Page 79 of The Sin Eater
Deciding I’ve had enough, I head for the showers. I don’t work again till Friday, which gives me a day for research.
How do I go about becoming a cop? More importantly, is that a realistic career goal for a bisexual former athlete who’s not a huge fan of guns? Or is there something cop-adjacent where I could help families find their missing loved ones without actually carrying a badge?
A private investigator?
That last one pings the loudest, and for the first time in years, I think I might have a direction, or at least something I want to explore. Dorinda probably has opinions—Dorindaalwayshas opinions—but I want to work a couple things out before I approach her.
I’m on the light rail to the U District and home when I hear Mr. Bolden’s voice in my memory, as clear as if he is sitting next to me and not enjoying his retirement in Palm Springs.Baseball is a game of losses. A batting average over four hundred is unreal, but that means you miss the ball almost sixty percent of the time. A team with a win percentage much over five hundred stands a good chance of making the playoffs while losing over forty percent of their games.
One loss doesn’t make a season, or a career, or a life.
There’ll be another game tomorrow.
He’d given me that speech I don’t know how many times over the years, every time I flirted with quitting the whole damned thing, and if he were here, he’d say it again.
And he’d tell me it was time to get back in the game.
I spend the next day on my laptop, looking at options, putting together the beginnings of a plan. The UW has acriminal justice track and there are several Seattle-based private investigation firms that specialize in missing persons.
It’s a start, and it gives me something to do besides beat myself up over Ezra.
Was it a mistake to get involved with him? Probably. Would I do it again?
Also probably.
I shove those thoughts down and text Roger. He must have moved on because his reply is a photo of a lovely young woman standing in front of a mass of snow-covered evergreens. I text him back.
Later dude when ur not busy.
He does not respond, the asshole.
Friday, when I go back to work, things feel different. There’s space between me and the other guys, and for once I’m not secretly worried I’m going to grow old here at St. Nowhere. No shade to hospital security guards. It’s important work. I just want something different for my life.
I want the Sue Myhres of the world to have their stories told.
The morning is busy. There’s an ER Code Blue that results in a waiting room full of wailing relatives. Not much for me to do beyond keep an eye on them and try not to get sucked into their pain. Once they disperse, either going home or following the patient to the ICU waiting room, I tell the guy at the ER desk I need to make a run to the Brew.
Outside, a cold wind sends a shiver down the back of my neck and the sky is a flat layer of slate-grey clouds. Feels like snow. I’m glad the Brew is close.
It’s crowded, too, which makes me less happy. I get in the line that’s at least half a dozen people long and bring out my phone. There’s a headline about Seattle native Roger Bolden being the subject of contract offer rumors, which is either the truth or a story planted by his agent. Before I can read more thanthe opening paragraph, someone says, “Damon? Hi. I wanted to talk to you.”
I glance up and everything freezes. The crowd noise fades and my awareness dims so that I only see him. Ezra Morgue. It’s been more than two weeks. Heart knocking against my sternum, I manage a weak “Wassup?”
He’s in jeans and his puffer coat, his long hair framing his face. He looks like he’s had more sleep than usual, and his cheeks are pink, either from cold or nerves or both. His eyes, though, telegraph a mix of determination and fear.
He smiles, a nervous twitch of his lips. “Uh, we need to talk.”
I do my best dumb jock imitation. “We do?”
“Hey, y’all? Everybody?” he shouts. The normal coffee shop chatter dies around us and yeah, people are staring. “I need your attention right over here for a minute.”
Someone, maybe Jett, whispers, “Hush your mouth so I can hear this.”
“See, I need y’all to know that I’m not a very good person—”
My cheeks hot enough to burn, I cut him off with a “You’re fine.”
“I know I’mfine, babe, but I’m also selfish and petty and pretty much afraid of my own shadow, but”—he takes my hand and interlaces our fingers—“I like you, and I want us to be together.”