out.
‘That’s not what I-’
‘It’s never what you meant. But that never stops you from saying things, does it?’ Courtney fixed him a sharp look. ‘You know what I can never get over? How you just let go of her so easy. Just, snap, like that. Like she was nothing.’
‘Nothing was nothing, Courtney. Believe me.’
‘Would you get over me that easy, too?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘What about today?’ She moved closer to him, her angry face growing even tighter. ‘You never even came after me, to see where I was. To see if I was okay. For all you know I could’ve been one of those kids-’
‘That’s enough.’ He moved forward, so quickly he backed Courtney up towards the wall. ‘Don’t you ever give me that crap — not now, not ever. I knew where you’d gone. Other kids had seen you on the bus. And I had confirmation you were okay. And still I kept trying to reach you all goddam day. Patrol went by the house three times, I sent Sheila to Metrotown, and I called your cell over twenty goddam times.’
She looked away, wouldn’t meet his eyes.
‘You were screening your calls again, weren’t you, Courtney? Don’t think I don’t know that. You were screening your calls because you didn’t want to get shit on for skipping school again. I couldn’t even leave a message!’
Courtney sucked on her upper lip, said nothing. The fire in her eyes went out as quickly as a blown match. She looked down at the ground, her long hair falling around her face. When she spoke again, her voice was resigned.
‘I wasn’t screening my calls, Dad. The phone died.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Don’t believe me?’
‘You still managed to change your voice message. Three times.’
‘It’s set on random.’
‘Random?’
‘I’ve got a few different voice messages — all Britney stuff. They cycle automatically.’
Striker said nothing at first. He just let out a long breath, rubbed a hand over his face, felt like collapsing.
‘Christ,’ was all he managed to say.
‘I’m sorry, Dad,’ Courtney said. ‘I had no idea. Really. I had no … no…’
She covered her face and stifled a sob, and all at once, the frustration and anger Striker felt vanished and was replaced by the usual grief and guilt. His heart plummeted in his chest. He wrapped his arms around Courtney for the second time and kissed her on the top of her head, and wished to God things could go back to the way they had been years ago.
Before Amanda died.
Finally, it was Striker who spoke.
‘Sometimes I think I got over your mother quicker than you did because you’re so much like her. I still feel like she’s around whenever I’m with you.’ He looked intently into her hurting, wide-eyed face. Made sure she saw the seriousness he felt. ‘You know that I would never abandon you, Courtney. Not for a millisecond.’
‘I know that, Dad.’
‘I only kept looking for the gunmen because I knew you were all right.’
‘I know.’
‘And because I believed that if they weren’t found — and soon — more kids would die.’
‘Dad, I know. I’m just… so tired. Stressed. God, I think I will go to bed. For the night. I’m just so exhausted.’
She gave him another hug and a soft kiss on the cheek, and when she went to let go of him, he held on for a while longer. Finally, when he did let go, she turned and headed for the bedroom. After ten steps, she stopped and looked back at him.
‘You eaten yet?’
‘I can make myself dinner, Pumpkin.’
She laughed. ‘Right. Pork and Beans or Chef Boyardee?’
‘Better than that — Nutella.’
She grinned. ‘I don’t mind cooking you that fish.’
‘Get some sleep, Pumpkin.’
She delayed. ‘Promise me you’ll eat something healthy.’
He held up a hand, as if pledging allegiance. ‘Everything I hate and more.’
‘Love you, Dad,’ she said, then slowly walked down the hall.
Striker watched her go, feeling as useless and ineffective as he had after Amanda had died. In five minutes he’d gone from feelings of love to rage to betrayal — and now he was back at love again. Intertwined with a lot of guilt. Sometimes he felt like his emotions were an endless ocean, and he was a wayward buoy floating up and down on the rough waters, being dragged wherever the currents took him.
And usually those currents were unpredictable and dangerous.
‘I love you, Courtney,’ he said.
But the room was empty.
Twenty-Six
When Felicia unexpectedly arrived, the night was darker than a day-old bruise. The icy rain had stopped, but the wind continued — a vocal force battering every window of the house. Striker heard the soft roar of a patrol car out front — those Crown Vics had a distinctive rumble — and saw the quick flash of halogen headlights as they beamed across the bay window.
He struggled to get up from the couch and looked out the window just in time to see Felicia trudge up the walkway, her pretty Spanish face caught in the soft glow of the exterior lights.
She looked tired, depleted. Hell, she was threadbare.
And yet she was always beautiful. Striker saw that every time he looked at her. At times like this, he berated himself for ending their relationship and letting her go six months ago.
It had been a complicated time, he told himself.
A necessary decision. It was for the best.
There were a hundred more cliches he could dredge up, but none of them were true. And none made him feel any better.
Felicia reached the front door, and instead of rapping softly on the wood, she leaned around the railing and peeked inside the bay window. Dark hair framed her dark eyes. She saw Striker and a warm smile spread her wide lips.
‘Amway calling!’
He moved to the foyer and opened the door. A large gust of wind snuck inside the house. It swept right through him, and he shivered. Felicia stepped inside the foyer, hugging herself to keep warm, and kicked the door closed with the heel of her boot.
Striker smiled at her. ‘What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?’
Felicia looked over her shoulder. ‘I don’t see any nice girls in here.’ She grinned. ‘You like my Amway joke?’
‘Would’ve preferred Watchtower.’
She raised an eyebrow, and the two of them just stood there looking at one another. It was a fleeting moment, and it struck Striker as funny, how they could be so different outside of work, where they were often at each other’s throats.
‘So we gonna stand here trading one-liners all night, or you gonna invite me in?’ she finally asked.
