. She liked to tell people her soul was as dry as a desert dust storm until her parents wised up and moved to the coast. Stepping onto her small lawn, she never grew tired of inhaling air heavy with ocean moisture.
Brinna picked some weeds, tossed them in the trash, and turned the hose on. She’d sprayed about half the lawn when her cell phone buzzed. Dropping the running hose to water a flower bed, she checked the number before she flipped it open.
“Maggie, what’s up?”
“You home yet?” Maggie asked.
“Just pulled in the driveway. What’s going on?”
“A lot of nonsense, that’s what’s going on. Have you read any local papers yet?”
“No, like I said, I just got here. Just tossed a bunch of them, why?”
“Read them. You’ve been out of the loop. You need to know what’s happening.”
“Is this about the shooting?” Brinna turned the hose down to a trickle and sat on her front steps.
“You have heard, then.”
“All I know is that Janet called me and said she wanted to meet about the shooting. She didn’t elaborate.”
“I’ll elaborate. That moron reporter has had diarrhea of the mouth about the shooting.”
“Clark? What could he have to say about the shooting? He hid in the car the whole time, and when he got out, he puked all over the street.”
“That’s not what he’s saying. He’s teamed up with an attorney and the family of the dead kid. They’re saying you shot the kid for no reason.”
“What?” Brinna’s eyebrows scrunched together, and she reflexively scratched Hero between the ears as he came and sat next to her. “He shot at me first! And why are you saying ki d ? How old was he?”
“I forgot. They identified the dead boy after you left. He was only fifteen.”
“Fifteen?” Brinna nearly dropped the phone. “But I
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