Heart Bones

I’ve never felt more appreciated than I feel right now. Not only appreciated, but savored. Respected. Wanted.

Maybe even loved.

TWENTY-THREE

“I’m so sorry.”

Samson’s words feel like concrete moving through me. I haven’t even opened my eyes yet, but his voice sounded more regretful than any sound I’ve ever heard.

Was it a dream?

A nightmare?

I reach to his pillow and open my eyes, but find nothing. I fell asleep wrapped around him, but now he’s gone and my arms are empty. When I roll over and look toward his bedroom door, I see him. His hands are behind his back. There’s a police officer gripping his arm, shoving him out of the bedroom.

I sit up immediately. “Samson?”

It isn’t until I say his name that I see another officer on the other side of the bed, her hand on her hip, touching her gun. I pull the covers up over my chest. She can see the fear in my eyes, so she raises a hand. “You can get dressed, but move slowly.”

My pulse is racing as I try to make sense of what’s happening. The officer reaches to the floor and tosses me my shirt. My hands are shaking as I try to put it on under the covers. “What’s going on?”

“I need you to come downstairs with me,” the officer says.

Oh my God, what is happening? How can the night go from us making love to Samson being handcuffed? This has to be some kind of mistake. Or a cruel joke. It can’t be real.

“We didn’t do anything wrong.” I get out of the bed and look for my shorts. I can’t even remember where they are, but I don’t have time to look for them. I need to stop them from taking Samson.

I rush to the door and the officer says, “Stop!”

I pause and look back at her.

“You need to finish getting dressed. There are other people downstairs.”

Other people?

Maybe there was a break-in. Maybe they’re confusing Samson for someone else. Or maybe someone found out what he did with Rake’s remains.

Is that what this is about?

That thought makes me panic, because I was there. I saw what he did and I failed to report it, which makes me just as guilty as Samson.

The officer exits the bedroom while I’m pulling on my shorts. She waits and then walks behind me while I head for the stairs. When I emerge into the living room, there are two more police officers standing in Samson’s living room.

“What is happening?” I whisper to myself. I look outside and the sun hasn’t even risen yet, which means it’s still the middle of the night. Samson and I fell asleep after midnight.

I glance at the clock on the wall. It reads 2:30 in the morning.

“Have a seat,” the female officer says.

“Am I being arrested?”

“No. We just have some questions.”

I’m scared now. I don’t know where they took Samson. “I want my father. We live in the house next door. Can someone please tell him what’s going on?”

She nods at one of the officers and he exits the house.

“Where is Samson?” I ask.

“Is that the name he gave you?” The officer pulls out a notepad and writes something down.

“Yes. Shawn Samson. This is his house and you just took him out of his own bed in the middle of the night.”

The front door opens and a different officer walks in, followed by a man holding a child. The man is followed by a woman. It must be his wife, because she clings to him as soon as they get inside.

Why are there so many people here?

The woman looks familiar, but I can’t place her. She looks like she’s been crying. The man is eyeing me suspiciously as he hands his child over to his wife.

“How long have you been staying here?” the officer asks.

I shake my head. “I don’t. I live next door.”

“How are you and the young man acquainted?”

I feel dizzy and scared, and I wish my father would hurry up. I don’t like these questions. I want to know where Samson is. Do I need a lawyer? Does Samson?

“How did you get in?” This question comes from the man who was holding the child.

“Get in?”

“Our house,” he says.

His house?

I look at his wife. I look at the child. I immediately look at the picture frame by the door. That picture is of her. And the little boy in the picture is in her arms.

“This is your house?” I ask the man.

“Yes.”

“You own it?”

“Yes.”

“Is Samson your son?”

The man shakes his head. “We don’t know him.”

I look back at the picture. The one Samson said was of him and his mother. Did he lie about that, too?

I’m shaking my head in complete and utter confusion when my father rushes through the door. “Beyah?” He glides across the room, but comes to a halt when one of the officers puts a hand on his shoulder and steps between us.