Storm Lines Read online

  “Family and Children’s Services came late in the afternoon. I made my formal request to keep them in police protection when Sheffield said they were going to be released into F&CS care, likely passing them down the chain to Far North services, since Carla Slessinger’s residence is in Thunder Bay.” Marley took a deep breath, ready to complete her lie. “So, the last time I saw them was when they left with the intake worker.”

  Marley forced herself not to fidget as Crawford assessed her answer.

  “Okay, thank you. I will follow up with the intake worker.”

  “Sounds good, sir. Is there anything else? I think I saw Devon back with the Timmy’s, and it would be great to talk to her before I pass out again.”

  She was tired, that wasn’t a lie. Though the adrenaline and stress humming through her body meant she wasn’t ready for sleep.

  “That’s all for now, Marlowe. Rest and recover, and we’ll see you when you’re back on your feet. With a doctor’s note to return to work, of course.”

  “Of course. You know me and rules.”

  Crawford looked at her sharply as he put his phone into his pocket. “Unfortunately, Marlowe, I do. Which is why I thought I’d remind you. Take good care of yourself.”

  Devon entered the room just then. “Coffee for the road, Sergeant Crawford?” Devon said, pulling a cardboard cup from the tray and holding it out.

  “Oh, I…yes, thank you. And thank you again from the Hamilton Police Force for looking after our officer.”

  Devon gave a solemn nod to the sergeant as he left. Marley let herself collapse against her pillows. She was drained but opened her eyes as Devon wheeled the tray table over to the bed and placed a Timmy’s cup in front of her.

  “Peppermint tea,” Devon said, settling herself into the chair. “Your mother’s orders.”

  Marley sighed and took the lid off, letting the fragrant steam escape. “Where is my mother, anyway?”

  “She said she’d be back after lunch. She got a call while we were downstairs, something about a pastor locked out of the rectory?”

  Marley grinned. “Father Zeke is incredibly forgetful. Mom rescues him at least once a week.”

  “A family of heroes,” Devon murmured as she twisted her coffee in her hands.

  Worry snaked through Marley’s belly. She still wasn’t sure she’d done the right thing with Carla and Aimee, taking them in, finding somewhere for them to live. They shouldn’t have to be so dependent on her for shelter and food and news. And she hadn’t anticipated being incapacitated, unable to care for them.

  “You’re tired,” Devon said.

  Marley picked up her cup and blew ripples onto the top of her tea. Still too hot.

  “It’s been a big morning,” Marley said.

  Devon nodded. “A walk and visitors. General consciousness.” Marley answered Devon’s small smile with her own. Then the smile faded. “Lying is also very tiring,” she added gently.

  Marley did not flinch away from Devon’s words. It wasn’t an accusation, more a gentle surfacing of fact, a calm acknowledgement. Marley’s instincts had her responding before she’d even thought it through. Again.

  “I need your help.”

  * * *

  Devon listened and sipped her coffee as Marley began her confession. She’d been in this position many times before, and she was comfortable slipping into this familiar role. Marley continued to amaze her. She was obviously exhausted from her morning, but the self-doubt of her actions and decisions were painted across her expression and her voice. Marley was worried about these two secret dependents.

  “It happened too fast,” Marley was saying, running the edge of the white hospital blanket through her fingers. “Carla is an amazing woman. She seems strong and capable, but she’d only met Aimee for the first time about six months ago. Randolph West had never mentioned a child, but when Carla found out, she insisted on coming down and meeting her granddaughter. Then she hears nothing until a social worker calls in the middle of the night saying she needs to get to Hamilton ASAP.”

  “Family and Children’s Services wanted her to become Aimee’s guardian?”

  “I mean, it took two days of paperwork. They put Aimee in a foster home the first night because Carla had to travel down from Thunder Bay.”

  Devon gave a low whistle. “That’s a hike. What’s that, fifteen hours of driving?”

  “Yeah, and she did half of it by bus,” Marley said. “She’s dedicated to that kid, I know she is. But she doesn’t have a lot of resources. And she’s scared of her son.”

