Scratch the Surface

And so my best friend since elementary school reached out and put a burp cloth on the right shoulder of my brown tweed suit jacket, passed me his second-born son, picked up his firstborn, and turned toward the kitchen. I had closed the front door, dumped my laptop bag on the bench in the hall, and followed after him, as I’d been doing since we were both eight. At least one good thing had come of the chaos.

“Derek was never my best friend,” I told my father.

“Yes, I know,” he replied drolly. “You were confused about a lot of things when you and Troy were together.”

I nodded in agreement.

“So what’s this guy’s name?” my father asked, changing the subject to a happier one.

“Jeremiah,” I replied, smiling at him.

“Good name,” he assured me. “When can I meet him?”

I shook my head. “We’re not at the meeting-my-parents stage yet.”

“No? With that smile when you say his name?”

“No.”

“What about Thanksgiving?”

I squinted at him.

“It’s what, two, two and a half weeks away? Why don’t you invite him?”

That was far too fast, and yet I couldn’t imagine anything better. “I’ll think about it.”

“Good,” my father grunted, visibly pleased. “You do that.”

7

Jeremiah

Creese Robinson and I were painting the walls in what we called the library when I saw Riley’s head lift up off her paws to look across the room. Turning, I saw a group of people in the doorway, put down my roller, and jogged over to them.

“Oh, Jere, we didn’t mean to interrupt you,” Betty Chow, LCSW and director of The Mission, apprised me. “Mr. and Mrs. Robinson just wanted to say hello, and they have others with them today.”

I didn’t groan, but it was a near thing.

“You recall Detective Faith Turner and Assistant District Attorney Evan McCauley.”

Sadly, yes. Not the detective, her I liked, but McCauley annoyed the crap out of me. Some of it was ancient history, but most of it was brand spanking new.

“And these are his assistants.” Betty introduced each of them by name, but I didn’t listen because I didn’t care. They had nothing to do with me. No one cared who I was beyond me helping Creese.

I offered my hand only to the detective, and we shook briefly, her grip firm.

“Nice to see you again, Jeremiah.” I was pleased she remembered to use my first name, as I’d asked her to do on her last visit.

“And you,” I replied, meaning it, not even glancing at McCauley or the others, instead moving immediately to Mrs. Robinson and offering her my hand. “How’re you doing, ma’am?” I asked gently.

She grasped my hand like it was a lifeline and she was drowning. “I just want to thank you again, Jere.” Her eyes welled instantly. “Without you, I—we wouldn’t have…” She trailed off, smiling through her tears.

Her husband wrapped an arm around her shoulders, tucked her against his chest, and offered me his hand. “Ditto,” he added, his voice gruff with emotion. “Thank you, Jere.”

“You all know it’s you guys, right?” Then I noticed thirteen-year-old Fiona, Creese’s sister, hovering in the background, trying to see through any cracks between the adults to spot her brother.

“Hey,” I greeted her, and the ADA and his assistants and the detective moved so she had a clear path to me. “You wanna paint?”

“No, that’s okay,” she nearly choked out. “I don’t want to bug him or––”

“Wait,” I ordered, turning to look over my shoulder at Creese. “Hey!”

He did the same thing as me, same exact movement, craning his head to see over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Can Fi paint too?”

His decision was fast, and that, in and of itself, was astounding. “Okay,” he called over and then looked at his sister. “C’mon, I have a small roller.”

Her breath caught, and she bolted across the room to where her brother was standing on a drop cloth. We all watched as he squatted down beside the pan of paint, had her take hold of the roller, put his hand over hers, and showed her how to coat the whole thing.

“Oh my God,” Mrs. Robinson gasped under her breath. “Ted, are you seeing this?”

All her husband could manage was a hum of affirmation. No words were forthcoming.

“Mr. Wolfe,” ADA McCauley called, which turned my attention to him. “As you know, we have enough evidence to put Edison Barnum away for the rest of his life solely on aggravated kidnapping charges of both Creese and his friend Kurt Adams, but to get a sentence of life without possibility of parole, I need Creese’s testimony. We believe we have enough evidence to submit that Barnum was not only a serial kidnapper but a killer as well. We’ve tied him to at least one similar case involving two boys back in 2019. Neither of them survived to testify. Creese was an eye witness to Edison murdering Kurt by pushing him off the roof of the warehouse on Sherman. That’s invaluable to our case.”