I waited, letting him decide if he wanted to fill in the blanks.
He hesitated, then said, “They’re not going to stop. Not unless someone puts them down for good.”
There was a weird tenderness in the way he said it. Like he wasn’t just talking about violence, but about what he owed his people, his dead mother, the hole in his life he kept trying to fill with loyalty and pain.
I put a hand on his wrist, thumb tracing the rough patch of skin above the pulse. “Just come back in one piece,” I said.
He didn’t smile, but his whole body eased, like someone had taken off a heavy pack. “That’s the plan,” he said.
I squeezed his hand, then let go. “I’ll be here.”
He slung his cut over his shoulder, the leather stiff with dried sweat. He paused at the door, then turned back.
“Don’t watch the news,” he said. “If anything goes wrong, I’ll let you know myself.”
I nodded, not trusting my voice.
He left, boots heavy on the stairs. The apartment was quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the soft, wet breathing of the dog at my feet.
I looked at the blank TV, then at the old photos on my fridge—rescued mutts, kittens with torn ears, my own face at age twelve, bruised but smiling.
I understood rules, and I understood revenge. I just didn’t know where I fit in between the two.
I poured another mug of coffee and sat at the table, watching the sunlight crawl across the linoleum, and waited for the day to start.
***
The morning at the shelter started like any other—bleach stinging the air, a chorus of barking rising in sync with the sun, a parade of half-mad volunteers jostling for coffeebefore facing the first round of animal disasters. I’d only slept an hour, but the exhaustion ran deeper, a bone-sick fatigue I couldn’t bleach out of my head.
I went kennel by kennel, scraping up last night’s shit and refilling water bowls. The dogs were amped from the overnight storm, every shadow sending the anxious ones into a panic spiral. Sergeant, the blocky brown pit bull Dean had saved from euthanasia, followed me with a slow, loping limp, nosing my thigh every time I stopped moving. I paused now and then to scratch the velvety space behind her ear—the spot where she still bore a line of puncture scars—and let her calm my nerves for a minute before moving on.
I’d finished half the runs and was scrubbing at a stubborn bloodstain on the cinderblock when I heard the lobby door buzz. A voice filtered through the PA, low and bored, “Emily Ray to the front, please. Visitor for you.”
I rinsed my hands, then headed for the desk, bracing for whatever fresh disaster had shuffled through the door.
Officer Reyes waited at the reception, leaning over the donation jar like he might slip a five into it if no one was watching. He wore the uniform loose, sleeves rolled, a day’s stubble shadowing his jaw. I’d seen him a dozen times—sometimes here, sometimes at the bar down the street, once at a feral cat call where he’d trapped theanimal in his own bomber jacket rather than wait for animal control.
He smiled, but not with his eyes. “Morning, Em. Hell of a night.”
I nodded, feeling the salt and bleach still caked under my nails. “Always is. What’s up?”
He tapped the rim of the jar. “You got a minute?”
I glanced at the logbook, then at the clock. “Sure.”
He looked past me, scanning the chaos—volunteers corralling puppies, an old lady arguing about vaccination records. “You hear about the fight last night? Three in the hospital.”
I played dumb. “Heard the ambulance sirens. Didn’t think it was a big deal.”
He grinned, showing crooked teeth. “It’s a big deal if it happens in your backyard.” He paused, waiting for a response. When I didn’t give one, he continued. “Word is, it was the Sultans. You know anyone caught up in that mess?”
I kept my face neutral, something I’d practiced after a hundred bad home visits. “Nobody I’d call a friend.”
He raised an eyebrow, just a little. “No? Thought you might, given your… associations.” He let the word dangle, then softened. “Look, I’m not here to hassle you. Just doing a little follow-up.”
I braced one hand on the counter, felt the stickiness of spilled coffee. “I’m not involved. And I don’t know who was.”
He studied me, weighing the lie. “The biker crowd can be rough,” he said, as if we were talking about pit bulls and not actual people. “You ever worry about getting dragged into something?”
