Saving Rain(68)

I never stopped hating that relentless, nagging pain. I never stopped feeling I deserved it.

Enough. Keep reading.

Air filled my lungs, and I pushed past thoughts of Billy and his heartbroken mother. I skimmed the brief account of Billy’s untimely demise and my arrest on the side of the road that February night over a decade ago, looking for my mother’s name. I read past the comments from Billy’s dad, a firsthand account from a witness, and then there it was.

I sat up in bed as I read, Soldier’s mother, Diane Mason—no stranger to being in trouble with the law—had no comment to make at this time.

“What the hell?” I muttered to myself, staring at the words as if I could will them with my mind to offer more info.

My fingers thrust into my hair as my earlier questions were multiplied. What trouble? What had she done? I mean, shit … my mother had been taking her share of drugs for at least as long as I’d been alive and had lost more jobs than I could count. But I had never known her to break the law, and, yeah, okay, thinking about it now, I could see the absurdity in that mindset. Her habitual drug use was in itself against the fucking law. But Patrick Kinney and this reporter from nearly a decade ago wouldn’t have known about that or anything else unless she had a record. A record I knew nothing about.

I could just ask him, I thought. But … God, I don’t want to talk to him about this shit. He just told me how much he liked having me around. I don’t want to make him regret that by divulging more info than I need to.

I tossed my phone to the bed and dragged the palm of my hand over my face as I considered whatever options I had that didn’t involve going to the police.

Then, Ray stirred against my side. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

I laid my hand against her hip. “Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“It doesn’t seem like nothing.”

Grinding the heel of my palm against my eye, I replied, “I’m just thinking about something Patrick said.”

“What did he say?” She snuggled closer, turning her head to kiss my chest.

As I ran my fingers through her hair, I brought light to the questionable comment about my family history and told her about the article I’d found, insinuating my mother had a dirtier record than I was aware of. Ray was sleepy, but she listened, nodding her head softly every now and then to let me know she was still awake.

And then, when I was finished, she suggested in a raspy voice, “The library.”

“Oh, shit.” I didn’t know why I hadn’t thought of checking the library before. “There might be something in the archives.”

“If there was any kind of incident—” She yawned, which only reminded me of how tired I also was, and I yawned myself as she continued, “There might be an article somewhere.”

“Huh …” I slowly nodded. “Yeah, I think I’ll spend some time in there tomorrow after work.”

Ray hummed contentedly. “Good thing I’m the brains and you’re the brawn.”

“Hey”—I laughed, jostling her as I lay back down—“are you calling me stupid?”

“Not at all, Brawny,” she teased, tucking herself back inside my embrace. “Now”—she laid a finger over my lips—“shush and go to sleep with me.”

I kissed the tip of her finger and nestled my chin against her shoulder. Then, before anything else had the chance to keep me awake, I fell soundly asleep to the hush of her breathing.





CHAPTER NINETEEN


DAVID



My first day as assistant manager was a lot like any other day. Except my name tag read a different title, and when I walked into work, Howard told me I could roll my sleeves up if I’d like.

“You’re sure?” I asked, startled by the abrupt change in tune, even as I was already shoving my long sleeves up toward my elbows.

“Soldier, it’s nearly eighty degrees out there today, and it’s only going to get hotter. Wear a T-shirt tomorrow.”

He didn’t even bat an eye at the tattoos blanketing my arms—random works of both decent and amateurish art I’d acquired before and during prison—and I couldn’t tell if he never truly gave a crap about them or if he’d just gotten used to the idea. Either way, I was grateful to finally cool off, even as his wife came walking into the store, surprised to find me showing off my ink.

“Has Howard seen this yet?” Mayor Fischer asked, scowling until her face looked like a pug’s.

“Yeah, he just gave me the okay,” I said, hauling a box of canned peas onto my shoulder and heading in the direction of aisle four.

Connie followed. “Well, you do know that if anyone finds your … artwork offensive, you will have to cover up again. You understand this, yes? As assistant manager, you have a certain image to uphold, and if you cannot or refuse—”

“Mayor,” I interjected lightly, turning to face her, “I understand.”

Her lips pursed until they resembled a prune as she studied me with wary eyes. Then, she nodded once. “Glad to hear it.” With that, she turned on her heel and walked away like a woman on a mission—as always.

And then the morning dragged by, even as I kept busy sweeping the floor and stocking the shelves and helping Mrs. Montgomery read the labels on four different boxes of salted crackers. All I could think about was getting down to the library on my lunch break and searching through the newspaper articles on file, hoping I could find any clue about my mother’s history. Wild scenarios filled my head as the time passed, everything from bank robbery to arson to money laundering to grand theft auto, even if none of them made sense.