Headlights(41)

“We’re gettin’ a head start on Christmas this year,” Emily says.

A boy sits on the couch, homework in front of him, one hand tapping a pencil, the other twisting a fidget spinner. On the floor by the tree, a girl tries to untangle string lights. I hardly recognize either of them. Seven to eleven is a huge jump. I can’t really believe it.

“Kids, you remember Uncle Danny?”

They both stare at me a long second, then jump up, homework and toys and lights flying, run at me, tackle me in a simultaneous hug. Their voices climb over each other, “Uncle Danny, where have you been? You missed my birthdays!”

“Were you fighting in the war again?”

“Casa Bonita reopened! Will you go with us?”

“My friend says war is just a bunch of—”

“Dad said you don’t live with Aunt Josie anymore.”

“That’s enough,” Emily says. “Give Uncle Danny a second.”

I take a step back and breathe. Fight through the tightness in my chest. I clear my throat and bend down on one knee. My voice isn’t quite level when I say, “I really missed you guys.”



* * *



In the garage, Jack’s pouring drinks for us. All his tools organized on one wall, lamplight. I’ve always loved this space, how they’ve set it up with an old rug and a couple chairs and couch, next to the Charger he’s been fixing up forever. Someone’s put a bunch of rainbow Christmas string lights crisscrossing over the top of it plugged in and lit up. There’s a fake-fireplace heater going in the corner of the sitting area setup, and a sign hung up on the wall above the couch that says SANTA’S WORKSHOP. Two coolers between the chairs and couch as side tables, and a beer fridge in the corner. Jack’s pouring us bourbon for tonight though. He’s got a Santa hat on. His aviators still hanging from his shirt. Always on him somewhere.

“Cheers, asswipe,” he says, handing a glass to me.

“Watch it, I’ll call HR.”

“We’re off the clock.”

“Good one.”

He sits down on the couch. “Kids attack you?”

“I didn’t mind,” I say, taking one of the chairs. “Nice hat.”

“They said I have to wear it at home every day November first until January first.”

“That’s a big job.”

“Someone’s gotta do it.” He adjusts the hat, settles in. After a long minute, he says, “It’s weird, you know. Having you back. Four years is nothin’, but—”

“The kids grow really fast,” I say.

“Yeah. Not to kick you while you’re down, but Brianna cried when we first told her you’d left. Two nights in a row.”

I take a sip. A big one.

A posterboard rests against the wall, a school project. It says across the top: OUR FRIENDS THE WOLVES. Then a bunch of facts in circles around the posterboard, images of wolves pasted around them: WOLVES WILL ADOPT ORPHANED OR ABANDONED YOUNG

WOLVES MOURN WHEN ANOTHER WOLF DIES

WOLVES HAVE COMPLEX FAMILY DYNAMICS AND ARE VERY PLAYFUL

ONLY 1% OF LIVESTOCK DEATHS ARE FROM WOLVES

GRAY WOLVES MATE FOR LIFE

“You didn’t have to do it, you know,” Jack says.

“What?” I say.

“Big fat medical center donation anonymously comes in, suddenly the doctor calling to check in all the time, how’s she feeling, can we do anything, let us know what you need.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say. Brianna’s epileptic. It’s been a struggle for years, but she has great parents, and they’re on top of it. “Has she been okay?” I ask. “She looks good, happy.”

“Couple bad ones, but yeah. She’s good. She’s strong. Wish she didn’t have to be, but…”

“I’m glad. I’m sorry,” I say. “That I haven’t checked in. It’s … I’m sorry.”

He watches me, takes a sip. Says, “I get it. You had a shit hand. Thank you for donating. But you are like the worst rich guy.”

“I’m not—”

“You would be, if you didn’t just hemorrhage it out to charities—not that I’m complaining, mind you. But to not even get like a beautiful car out of it. Something!”

“The only thing I want is some answers, and for people to stop dying.”

“Yeah, well, don’t we all.”

“Tillman said you and Josie are looking into Oliver Wright. He developed a few of the properties some of the victims live and work on. Obviously, in addition to Claire being our first victim. I think it’s worth looking into on our end.”

“Well, he developed half this town. Least in the last decade. But we’re gonna get him soon on financials. He’s like any rich asshole. Sorry … you know what I mean. But he’s been gaming the system for years.”

“You don’t think he could be involved in this?”

“I don’t know. I mean, have you ever talked to him?”

“Not in a while,” I say.

“Look, I get theoretically that there are sick fucks out there who could hurt their own kids. And he’s a pain in the ass. But … he’s really fucked up from what happened to his daughter. Like really. So, could he be tied to the murders? Sure, maybe, but … I dunno. Being a parent is like … you would do literally anything for your kid. Anything. You think you know yourself, and then you have these little people, and suddenly you’re like, I don’t know who I am at all. But I know I would die before letting anything happen to them. And his kid is gone. Fourteen years old. And the way it happened … I just can’t imagine what that does to someone. I feel sorry for him.”