Total pages in book: 87
Estimated words: 85725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85725 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
“Friend?” Brallon’s confusedly questions. “This man is your friend?”
“He’s not her friend,” Mrs. Prescott sneers and seethes in an impressive tandem. “He’s a pathetic piece of garbage that goes around digging through other people’s personal belongings. Most likely looking for heroin or women’s undergarments to do unspeakable things with.” She tugs her black robe tighter together. “Come to think of it, he’s probably a serial rapist. In fact, I’m sure of it.”
“He’s not a rapist!” I loudly squawk.
“Ma’am,” McAdams firmly states, stare swinging her direction. “Please, be aware of the weight of such allegations, especially without proof.”
“How do you know I don’t have proof?”
Her question causes new pangs of anxiety to swell through my chest and my mouth to defensively hiss. “You don’t have any proof.”
She pulls her painfully thin lips to one side on a quiet snip. “Not yet.”
“Not ever, Gwenith, because he’s not a rapist!”
“Little Jaye Jenkins, please, lower your voice,” Brallon insists in such a manner I have no choice but to back down.
“Sorry, Officer Brallon.”
He gives me a kind nod of acknowledgement prior to investigating the accusation further. “Is this individual your friend?”
There’s no hesitation in my answer. “Yes.”
“Are you aware that he doesn’t have any form of valid identification on him?”
“He must’ve misplaced it again,” I casually lie.
Or hope.
Perhaps hope is the better term here.
Hope doesn’t leave me feeling shitty for lying to the law.
“You know how that goes for wanderlust lovers like him.”
“Got a cousin like that,” McAdams says on a heavy sigh, shaking his head. “Swear to him every time he visits another country that he’s just begging to be a target of identity theft.”
Small chuckles leave the three of us prompting Gwenith to viciously snaps, “What’s his name?”
Yup.
Should’ve seen that coming.
How did I not see that coming?
“Pizza Dude,” my mouth retorts without my consent.
Officer Brallon’s face bunches up in disbelief. “Pizza Dude?”
“Okay, so, you caught me.” The tiniest blush creeps into my cheeks. “I don’t…know his…actual name but tell me you’ve never had a friend who had a weird nickname that you always used to the point you couldn’t even remember their real name anymore.” My rushed response seems to be well received given the way that their shoulders slightly relax. “God, there was this guy I graduated high school with we all called Shaggy because he looked exactly like the dude from Scooby-Doo. To this very day, I still don’t know his name. I think it was Michael? Maybe Chad? Er…Brad?”
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” McAdams states on an understanding nod. “There’s a guy I graduated with from the academy we call Snowy. He’s so fucking pale, he practically glows in the dark. No clue what his real name is.”
“Speaking of snow,” the segue to change the subject is swiftly stolen, “did you get to try those coconut snowball cookies I made for the precinct, or did dad eat them all before you could?”
Brallon warmly chuckles during the process of uncuffing the homeless man who looks almost as stunned as my neighbor that he’s being set free. “I had one.” His head rapidly shakes. “One. That’s all that monster was willing to share.”
The giggles that escape are genuine. “Yeah, that sounds like Dad.”
“Excuse me,” Gwenith loudly tries to interrupt pushing me to quickly speak over her.
“You know what? Why don’t I make another batch this weekend and drop them off for all of you without telling him first? That way you can help yourselves! And if Dad tries to give you crap about it, you can just tell him, a cookie angel dropped them off. You had no clue where they came from.”
“You are a cookie angel,” McAdams gleefully chortles. “Only woman I know who bakes cookies and wants nothing in return.”
Okay maybe not nothing this time. Forgetting this whole little incident happened is the hope.
“Well, before I become a sleet angel,” I casually motion up to the sky where it’s beginning to fall, “do you mind if me and Pizza Dude go inside? You both probably know I’m still not really a fan of this weather.”
Sympathy I hate to see fills both their stares but for the first time in a long time, I’m more than okay playing that card.
“Of course, Little Jaye Jenkins,” Brallon quickly nods and kicks his chin towards my garage. “Get inside and then perhaps talk to your guest about some things like boundaries. Private property. Keeping his ID on him. And perhaps answering questions we ask rather than remaining silent.” His eyes briefly cut to the homeless man whose face is expressionless. “You look less guilty that way.”
“We’ll talk about all those things and more over hot cocoa inside.”
“God, you probably make a mean hot cocoa, too, don’t you?” McAdam’s practically drools.
“One of the best in the city.”
He tosses his partner a playful glare. “Why didn’t I marry a woman who could at the very least make me good hot cocoa? Babs can barely turn on the coffee pot without setting off the smoke alarm.”