Even though she hadn’t died, Kristi had been permanently wounded. Not only physically but emotionally as well.
“Dear Jesus.” He shoved his hand through his hair in frustration.
Every time he’d seen Kristi, his heart twisted. Oh, she’d always put on a brave face, but he’d been able to look through her facade. He’d recognized the bone-tired weariness no amount of makeup had been able to conceal. He’d noticed the wan pallor of her skin, the dark smudges beneath her eyes, the lack of animation in her expression.
She’d always been lively—a “firecracker” or “pistol” while growing up—and reckless and headstrong as a younger woman. Now she seemed a shell of the woman she’d once been.
He suspected that despite her arguments to the contrary, she was experiencing survivor’s guilt, an emotion that had been his own burden for years whenever he thought of his first wife, Jennifer, Kristi’s mother. His eyes narrowed as he remembered Jennifer. So beautiful. So vain. So filled with deceit. Her lies . . . He stopped himself, wouldn’t allow his mind to wander down that dark and twisted path. He forcibly turned his thoughts to the present and to the simple fact that someone had nearly taken Kristi’s life and had, instead, made her a widow.
His fists clenched.
That sick son of a bitch would pay.
Bentz would make sure of it.
His stomach twisted again and he felt a rising swell of fury. Along with a jab of impotence at the thought of Father John or even a copycat stalking the streets of his city again.
Montoya cut into his thoughts. “There’re beignets in the bag. Plain, a couple of apple, and some chocolate. Help yourself. A sugar rush wouldn’t hurt you.”
Bentz took a sip of the hot coffee. Wished it was bourbon. Passed on the beignets. Already the coffee was mixing with the acid forming in his stomach and he figured a sugar-coated, fat-fried almost donut wouldn’t help. “Thanks.”
“No worries.” Montoya hit the brakes as a bicycle rider cut in front of him. “Idiot!” he muttered under his breath as the bike angled into a side street. “I should cite him.” Then he took a deep breath and, for once, didn’t chase the offender down. Montoya was still a hothead and he ran on adrenaline and testosterone, but since he’d become a father, some of his sharp edges had smoothed a bit. Fingers tight over the wheel, he shot his partner another glance and got right back up on his soapbox. “I’m just sayin’ take care of yourself, okay? Then you can take care of the case.”
Montoya had a point, Bentz grudgingly thought. It was all true that he hadn’t slept in days aside from a few catnaps here and there. At night his worries compounded, driving any chance at sleep away. Though he rationally knew the murderous attack wasn’t his fault, he couldn’t help but feel a needle of doubt prick deep into his soul, a sharp little reminder insisting that he was somehow responsible, that it was up to him to keep his family safe.
Another sip of coffee. “Message received.”
“Really? You’re going to take my advice?” Beneath his goatee, Montoya’s lips twisted and his dark eyes flashed as he switched lanes.
“Maybe.”
“And maybe not.” Montoya’s earring winked in the weak sunlight that managed to pierce through the windshield. “What is it you don’t understand about ‘random attack’?”
“Don’t believe it,” Bentz said. “Not when one victim is the daughter of a cop and the other victim works with the force.” He shook his head. “Not random.”
“Prove it then. And while you’re at it?” He shot another hard look Bentz’s way. “Get some fuc—effin’ sleep.” He scowled. “Shit.” Then let out a disgusted huff. “Abby’s trying to get me to clean up my language. Y’know, for the kid. Ben’s too young to understand but”—he shrugged—“who knows what he’s picking up?”
“I hear ya.”
“Do you? About takin’ care of yourself? I hope so.”
“Working on it,” Bentz assured him as Montoya parked.
“Well, for Christ’s sake, work a little harder, would ya?”
* * *
Montoya threw the tennis ball the length of the yard, a long, narrow piece of property that extended from the back of the shotgun house he shared with his wife and kid. Abby was talking about moving, getting a bigger place, maybe thinking about having another child. “I’d love a daughter,” she’d told him in bed this morning. “Or another son. Benjamin will need a sibling.”
Montoya wasn’t convinced. At least not yet. The kid was way too young to deal with a brother or sister, even given another year, at least in Montoya’s opinion.
And the world they lived in was tough.
Climate change. Social unrest. A recent flu outbreak. Overpopulation. Wars around the world.
Was it wise to bring another kid onto the planet? He was of the opinion that Ben was enough. At least for now.
Their dog, Hershey, a chocolate lab that was beginning to show his age, bounded after the ball, loping through the patchy grass to retrieve the prize in the gloom of coming evening, then bring it back. Hershey’s muzzle was graying and he spent a lot of time lying in the sun on the back porch.
“Get it!” he said as the dog snuffled through the grass. “You can find it.” The ball had lodged between a crepe myrtle tree and Benjamin’s plastic trike near the back fence. “That’s it. You got it! Now, come on. Bring it back.” Tennis ball in mouth, Hershey loped back. “Good boy.” Montoya ruffled the lab behind his ears, then walked inside where the scents of bacon, onions, and tomato sauce still lingered from dinner.
Outside the bathroom he nearly ran into Abby, who was hauling a towel-wrapped Ben on one hip. “Hey, big guy!” He ruffled his son’s wet hair and the kid gave him a wide smile that showed two tiny lower teeth just breaking through his gums. The grin melted Montoya’s heart.
Benjamin gurgled something indistinct.
“Did you hear that?” Montoya asked, and joked, “I think he said ‘DaDa.’ Clear as a bell.”
“Dreamer.” Abby laughed, a sound Montoya still loved. “Okay, ‘DaDa,’ if you say so. Now, why don’t you get him in his pj’s and ask him to enunciate a little more distinctly, huh?” she said, handing Montoya the boy. “I’ll deal with cleaning up our bathroom where Hurricane Benjamin hit.”
“You got it.” He winked at his wife, then carried Ben into the nursery, a small room next to theirs that was definitely too small for a second crib no matter what Abby said. Placing his son on the changing table, he then struggled to get the wriggling baby into a diaper and pajamas.
“You’re a wiggling worm,” he accused, finally wrestling Ben’s head through the pajama top.
The baby giggled, as if he truly understood.
Montoya picked up his son and scooped up the damp towel before hanging it on a hook near the door. As he did, the cell phone in Montoya’s back pocket vibrated.
He almost didn’t answer, then thought better of it and placed the baby into the playpen in the living area.
No caller ID on the screen.
“Hello?” he answered, rolling a ball toward his son in the playpen.