And that one hit harder.
Why do anything good when your reputation pays you better for doing the opposite?
I could’ve given her something simple. Because it’s the right thing. But kids can smell canned answers.
So I told her the truth.
“Because you asked,” I said. “And because nobody should have to ask twice.”
Meera’s eyes got glossy again. She pushed her face into my chest.
Somewhere behind us, a door swung open and a man in a suit walked in with tired eyes and a badge clipped to his belt.
Detective Morrison.
He stopped when he saw us, his expression turning into the kind of skepticism you could spread on toast.
“Thomas,” he said, like my name tasted unpleasant. “Didn’t expect to see you playing guardian angel.”
I kept my voice low so Meera wouldn’t wake fully. “Didn’t expect to be.”
His gaze slid to Meera. His tone changed, not warmer, but more careful. “I need a statement.”
I handed him my phone with the text still open.
He read it. Watched his own assumptions stumble.
Time stamp: 9:47 PM.
Arrival call logged: 9:48.
911 call: 10:05.
He gave the phone back slowly.
“You moved fast,” he admitted.
“Yeah,” I said. “Kids don’t get extra time.”
Morrison rubbed his jaw. “Perpetrator’s name?”
Meera stirred, hearing the word perpetrator like it was a monster under the bed.
I didn’t let her answer.
“Raven Holloway,” I said. “Boyfriend. Addict. She said he was hitting her mom’s arm. Then he ran.”
Morrison’s eyes narrowed. “Holloway. We’ve had him in the system. Charges dropped. Victims recant.”
“Not this time,” I said.
Morrison looked at my cut draped over the child like a blanket.
“Just keep your guys under control,” he said quietly. “This isn’t your kind of justice.”
“Tonight,” I said, “it’s nobody’s kind of justice. It’s a kid’s kind of survival.”
He left to make calls.
Meera whispered, half-asleep, “Is my mom going to die?”
The room went still.
I pressed my forehead to her helmet gently. “No,” I said, not because I was certain, but because she needed certainty like oxygen. “She’s not. She’s strong. And you’re stronger than you know.”
Chapter 4: The Debt You Don’t See
Around 2:00 AM, Gunner stepped aside to take a call. His face changed as he listened.
He covered the phone and came to me, voice low. “Boss. One of our guys ran Holloway’s name through the street. He owes money. Big. Not just to dealers.”
I stared at him. “To who?”
Gunner didn’t answer right away. He didn’t like saying the name in a hospital.
“Ly’s,” he finally said. “That gambling den off Route 9.”
Ly’s was the kind of place that pretended to be a friendly pool hall until you looked at the locks on the back door.
Reaper’s eyes sharpened. “How big?”
“Three grand,” Gunner said. “Maybe more. And the collectors were supposedly heading to Maple Creek tonight.”
A cold wave rolled through my spine.
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