No such luck.
Detective Kyle Turner’s voice filled the car. “Quinn, you plan on showing up for work today, or what?”
“Oh shut up, Douch—” She clamped her mouth shut. Heat crept up from her collar. She’d been trying to curb her language in front of Wren.
“I heard that,” he chuckled. “You owe me fifty cents.”
“I’m not giving you fifty cents.”
Josie tapped her brakes again as traffic went from two miles per century to a full stop. Another glance at Wren revealed that she was intensely interested in this conversation. Her notebook was closed. In the seven months since Josie and Noah assumed guardianship of Wren after the death of her father, Dexter McMann, she’d met practically everyone in their lives.
Except Turner.
With good reason. He was obnoxious, to say the least. Almost two and a half years ago, Josie and Noah’s colleague, Detective Finn Mettner, had died in the line of duty. Nine months after that, Turner joined the team in his place. He’d been a sourceof nonstop aggravation ever since. His reports were usually late and sloppily written. He disappeared in the middle of shifts without a word. But none of that was as irritating as his constant needling and sexist remarks. Noah had largely rid him of those habits with his behavior modification system.
Jars.
“Don’t even try it, Quinn,” Turner said. “I want that fifty cents.”
“I want a billion dollars and a private island where you’re not welcome,” she shot back. “That’s not happening either.”
Like a bunch of kindergartners, Josie, Gretchen and Turner had jars on their desks at the stationhouse. Every time Turner said something inappropriate; referred to Josie as “sweetheart” or “honey,” or called Gretchen “Parker” instead of her actual name, Palmer, he had to put a dollar in one or both of their jars. In return, any time Josie called him douchebag or Gretchen called him jackass, they owed him a dollar.
Turner huffed. “Remember when we were working that weird-ass polaroid case and youmademe pay you fifty cents for half a ‘sweetheart.’ Half a ‘douchebag’ is the same thing. No double standards. You owe me fifty cents.”
“If I recall…” Josie said, her voice growing irritated because he was right—not that she’d ever admit it—“you only gave me thirty-five cents.”
“Fine, I’ll deduct it from this violation, but you still owe me.”
For a moment, Josie wondered if this was really happening. If they were actual grown-up professionals arguing over thirty-five cents because they couldn’t stop sniping at one another. Another look at Wren confirmed it. She was struggling so badly to hold in her laughter that the skin around her mouth was white. Inwardly, Josie groaned at the absurdity of her life in this moment.
“I’ll collect that when you get here,” Turner said. “If you decide to grace us with your presence.”
“I’d like to grace you with my fist,” Josie mumbled under her breath.
A snort of laughter escaped Wren’s lips. Quickly, she clamped a hand over her mouth. Her brown eyes were wider than Josie had ever seen them. Mouth twitching, Josie worked hard to keep her own smile under wraps. She wanted more than anything to be the person who put smiles on the girl’s face, but the things she said to Turner were probably not the most appropriate way to do that. The whole guardianship thing was still new to her.
“What was that, Quinn?”
“Nothing,” she snapped. “I’m not even late.”
Yet. At the rate they were traveling, she’d miss her shift altogether.
“I thought you were a little overachiever, Quinn,” Turner said. “If you’re not early, you’re late.”
Josie rolled her eyes. “I don’t have time for this. Goodbye, Turner.”
As her finger found the end call icon, traffic finally began to move. A surge of hope rushed through her when the speedometer hit twenty-five miles per hour. She felt Wren’s eyes boring into the side of her face.
“Uh, hello. Are we really not going to talk about that guy?”
“He’s a”—douchebag, dickhead, asshole—“colleague.”
One of Wren’s brows arched. She wrapped a strand of her dark hair around two of her fingers until only the bright red tip showed. “Yeah, I got that. So? What’s the deal with you two? Why is he in your contacts as Douchebag?”
The car in front of them jerked to a stop. Josie followed suit, mentally preparing to be rear-ended as their seat beltscut into them again. Horns blared from behind them, an angry symphony.
Wren didn’t seem to notice at all, still waiting for an answer, the grim expression of grief she usually wore around Josie and Noah momentarily gone. Lately, they’d been getting more glimpses of the girl she showed to everyone else, the girl Josie imagined she was before Dex died and left her all alone in the world. Someone bright, inquisitive, kind, and wickedly funny. Every peek into the person she was under the heavy, cloying layers of grief was like a shot of pure bliss to Josie’s heart. More than anything in the world, Josie wanted to protect Wren and help her navigate through her loss to a place where she could experience peace and joy again. She’d been so shut down since she came to them. Therapy and the efforts of Josie and Noah’s friends and family had helped brighten Wren’s demeanor. Still, in many ways, the girl was unreachable, leaving Josie with a pressing need to nurture any spark of interest in her new life and in Josie and Noah, even if it meant discussing Turner.
