Haunted (Michael Bennett 10)

“Better?” Bree asked.

“Perfect,” I said, and opened our bedroom door.

The three other bedrooms off the second-floor landing were open and dark. We went downstairs. My family was gathered in the kitchen. Nana Mama, my ninety-two-year-old grandmother. Damon, my oldest son, down from Johns Hopkins. Jannie, my high school junior and running star. And Ali, my precocious nine-year-old. They were all dressed for a funeral.

Ali saw me and broke into tears. He ran over and hugged my legs.

“Hey, hey,” I said, stroking his head.

“It’s not fair,” Ali sobbed. “It’s not true what they’re saying.”

“’Course it’s not,” Nana Mama said. “We’ve just got to ignore them in the meantime. Sticks and stones.”

“Words can hurt, Nana,” Jannie said. “I know what he’s feeling. You should see the stuff on social media.”

“Ignore it,” Bree said. “We’re standing by your father. Family first.”

She squeezed my hand.

“Let’s do it then,” I said. “Heads high. Don’t engage.”

Nana Mama picked up her purse and said, “I’d like to engage. I’d like to put a frying pan in here and clobber one of them with it.”

Ali stopped sniffling and started to laugh. “Want me to get one, Nana?”

“Next time. And only if I’m provoked.”

“God help them if you are, Nana,” Damon said, and we all laughed.

Feeling a little better, I checked my watch. Quarter to eight.

“Here we go,” I said, and went through the house.

I stopped at the front door, listening to my family lining up behind me.

Taking a deep breath, rolling my shoulders back like a marine at attention, I twisted the knob, swung open the door, and stepped out onto my front porch.

“It’s him!” a woman cried.

Klieg lights blazed to life as a roar of shouts erupted from the mob of media vultures and haters packing the sidewalks below our front porch and across Fifth Street in southeast Washington, DC.

There were fifteen, twenty of them, some carrying cameras and mikes, others carrying signs condemning me, all hurling questions and curses my way. It was such a madhouse I couldn’t hear what any of them was saying clearly. Then one guy with a baritone voice bellowed out loud enough to be heard over the din.

“Are you guilty, Dr. Cross?” he shouted. “Did you shoot those people down in cold blood?”

A black Suburban with tinted windows rolled up in front of my house.

“Stay close,” I said, ignoring the shouted questions and pointing to Damon. “Help Nana Mama, please.”

My oldest came to my grandmother’s side, and we all moved as one tight unit down the stairs onto the sidewalk.

A reporter shoved a microphone in my face and shouted, “Dr. Cross, how many times have you drawn your weapon in the course of duty?”

I had no idea, so I ignored him, but Nana Mama snapped, “How many times have you asked a stupid question in the pursuit of idiocy?”

After that, it took everything in me to tune it all out as we crossed the sidewalk to the Suburban. I helped the rest of my family inside the SUV, climbed up front, and shut the door.

Nana Mama let out a long breath.