there.
Brody’s cross.
Dwight stood up, leaning across his desk.
“What is that?” he murmured, more to himself than anybody else.
It’s Brody’s
. The words sprang to his lips, but Remy bit them back. He couldn’t say it—shit. Couldn’t say it out loud. Wasn’t going to admit what that was, not in front of two fucking cops—
Shit.
Shit
. He hurled his briefcase down and started to pace the small office, scrubbing his hands over his face. He couldn’t breathe. Damn it, he couldn’t breathe.
Reaching down, he tugged at the knot of his tie, but it didn’t help.
What if that stupid kid had gotten hurt?
What if somebody had been in the house?
“Remy?”
Turning around, he met Dwight’s gaze, clenching his jaw to keep from saying anything. He wanted to yell, curse—wanted to hit something. Wanted to go track down his brother and pound him senseless, make him wake up and see just how screwed up the kid had gotten.
Something had to be done, damn it.
“What’s going on, Remy?” Dwight asked.
Remy shook his head. He couldn’t say anything.
“It’s Brody’s necklace,” Ezra said, his voice quiet. “I remember seeing him wear it in town, maybe two weeks ago.”
He caught the charm in his hand, studied it. “It just didn’t seem like the kind of thing a teenaged boy would wear, you know? Unless a girlfriend gave it to him.” Ezra looked at Remy as he added, “Or maybe a mother who passed away.”
Silence fell.
Dwight settled back in his chair, the wood creaking under him. He blew out a long, heavy sigh and leaned his head against the padded headrest. “Well, shit.”
“Nothing puts him there,” Remy said, his voice rough and harsh. “That necklace doesn’t mean jack shit.”
“No.” Ezra laid it on the edge of Dwight’s desk and pushed his hands into the back of his pockets. “And the necklace, officially, wasn’t found there. I picked it up, and for all you know, I found it on the side of the road and I’m standing here lying through my teeth.”
“Shit.” Remy reached up and rubbed the back of his neck.
Abruptly, he hauled off, slamming his fist into the solid oak of a filing cabinet. Pain flared, his skin split,and dumbly, he stared at his knuckles, watching as blood started to flow. Then he reached inside his pocket, drew out a handkerchief, wrapped it around his hand. Looking at Dwight, he said, “What are you going to do?”
“I’m not sure what you’re asking.” He shot Ezra a dirty look. “You like fucking things up for me, boy?”
Ezra curled his lip. “Yeah, it just makes my day, Sheriff. I wake up every damn day, thinking about what all I can do to screw with your cozy little town. Get my girlfriend terrorized. Get my house burned down by some teenaged headcase.”
“He’s not a fucking headcase,” Remy snarled.
“Oh, the hell he isn’t.” Ezra slashed a hand through the air and whirled around, glaring at him. “I feel bad for the kid. You think I want to see him slapped with a crime like this? What is he … fourteen? Fifteen? He’s just a fucking kid and he’s got his whole life ahead of him. All he needs to do is figure that out.”
Then he sighed and shoved a hand through his hair. “He isn’t going to do that until he gets his act together. No one was hurt …
this
time. But you can’t make this go away. You want to give him a smack on the hand, have him come out and sweep up some of the ashes of my house? You think that’s going to convince him he needs to straighten up? He needs help, Jennings. And I think you know that.”
Gut churning, Remy looked away from Ezra and stared at the gold cross on Dwight’s desk, thought about the way his nephew had looked just that morning. Fuck. Why hadn’t the kid come to him? Trusted him?
Eyes burning and throat tight, he looked at Ezra. “What do you want me to say? What in the holy fuck do you want me to do?”
“Get him help. For the love of God, you’re a lawyer—figure it out,
Brody’s cross.
Dwight stood up, leaning across his desk.
“What is that?” he murmured, more to himself than anybody else.
It’s Brody’s
. The words sprang to his lips, but Remy bit them back. He couldn’t say it—shit. Couldn’t say it out loud. Wasn’t going to admit what that was, not in front of two fucking cops—
Shit.
Shit
. He hurled his briefcase down and started to pace the small office, scrubbing his hands over his face. He couldn’t breathe. Damn it, he couldn’t breathe.
Reaching down, he tugged at the knot of his tie, but it didn’t help.
What if that stupid kid had gotten hurt?
What if somebody had been in the house?
“Remy?”
Turning around, he met Dwight’s gaze, clenching his jaw to keep from saying anything. He wanted to yell, curse—wanted to hit something. Wanted to go track down his brother and pound him senseless, make him wake up and see just how screwed up the kid had gotten.
Something had to be done, damn it.
“What’s going on, Remy?” Dwight asked.
Remy shook his head. He couldn’t say anything.
“It’s Brody’s necklace,” Ezra said, his voice quiet. “I remember seeing him wear it in town, maybe two weeks ago.”
He caught the charm in his hand, studied it. “It just didn’t seem like the kind of thing a teenaged boy would wear, you know? Unless a girlfriend gave it to him.” Ezra looked at Remy as he added, “Or maybe a mother who passed away.”
Silence fell.
Dwight settled back in his chair, the wood creaking under him. He blew out a long, heavy sigh and leaned his head against the padded headrest. “Well, shit.”
“Nothing puts him there,” Remy said, his voice rough and harsh. “That necklace doesn’t mean jack shit.”
“No.” Ezra laid it on the edge of Dwight’s desk and pushed his hands into the back of his pockets. “And the necklace, officially, wasn’t found there. I picked it up, and for all you know, I found it on the side of the road and I’m standing here lying through my teeth.”
“Shit.” Remy reached up and rubbed the back of his neck.
Abruptly, he hauled off, slamming his fist into the solid oak of a filing cabinet. Pain flared, his skin split,and dumbly, he stared at his knuckles, watching as blood started to flow. Then he reached inside his pocket, drew out a handkerchief, wrapped it around his hand. Looking at Dwight, he said, “What are you going to do?”
“I’m not sure what you’re asking.” He shot Ezra a dirty look. “You like fucking things up for me, boy?”
Ezra curled his lip. “Yeah, it just makes my day, Sheriff. I wake up every damn day, thinking about what all I can do to screw with your cozy little town. Get my girlfriend terrorized. Get my house burned down by some teenaged headcase.”
“He’s not a fucking headcase,” Remy snarled.
“Oh, the hell he isn’t.” Ezra slashed a hand through the air and whirled around, glaring at him. “I feel bad for the kid. You think I want to see him slapped with a crime like this? What is he … fourteen? Fifteen? He’s just a fucking kid and he’s got his whole life ahead of him. All he needs to do is figure that out.”
Then he sighed and shoved a hand through his hair. “He isn’t going to do that until he gets his act together. No one was hurt …
this
time. But you can’t make this go away. You want to give him a smack on the hand, have him come out and sweep up some of the ashes of my house? You think that’s going to convince him he needs to straighten up? He needs help, Jennings. And I think you know that.”
Gut churning, Remy looked away from Ezra and stared at the gold cross on Dwight’s desk, thought about the way his nephew had looked just that morning. Fuck. Why hadn’t the kid come to him? Trusted him?
Eyes burning and throat tight, he looked at Ezra. “What do you want me to say? What in the holy fuck do you want me to do?”
“Get him help. For the love of God, you’re a lawyer—figure it out,
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