I smile at him despite the wail of panic going on inside me. “Officer. How can I help you?”
“Hi, Ms. Proctor, right? Sorry to drop in like this. My son told me your boy lost this on the bus today. I figured I’d return it.” He hands over a small silver flip phone. Connor’s, I recognize it instantly. I color-code the kids’ phones, so they don’t mix them up and I can tell at a glance which is which. I feel a flash of anger at my son for being careless, and then one of real fear. Losing a phone means losing our tight control of information, though the only numbers he has programmed in are to his friends here, to me, and to Lanny. Still. It’s a breach in our wall. A lapse of attention.
I don’t say anything in a timely fashion, not even thank you, and Officer Graham shifts a little. He has a strong-boned face, clear brown eyes, and an awkward little smile. “I’ve been meaning to stop over and say hello. But look, if this is a bad time—”
“No, no, of course not, I’m sorry, I—I mean, thank you for returning this.” Lanny has reached forward and paused the movie by now, and I step aside to let him come in. As he does, I shut the door and, by sheer reflex, rearm the system. “Can I offer you some refreshment? It’s Officer Graham, right?”
“Lancel Graham, yes, ma’am. Lance, if we’re not being fancy.” He has a solid, old-school Tennessee accent, the kind that comes from never venturing far from your doorstep. “If you’ve got some iced tea, that’d go down nice.”
“Of course. Sweet tea?”
“Is there any other kind?” He has his hat off immediately and self-consciously rubs his head, disordering his hair. “Sounds wonderful. I’ve had a long, thirsty day.”
I’m not used to liking someone instinctively, and he seems to be working hard to charm me. It puts me on my guard. He’s going out of his way to be polite, respectful, and he has a way of carrying himself that minimizes his broad frame and muscles. Probably damn good at his job. There’s a certain timbre in his voice; he can probably talk down an angry suspect without laying a finger on anyone. I don’t trust snake charmers . . . but I like the easy smile he gives my kids. That goes a long way.
It occurs to me then that I should be damn grateful that it’s a cop who’s brought back this phone. It’s password-protected, of course, but in the wrong hands, knowledgeable hands, it could have done damage. “Thanks so much for returning Connor’s phone,” I say as I pour Officer Graham iced tea from a pitcher in the fridge. “I swear, he’s never lost it before. I’m glad your son found it and knew who it belonged to.”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” my son says from the couch. He sounds subdued and anxious. “I didn’t mean to lose it. I didn’t know it was gone!”
Most tweens, I think, would miss their phone if parted from it for thirty seconds, but my kids are forced to live in an alien world, one where they can’t use their phones for much beyond the basics. No such thing as smartphones, to them. Of the two of the kids, I’d have said Connor was more into the tech; he had buddies, geeky buddies, who texted him, at least. Lanny was . . . less social.
“It’s okay,” I tell him and mean it, because, God, I’d busted on my poor son enough for a lifetime this week. Yes, he’d forgotten to set the alarm. Yes, he’d lost his phone. But that was normal life. I needed to ease up and stop acting like every single lapse was lethal. It was stressing me, and all of us, out.
Officer Graham perches on one of the barstools at the counter to sip his tea. He looks comfortable enough and gives me a friendly grin as he raises eyebrows in appreciation. “Good tea, ma’am,” he says. “Hot day out in the squad car. I can tell you this goes down well.”
“Anytime, and please, call me Gwen. We’re neighbors, right? And your sons are Connor’s friends?”
I glance at Connor as I say it, but his expression is closed. He is turning his phone over and over in his hands. I think with a stab of guilt that he is probably worried what kind of rant I’ll tear off on once the company is gone. It comes to me with ruthless clarity that I’ve been far too militant with my kids. We’ve finally settled in a nice place, surrounded by peace. We don’t have to act like hunted animals now. There are eight broken trails between the address the troll discovered online and us. Eight. It’s time to stand down from red alert, before I damage my kids irreparably.
Lancel Graham is looking around the place now with a curious expression. “You’ve sure done a great job with this house,” he says. “I was told it got trashed, right? After the foreclosure?”
“God, it was a total mess,” Lanny says, which startles me; she usually isn’t one to voluntarily jump into a conversation with a stranger. Especially a uniformed one. “They destroyed everything they could. You should have seen the bathrooms. Utterly gross. We had to wear white plastic suits and face masks to even go in there. I puked for days.”
“Must have been kids partying here, then,” Graham says. “Squatters would have had a little more care for the place, unless they were high all the time. Speaking of that, I should tell you that even out here, we have our own drug problems. Still some meth cooking going on up in the hills, but mainly the big business is heroin these days. And Oxy. So you keep an eye out. Never know who’s using or pushing.” He pauses in the act of raising his glass to his lips. “You didn’t find any drugs in here when you were clearing up?”
“Whatever we found, we tossed,” I tell him, which is entirely true. “I didn’t open any boxes or bags. Everything went out that wasn’t nailed down, and half of that we pried up and replaced. I doubt there’s anything hidden around here now.”
“Good,” he says. “Good. Well, that’s most of my job around here in Norton. Drugs and drug-related robberies, some drunk driving. Not a lot of violent crimes, thankfully. You came to a good place, Ms. Proct—Gwen.”
Except for the heroin epidemic, I think but don’t say. “Well, it’s always nice to meet neighbors. Strong ties make the community better, right?”
“Right.” He drains his tea, stands, and pulls a card from his pocket, which he lays down on the counter and taps with two fingers, as if nailing it in place. “My numbers are on there. Work and cell. You have any trouble, any of you, don’t be afraid to call, okay?”
“We will,” Lanny says, before I can, and I see that she’s studying Officer Graham with a shine in her eyes. I resist the urge to sigh. She’s fourteen. Crushes are inevitable, and he looks like the poster child for what workouts can do. “Thanks, Officer.”
“Sure thing, Miss—”
“Atlanta,” she tells him, and stands up to offer her hand. He gravely shakes it. She never calls herself Atlanta, I think, and nearly choke on my sweet tea.
“Pleased to meet you.” Graham turns and shakes Connor’s hand, too. “And you’re Connor, of course. I’ll tell my boys you said hi.”
“Okay.” Connor, by contrast to his sister, is quiet. Watchful. Reserved. Still holding on to his phone.
Graham puts his hat back on and shakes my hand last of all; then I walk him to the door. He turns, as if he’s forgotten something, while I’m disarming the alarm to let him out. “I heard you go to the range, Gwen. You keep your guns here?”
“Mostly,” I say. “Don’t worry. They’re all in gun safes.”
“And believe me, we know gun safety,” Lanny says, rolling her eyes.
“I’ll bet you’re both good shots,” he says. I don’t like the quick brother-sister look Connor and Lanny exchange; the fact that I’ve not allowed them to touch my guns, or to learn to shoot, is a constant bone of contention between us. It’s bad enough that I run panic drills in the middle of the night. I don’t want to add loaded weapons to the mix. “I’m there evenings on Thursdays and Saturdays. I’m teaching my boys.”
It isn’t quite an invitation, but I nod and thank him, and he’s on his way in another few seconds. He stops in the open door again and looks at me. “Can I ask you something, Ms. Proctor?”