It was painful, but he had to do it.

So he bit back the laughter that left a different ache in his gut.

“Not a rule, but definitely frowned on to bust a gut laughin’ while standin’ in the yard of a grieving sister whose curb has become a murder scene,” he informed her.

“Oops, sorry,” she muttered. “I’ll curtail my comic genius until a more appropriate time.”

“How about startin’ that now?” he suggested, turning his back on the street so no one could see the smile he couldn’t beat back.

“Right.”

“Get Ethan safe to school,” he ordered.

“Definitely. ’Bye, gorgeous.”

“Later, brown eyes.”

He disconnected, turned, and headed across the yard to his partner, his colleagues, and a dead woman in a compact car.

* * * * *

Forty-five Minutes Later

Before Garrett got in his truck to leave the scene and meet Mike at the station, he stood outside it, watching the ME van rolling away with Wendy Derian in a body bag in the back at the same time their tow guy was hooking up the Fiesta.

He did this with his phone to his ear.

He listened to it ring and he kept hold of his shit as it kept ringing until he got Ryker’s voicemail.

“By now, you’ve probably heard that Jaden Cutler’s girl took three. She just rolled away in the back of the ME’s van. You also probably get that this does not make me happy. And I’m guessin’ you get that your continued disappearing act is making me less happy. You know dick about this, Ryker, you better fuckin’ come forward. You got friends. They give a shit. They’d cover your ass on a lot, and you know this because we’ve already done that. But now a woman’s dead.” He drew in breath and finished, “I think you get me.”

He disconnected.

Then he swung into his truck.

* * * * *

Cher

I sat across from Ethan and watched him wolf down three soft-boiled eggs crunched in with saltine crackers, a touch of butter, and some salt and pepper.

Something my mother made me eat when I was a kid that I detested.

Something that I’d tried on my kid when it became clear he liked everything that could be considered food, as long as it had only so much nutritional value.

He loved it. He called it my “breakfast specialty.”

I could make it, but once made, I could barely look at it.

“Kid,” I called.

“Yo,” he said, eyes to his bowl, mouth full and getting fuller since he was shoveling bright yellow, slimy cracker goo in it.

I made a face.

He looked to me.

“What?” he asked.

We had important shit to talk about. I had to get past the egg goo.

“You remember that conversation we had not too long ago about you growin’ up and me needin’ to have a mind to that?” I asked back.

He slouched in his chair, fleeting panic racing across his face as he said, “God, Dad. What’d he do now?”