Memphis’s shoulders dropped, and he stopped pacing, looking Preacher dead in the eye. “What’d you go to prison for?”
“Murder.”
Memphis toed at a scuff mark on the floor with his sneaker. “Who’d you kill?”
“Somebody who deserved it,” Preacher said.
Memphis’s hand went to his mouth, and he gnawed on his thumbnail with his perfectly white teeth. “Are you sorry?”
Preacher shook his head. “Can’t say I am. No.”
Memphis nodded, refusing to be still.
Something about Memphis’s frenetic movements made Preacher want to wrap his arms around him and force him to halt. He wanted to tell him that nothing would happen to either of them while Preacher was there. It was a strange thing, to feel so connected to two strangers, but he recognized himself in them. Saw the same exhaustion behind both of their gazes, the kind that came from never knowing what would happen next, what words, what joke, what minor infraction would set off their abuser. Knox had it all the time, but Preacher couldn’t help but wonder about Memphis. What was he like back in his little flower shop? Was he relaxed? Did he smile? Make jokes? Was he funny? Did he have somebody back home who made him laugh or held him when he cried?
None of that was any of Preacher’s fucking business. “Have you spoken to the police yet?”
Once more, Memphis hunched in on himself, his look almost petulant. “I’m not talking to the Rexford police. They all work for Tennessee.”
“It’s the Palm Valley police that are working the case. They’ll want to talk to you.”
Memphis shrugged. “Then they can come here. I’m not leaving Knox alone.”
There was no point in arguing. Memphis was clearly stubborn.
Preacher picked up his phone and typed out a message before dropping it back in his pocket. They sat in silence, watching Knox play his video game for the next hour or so, Memphis only sitting down once Preacher stood to stretch his back. He was too old to be sitting in that shitty chair for a whole day. The night nurse, an older Filipino woman named Annie, had offered to bring him a cot, but he’d refused. He hadn’t wanted to sleep, just watch over Knox as the boy had fallen into a restless slumber.
An hour passed without either of them saying a word, but when a large frame filled the doorway of the hospital, all three of them turned towards the visitor. Well, visitors. Memphis once more jumped up, but Preacher put a hand on his. “Relax, they’re with me. Memphis, this giant here is Cy Whitaker, and the guy lurking behind him is his husband, Nicholas Webster. We call him Nicky.”
“What do you mean they’re with you?” Memphis asked.
“That organization I told you about? Nicky runs it with a woman named Pam—”
“Pam’s nice. She gave me ice cream,” Knox interrupted, pausing his game to wave at Cy.
Preacher smiled. “Yeah, she is nice. You remember Cy, don’t you, Knox?”
“Yeah. He ripped my chain out of the wall with his bare hands,” Knox said, looking at Cy like he thought he might secretly have superpowers.
Preacher leaned into Knox’s space just enough for the boy to see his face. “Your brother and I have to go talk to those officers you spoke with yesterday. Do you think it would be alright if Cy and Nicky kept you company until we returned?”
Memphis shot a sharp look at Preacher. “What? No way. I’m not leaving my brother.”
“The sooner you talk to the police, the sooner we can get you appointed as his temporary guardian and keep him out of foster care,” Nicky said. “That way, when he gets out of the hospital, you can take him straight home until we get some things sorted on a more permanent basis. That’s what you want, isn’t it? For Knox to be able to stay with you?”
Memphis gave a stilted nod, looking at Knox. “Is that alright? Can Cy and Nicky keep you company while I’m gone?” he asked, echoing Preacher’s words.
Knox shrugged. “I don’t care.”
Preacher didn’t miss the hurt look that crossed Memphis’s face at Knox’s casual dismissal. “We’ll be back real soon, okay?”
The boy didn’t even respond, pretending to be absorbed in his video game. Preacher gestured towards the door, nodding at Nicky and Cy as he left.
* * *
Palm Valley police station wasn’t more than a ten minute drive, but the silence filling the cab of Preacher’s old Chevy made it feel like the green mile. The police department didn’t look like the ones in Los Angeles. This one was a shiny modern building with tan stucco walls, brown trim, and large windows that let the sunlight in. Date palms surrounded the building, and a modern looking sign announced that the police shared the complex with the fire department, the courthouse, and the tax collector.
Once they were signed in, Detectives Desiree Manchester and Phil “Yes, that’s my real name” Filmore came out to greet them. Manchester had tan skin and wild dark curls that were almost blonde at the ends. She dressed in all black, like she was going to a funeral, the only color the badge on a lanyard around her neck. Filmore was older but fit, good looking aside from his rapidly receding hairline that left him bald at the top with hair only clinging to the sides of his head.