  Devon heard anger and frustration mixed with worry in Marley’s voice. This was a woman who wanted to do right. Always.

  “And you tried to convince people to keep her here in police protection.”

  Marley nodded. “All the intake worker saw was a good fit for Aimee with Carla. I know their caseloads are huge, and a loving grandmother doesn’t always magically show up for kids. I get that it seemed to everyone like a perfect fit.”

  “But not to you,” Devon said.

  “No,” Marley said darkly. “They didn’t listen. Not to Carla’s fear about Randolph West or his reach even up into her northern community. When I tried to talk to the officer in charge, he said West was in jail, how much damage could he do?”

  The question hung in the air between them, the sounds of the hospital playing out in the background.

  “Tell me about Aimee.”

  Marley’s eyes lit up. “She’s smart and funny once she gets to know you and opens up a little. She doesn’t talk. At all. We’re still not sure if she can’t or won’t. She was medically cleared by a doctor when she was brought into custody. The doc suspects selective mutism, possibly caused by trauma.” Marley’s expression darkened again. “They handed Carla recommendations for counseling and some vitamins and sent them on their way.”

  Devon watched the anger play out on Marley’s features. A tightening of her lips, narrowing of her eyes as she stared into her hands, as if she was constantly fighting a battle to right wrongs.

  Devon fought her instinct for only a minute before she spoke.

  “How can I help?”

  Red flag words, Ash had called them. An indicator that circumstances had brought her to the edge of a cliff. You need to know your limits before you ask, Devon recalled Ash saying. Right now, she felt a little reckless using those words sitting in a hospital room with a cop who broke rules to help. But Devon’s gut told her to be part of that help, to be part of whatever Marley was struggling with right now. Red flag words be damned.

  “Groceries,” Marley said. She tucked her dirty blond hair behind her ear and shifted to sit up straighter. “Carla’s worried about Aimee being recognized by Randolph’s guys, so they mostly stay in. I’ve got them in the East end because it’s outside of West’s known territory. But the Hammer’s a small town city, really.”

  “Outside of West’s territory but somewhere you aren’t supposed to be? Somewhere they’d be safest and you’d be at the most risk.”

  Marley looked a little sheepish. “I maybe hadn’t thought that all the way through.”

  Devon laughed, wondering how often those words were true for Marley. She was also wondering how much she wanted to stick around and find out.

  “So, the stabbing had nothing to do with this case.”

  “No,” Marley said firmly. “That was bad luck. Or bad planning.”

  Devon looked into Marley’s earnest, repentant, worried eyes.

  “Tell me what you need me to do.”

  Ten minutes later, Devon left the hospital with a list of groceries, an address, and a selfie of herself and Marley to prove to Carla she could be trusted. In the picture, Marley was holding up a piece of paper with the words “I’m OK. This is Devon. She’s good people” scratched out in pen. Devon had laughed at the time, but as she wound her way down the back stairs of the hospital and out into the mid-July heat on her way to help this virtual stranger continue to break the rules, Devon wasn’
t so sure.

  As Devon bought fresh fruit and vegetables, milk, pasta, and cheese crackers shaped like goldfish, she admitted to herself she’d turned off part of her brain. This was an instinct she needed to follow. And whether it was her instinct to protect or simply the pull of feeling useful after months of feeling alone and helpless, she wasn’t sure.

  The early afternoon sky had cleared from the hazy morning humidity to a searing spectrum of sunlight. Devon transferred the three grocery bags to one sweaty hand and checked the map on her phone. Marley had described the run-down neighbourhood, a mix of convenience stores, repair shops, and a few hole-in-the-wall restaurants. Gentrification was attempting to get a foothold here, but the neighbourhood resisted with its relatively high crime rate and utter refusal to open a halfway decent coffee shop or craft brewery. Marley had managed to rent a studio, listed originally as a possible art studio. Devon found the right entrance and pressed the buzzer for number two.

  Devon heard a clattering of feet on stairs before an admonishing voice gave an indistinct command. She listened hard but couldn’t hear anything for a long minute.

  “My name is Devon Wolfe,” she said through the door. “Your friend asked me to bring you some groceries.”

