Chapter One
Slade
The phone vibrates against the kitchen counter, cutting through the silence. I wipe my hands on a dish towel, the faint scent of motor oil still clinging to my skin from the garage, and glance at the screen.Local PD. I already know what this is before I answer.
“Slade,” I say, voice flat, pressing the phone to my ear as I lean back against the counter.
“Slade, it’s Paul.” The officer’s tone is tired but familiar, the kind of weary patience you earn after too many late-night calls about the same damn kid. “Andrew’s been picked up.”
I roll my eyes so hard it almost hurts, exhaling through my nose. No son of mine would be sitting in a holding cell for the third time this year. But he isn’t my son, is he? Just the nineteen-year-old leftover from a marriage that went sour years ago, when his mother decided she’d rather chase whatever thrill was waiting two states over, than stick around and raise the boy she’d brought into my house. I could’ve walked away then; should’ve, maybe. Instead, I’d looked at that scrawny,angry kid with his too-big mouth and decided I wasn’t going to be another adult who bailed on him.
“What is it this time, Paul?” I ask, already walking out into the hall, and reaching for my keys on the hook by the door. The metal feels cool and familiar in my palm, a small anchor against the irritation rising in my chest.
Paul sighs on the other end, the sound crackling through the line. “Found him and another teenager behind the old mill, fists flying. Both of ’em had stolen goods on them… cigarettes, beer, some cash from the Gas ’n Sip down the road. You know the drill, Slade. They’re both cooling off in holding.”
The words hit like a dull punch to the ribs. I picture Andrew the way I last saw him this morning… restless, that sharp jaw clenched like he was spoiling for a fight, his dark hair falling into eyes that always seemed to dare me to look away first. Nineteen, all mouth and attitude, the kind of kid who never learned when to shut the hell up. And now he’s out there scrapping with some other punk from town, fists flying, probably running his mouth the whole damn time.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, a headache already blooming behind my eyes. “Yeah. Another five hundred dollars out of my pocket, easy. I’m glad we don’t live in a big city, or I’d be bankrupt from this kid by now.”
Paul chuckles, but it’s without much humour. “Listen, Slade… have you considered getting him some help? A therapist, anger management, something? One more strike and this stops being kid stuff. Next time it could be a felony. Real jail time. He’s nineteen, the system won’t keep cutting him slack forever.”
The words settle like lead in my stomach. I run a hand down my face, the rough scrape of stubble loud in the quiet. The house feels too empty suddenly, too still without Andrew’s usual chaos filling the corners… his music thumping from upstairs, the way he slams cabinets like they owe him money, that smirk he flashes when he knows he’s pushing every one of my buttons.
“Yeah,” I mutter, voice lower than I intend. “I’m gonna have to have a serious conversation with him. This can’t carry on. And thanks, Paul… I know you’ve gone easy on him. I understand this is his last warning.”
“See you soon,” Paul says, and the line goes dead.
I stand here for a long moment, keys biting into my palm, the weight of the evening pressing down on me. Another night at the station. Another bail to post. Another ride home where I’ll have to fight the urge to shake some sense into the boy who’s been testing every limit I have left.
I grab my jacket and head for the door. The engine of my truck roaring to life a minute later as I pull out into the night.
The road to the station stretches dark and familiar, but tonight it feels heavier, charged with the kind of tension that’s been building for months.
Andrew’s waiting. And this time, when I get him home, things are going to be different.
…
The station lights buzz overhead as I push through the glass doors. Even for a small town, the place is busier than it should be on a Friday night… phones ringing, keyboards clacking, and the low murmur of voices that never quite settle. It doesn’t stop the criminals, apparently.
A guy in his fifties is slumped against the front counter, embarrassingly drunk, slurring vile words at a female officer who’s trying to keep her professional mask intact. Before it escalates, the captain steps in, voice sharp and final. Off to the side, a young woman covered in tattoos sits handcuffed to a desk, staring blankly at the floor like she’s already accepted her night isn’t getting any better.
I hate coming here. It’s been too much lately, too many trips that blur together. Andrew didn’t used to be like this. He was a decent kid when his mom was still around, quiet, almost sweet in that awkward teenage way. But the day Lorna packed her bags and left without so much as a backward glance, something in him cracked. He’s been slowly unravelling ever since, like he’s decided there’s no point trying anymore, or maybe that he’s not wanted by anyone. Well, what the hell does he call me sticking around year after year, cleaning up his messes, paying his way, refusing to walk out like she did?
I spot Paul near the back and give him a tight smile, the kind that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Well… I’m here.”
Paul pats my shoulder with that sympathetic grip he’s perfected. “You’re not alone, Slade. Unfortunately, we seea lot of teenagers like Andrew these days. And… you and I both know this is because Lorna left.”
I nod, jaw tight. “Yeah. Well… can’t change the past. But I plan to change his future.”
Paul nods back, respect flickering in his expression. “You’re a good man for sticking by the kid, Slade.”
“Thanks,” I mutter, nodding respectfully as the weight of his words settles uncomfortably on my chest.
The bail process is routine by now, almost mechanical. I hand over my card at the window, sign the paperwork without really reading it… another five hundred dollars gone, just like that. The clerk slides the receipt across the counter with a sympathetic glance I don’t want. I tuck it into my wallet and step aside, the fluorescent lights suddenly too bright, the air too thick with the smell of stale coffee and desperation.
I pace the narrow hallway while Paul goes to fetch him, boots echoing against the linoleum. My hands flex at my sides, irritation coiling tighter with every step.
Paul finally appears with Andrew in tow, like he’s handing over a lost puppy. “Here you go, Drew.”
