your unit was falling all over himself to get you to stay. And it wasn’t just because you’re pretty.” He smiled.
“That doesn’t exactly help me feel better.”
“I’m just telling the truth. I was a cop for almost thirty years, so I know what it takes to be a good one. You were a damn good one, Camille. Don’t ever forget that.”
“Keep up with this pep talk and I just may consider going back.”
The creases in Paul’s furrowed brow softened. “I’m afraid it’s too late my dear. I finally have you home and I’m not giving you back.”
Camille leaned into her father with outstretched arms, burying her head in his broad shoulder. “Dad, what the hell am I going to do with myself? It’s not exactly like I had a plan B.”
“Most cops don’t,” Paul said as he held the back of Camille’s head. “But it isn’t something you should worry about right now. You’re home with people who love you to death. You’re safe here. Take as much time as you need to figure it out.”
Camille smiled as she lifted her head to look into his eyes. “So does that mean I can crash here?”
“You can crash here as long as you like, but on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“After tonight, the pity parade ends.”
Pity parade. The words stung. But Camille couldn’t be mad at him for saying them. She had become quite adept at wallowing in self-pity. As much as she wanted to tell him that she would snap out of it, that from here on out she would be the headstrong, confident, fearless Camille that he had raised, she didn’t want to make promises she couldn’t keep.
“I’ll give it a shot, dad.”
“That’s good enough for me,” Paul said, then kissed his daughter on the forehead.
“Now, I have some conditions of my own,” Camille said as she leaned back in the recliner.
“I’m almost afraid to know.”
“The first is that you help me figure out that plan B. The second is that you give me a lenient curfew.”
Paul smiled wide. “The first one I can deal with. The second one will require some major negotiation. What do you say we start the bidding at eleven p.m.?”
Camille looked at him with feigned shock. “I’m almost thirty-five-years-old, dad. At least give me twelve forty-five.”
“How about I just ground you altogether?”
“You wish old man.”
“Fine. We’ll save the house-rules conversation for another day,” Paul relented as he stood up and scanned a living room littered with plates and beer bottles. “Let’s just get this mess cleaned up.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” Camille grabbed the closest stack of plates and took them into the kitchen. As she walked in she heard her cell phone ringing. Tossing the plates in the garbage, she ran over to the kitchen table where her phone was sitting, but she was too late to answer it. The call had come from Julia. Camille held the phone for a moment, waiting for a voice mail notification. When one didn’t come she set the phone back on the table and went into the living room. If she remembered, she would return Julia’s call when she was finished. But if she didn’t, she could always talk to her tomorrow.
As it turned out, Camille didn’t remember. She went to bed shortly after she and Paul cleaned the house, not giving a second thought to the missed call. As she settled into the double bed that felt entirely too small for her, Camille could only think about how thankful she was that this day had finally come to an end, and how she hoped that tomorrow would finally be the start of something good. There may not have been a plan B in sight, but for the first time in months, she felt reasonably optimistic that she would find it.
Unfortunately, the feeling wouldn’t last.
Tomorrow would definitely be the start of something. But it wouldn’t be good.
CHAPTER 9
J ulia was startled awake by the sound of heavy bass. Underneath the rhythmic thumping, the whiny, indecipherable lyrics of some
“That doesn’t exactly help me feel better.”
“I’m just telling the truth. I was a cop for almost thirty years, so I know what it takes to be a good one. You were a damn good one, Camille. Don’t ever forget that.”
“Keep up with this pep talk and I just may consider going back.”
The creases in Paul’s furrowed brow softened. “I’m afraid it’s too late my dear. I finally have you home and I’m not giving you back.”
Camille leaned into her father with outstretched arms, burying her head in his broad shoulder. “Dad, what the hell am I going to do with myself? It’s not exactly like I had a plan B.”
“Most cops don’t,” Paul said as he held the back of Camille’s head. “But it isn’t something you should worry about right now. You’re home with people who love you to death. You’re safe here. Take as much time as you need to figure it out.”
Camille smiled as she lifted her head to look into his eyes. “So does that mean I can crash here?”
“You can crash here as long as you like, but on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“After tonight, the pity parade ends.”
Pity parade. The words stung. But Camille couldn’t be mad at him for saying them. She had become quite adept at wallowing in self-pity. As much as she wanted to tell him that she would snap out of it, that from here on out she would be the headstrong, confident, fearless Camille that he had raised, she didn’t want to make promises she couldn’t keep.
“I’ll give it a shot, dad.”
“That’s good enough for me,” Paul said, then kissed his daughter on the forehead.
“Now, I have some conditions of my own,” Camille said as she leaned back in the recliner.
“I’m almost afraid to know.”
“The first is that you help me figure out that plan B. The second is that you give me a lenient curfew.”
Paul smiled wide. “The first one I can deal with. The second one will require some major negotiation. What do you say we start the bidding at eleven p.m.?”
Camille looked at him with feigned shock. “I’m almost thirty-five-years-old, dad. At least give me twelve forty-five.”
“How about I just ground you altogether?”
“You wish old man.”
“Fine. We’ll save the house-rules conversation for another day,” Paul relented as he stood up and scanned a living room littered with plates and beer bottles. “Let’s just get this mess cleaned up.”
“I thought you’d never ask.” Camille grabbed the closest stack of plates and took them into the kitchen. As she walked in she heard her cell phone ringing. Tossing the plates in the garbage, she ran over to the kitchen table where her phone was sitting, but she was too late to answer it. The call had come from Julia. Camille held the phone for a moment, waiting for a voice mail notification. When one didn’t come she set the phone back on the table and went into the living room. If she remembered, she would return Julia’s call when she was finished. But if she didn’t, she could always talk to her tomorrow.
As it turned out, Camille didn’t remember. She went to bed shortly after she and Paul cleaned the house, not giving a second thought to the missed call. As she settled into the double bed that felt entirely too small for her, Camille could only think about how thankful she was that this day had finally come to an end, and how she hoped that tomorrow would finally be the start of something good. There may not have been a plan B in sight, but for the first time in months, she felt reasonably optimistic that she would find it.
Unfortunately, the feeling wouldn’t last.
Tomorrow would definitely be the start of something. But it wouldn’t be good.
CHAPTER 9
J ulia was startled awake by the sound of heavy bass. Underneath the rhythmic thumping, the whiny, indecipherable lyrics of some
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