  A faint shuffling on the other side.

  “I’ve got a picture with a message from Marley, if that helps.”

  Devon had forgotten to ask how Carla and Aimee referred to the cop. But right now shouting Marley’s rank to the whole block seemed like a colossally bad idea.

  The door clicked then opened a few inches. The woman inside was petite, with wavy dark hair and a suspicious expression. Carla.

  Devon smiled but made no movement forward.

  “I’m going to show you a picture from Marley,” Devon said, swiping open her phone and opening the gallery app. She turned it toward the woman, who glanced at it before looking back to Devon.

  “She okay?” Carla said, her voice raspy.

  “She’s okay,” Devon said. “If you’re comfortable, I can bring these groceries up and give you a quick update about what’s happening. If not, I can leave the groceries here. It’s totally up to you.”

  Carla swayed a little, as if she’d been pushed. She glanced down, then looked back at Devon.

  “Yeah, okay. Come in.”

  Carla swung the door open, and Devon caught sight of a young girl stepping into her grandmother’s shadow.

  “This one’s shy,” Carla said, her expression no longer suspiciously hostile but not exactly warm. She put a hand behind her to her granddaughter, then indicated the stairs with her other hand. “First door on your right. I’ll be right behind you, my knees don’t love these stairs.”

  Devon climbed the stairs and entered the beautiful but sparse studio. Tall, thin windows that looked into the alley provided some natural light. Devon made out a floor lamp, two blow-up mattresses, a worn chair, and a bright purple beanbag chair as the only furniture. Some books and games were stacked neatly against one wall. There was a small kitchenette and a half-open door that Devon assumed led to the bathroom.

  “These okay here?” Devon said, indicating the small counter beside the sink. “There are a few things that should go in the fridge.”

  “Yes, thanks,” Carla said, lowering herself into the chair and rubbing at her knees. Aimee shadowed her grandmother, crouching beside the chair so Devon could see the top of her head. “How much do I owe you?”

  Devon opened the fridge and added the fruit, vegetables, and milk. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “I worry,” Carla said sharply. Then, softening her tone a little, “I intend to pay Marley back. I won’t live off charity. Never have.”

  Dignity was at risk here. Carla Slessinger was already sacrificing so much for her granddaughter.

  “It was $28.41, I think,” Devon said. “I wasn’t sure what kind of milk you all liked, so I got two kinds.”

  “That’s all right,” Carla said. “This young one would drink milk all day long if I let her,” she said, smiling. She placed a hand on her granddaughter’s head. Most people didn’t realize how much could be read by touch. The depth of warmth or subtlety of dominance. To Devon, Carla’s touch was one of reassurance. I’m here. You’re okay. I’m here. “Can you write that down, pet?” Carla said to Aimee.

  A small hand reached up to grab a notebook and pen lying on the window ledge. As Devon watched, the hand tapped Carla on the arm twice. Then the hand disappeared, and she heard the pen tap sharply against the paper. Aimee could communicate, obviously.

  Devon made her way slowly into the space, speaking quietly so as not to alarm Aimee.

  “Looks like you’ve got some things in here to keep you entertained,” she commented, looking around the studio and not at Aimee. She wanted her presence to be as non-threatening as possible.

  “We’re lucky,” Carla said. “Marley found us a good space. Going outside more often would certainly be nice. But, well…It’s temporary,” Carla said firmly. She cleared her throat and sat a little straighter in her chair. “Sorry I don’t have a seat to offer.”

  “That’s okay, Carla,” Devon said. Aimee was inching her way to the front of the chair, a quarter of her slight body now visible.

  Carla reached down between the arm of the chair and the seat cushion and pulled out a pack of gum. She popped a piece in her mouth and then, after a double tap of that small hand, handed the pack to Aimee. Once Aimee returned it, Carla offered it to Devon, who declined.

  “So,” Carla said. “What trouble did Marley get into?” The tone sounded tough, but Devon read an undercurrent of worry and guilt. A lot was sitting on this woman’s shoulders.

  Marley and Devon had spoken about what to share with Carla, knowing Aimee would be present for the conversation.

