Page 45 of Control (Everyday Heroes 3.50)
he opens them and closes them and then opens them again. “You think...Wait a minute. You’re serious, aren’t you?”
The tears well as I question myself, my thoughts—everything. Now that he’s standing in front of me, the picture of him standing over me like the other guy did isn’t melding into the same one.
“I don’t—I don’t know what I think,” I say, hating the confusion, the doubt, and the anxiety vibrating around inside me. He takes a step toward me, and I immediately retreat so my back is against the car, trapping me.
“Des, c’mon. I’m a cop for Christ’s sake. I’m not—I could never…” I hate the look on his face, the one that reflects an adult coaxing a scared child out of hiding. Me. He stares, the muscle in his jaw pulsing, and then he’s reaching for his phone in his pocket, pushes some buttons, and holds it out between us so the phone rings aloud, the speaker on. “Here. He’ll tell you.”
“Who?” I ask.
Ring.
“Grant Malone.”
“Grant?” What? How does he know Grant?
Ring.
“Yes. He knows me.”
“How? What—”
“Reznor Mayne. I knew you wouldn’t be able to stay away from me for long.” Grant’s laugh comes through the line and every part of me that was primed for flight relaxes a little. “Did you have a come to Jesus and decide Sunnyville PD is where you want to be?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Reznor says, his smile small and his eyes locked on mine as if he’s daring me to not believe him.
“Spot’s open. Ramos needs to fill it, and I told him I’m going to recruit your ugly ass.”
“Nice try, Malone.”
“Pussy.”
“Well.” A half-laugh. “Hey, Grant, I have someone who needs you to vouch for me. That I am who I say I am.”
“You getting yourself in trouble again?”
“Old habits might die hard, brother, but this is something a little different.”
“What’s up?” Grant asks as Reznor holds the phone out to me. “Rez?”
“Grant, it’s me. Desi.” My voice breaks with the words.
“Des? Is everything okay?” Concern floods Grant’s voice.
“Yeah. Yes. I had a moment where…” I turn my back to Reznor as the tears flood my eyes and shame pushes them over the edge. “I’m fine. I was at self-defense and I had a flashback and I thought—I accused—I don’t know what I thought.”
“You thought Reznor was the perp?” There’s surprise in his voice, but also understanding.
“I told you. My head’s a mess, and I couldn’t figure out how he knew—”
“I told Rez about what happened to you. He’s a good guy, Des. He was probably trying to help you so you feel more settled about being able to take care of yourself.”
“Mm-hmm.” I don’t trust myself to talk as the anxiety gives way to mortification. The anger to shame.
“He’s one of the good ones. I promise.”
“God, I’m an idiot.” Until he responds, I’m not even sure I’ve said that out loud, but I sure as hell think it.
“No, you’re not. We live in a safe community. When something like this happens it makes you question everything—yourself, what you thought was safe, everyone around you—and it’s normal to have it rock you. I see it every day.”