  “Marley was roughed up on Monday morning,” Devon said, deliberately leaving out the fact that it had happened only a few blocks from here. “She ended up with an infection, which she’s fighting, but it’s going to be a few days until she’s moving around freely. So, she told me a little of your story and asked me to step in and help.”

  Carla was clearly evaluating all the gaps in Devon’s story, all the pieces she wasn’t saying.

  “I wish I had my morning paper,” Carla said, snapping her gum with what seemed like annoyance. “Then I’d have some idea what was going on.” She stared at Devon for a few minutes, chewing her gum vigorously. Between the gum and the smoker’s rasp, Devon suspected the young grandmother had recently given up smoking. Maybe even once she took Aimee into her care. Another sacrifice. Another stressor. Carla Slessinger was riddled with them. But right now she seemed most concerned about Marley.

  “You say she’s okay? Recovering?”

  “She is,” Devon said. “Truly. She is going to be okay.”

  Carla gave a sharp nod. “She’s an interesting one, that Marley. I’ve never met a cop quite like her.” Devon silently agreed but allowed the woman to talk without interruption. “Don’t get me wrong, she’s tough. But soft in all the wrong places, somehow, too.”

  An excellent summary of the woman Devon was getting to know. Though she wasn’t yet ready to place a value on her toughness or her softness.

  Aimee reached up yet again and tapped her grandmother on the arm. Carla murmured to her granddaughter, who then held up the notebook. Carla scanned it, squinting, then looked back.

  “You’ll need to come out and ask yourself, my girl,” Carla said, gesturing to Devon.

  Aimee peered around the corner of her grandmother’s chair. Devon smiled and sat on the floor.

  “You’re welcome to ask me anything you like, Aimee. And there’s no hurry.”

  Curiosity soon won out over fear as Aimee emerged. Devon adjusted her original assessment of Aimee as slight. Aimee was small for her age and quite thin. She had her grandmother’s wavy hair, though Aimee’s was brown to Carla’s dyed black. She also had Carla’s wide eyes, but the rest of Aimee’s features were hers alone. Devon had a
moment to wonder about the mother before Aimee began to approach.

  For all her initial hesitancy, Aimee now seemed almost defiant. She stopped in front of Devon and stared for a moment, then walked behind her and reached down, tapping twice on the phone tucked into Devon’s back pocket.

  Curious, Devon pulled out her phone, punched in her passcode, then held it flat on her palm. Aimee leaned in, frowning, as if looking for something. Then she pulled out her notebook and turned it to show Devon. Marley? was written in neat, child-like letters.

  “Ah,” Devon said. She opened her pictures and turned the phone toward Aimee. The girl hesitated, then with Devon’s nod, she picked up the phone and held it carefully, seeming to study the picture.

  Aimee dropped to the floor in a crouch, placing Devon’s phone gently on the ground. Devon watched upside down as Aimee wrote Devon and good people in her notebook. Then she looked back up at Devon, obviously still unconvinced. She gestured at Devon then pointed to her name in the book.

  “Devon,” she said, pronouncing her somewhat unusual name.

  Aimee drew her hands apart, as if she wanted more.

  “Devon Wolfe.”

  An eye roll, and the young girl drew her hands even wider.

  “Dr. Devon Rachelle Wolfe.”

  Aimee recorded this in her notebook and looked again at the picture of Devon and Marley. She tapped her fingers to her ears, then put one finger to her chest and took exaggerated breaths in and out, then pointed at Marley in the picture. She did it again when Devon didn’t respond.

  “I’m not sure what you’re asking,” Devon said, looking over her shoulder at Carla, who shrugged.

  Aimee sighed and circled the word doctor in front of Devon’s name then repeated the gesture to her ears and chest. She was miming a stethoscope.

  “Ah, doctor. You’re wondering if I’m Marley’s doctor.”

  Aimee nodded.

  “No, I just helped her out when she got hurt. A lot of my friends work at that hospital, though. They’re taking good care of her.”

  Aimee cocked her head to the side and repeated the stethoscope gesture.