Slowing down for a shot-up stop sign, he gave me a quick once-over. “You
carrying?”
I propped my left foot against the dash and tugged my jeans up, just enough
to flash the modified ankle holster fitted to my boot, my nine-millimeter tucked
inside. “Making you bench-press the couch wasn’t for kicks.”
His lips quirked, and I dropped my leg.
His voice was droll, “Tell me you have a conceal and carry permit.”
It wasn’t like Arizona required a C&C, but… “We promised Delacourt we wouldn’t call for bail.” I kept scanning the economically ravaged collection of
homes. “However, I’m not feeling particularly optimistic right now. We’re going to stick out like sore thumbs.”
He didn’t answer.
I continued watching the streets. We passed a dark-haired little girl and boy
playing in a dusty, barren front yard and a frustrating sorrow seeped through me.
I must have made some kind of noise because Kayden asked, “What’s
wrong?”
I turned away from the depressing view. “Nothing.”
“Didn’t sound like nothing.” He waited a beat. “Spill.”
Chewing my lower lip, I tried to put what it felt like seeing those kids playing in the dirt, knowing if anyone would get it, he would. We both stood witness to the same things during our time overseas. “Those kids, they remind me of the ones in the villages over there. Trying to play in a world where danger
can come from around the corner. It’s just hard to see here. There, it was…” I trailed off, knowing ‘normal’ shouldn’t fit.
“Unfortunately, it’s normal here, too.”
And that’s what bothered me. Even though I avoided the news on general
principle, it was hard to miss the rise of senseless violence stateside. Shortly after I came home, I spent the night at Kelsey’s place in Tempe. After indulging
in chocolate and wine, we had a very late-night conversation about perspectives.
She started in on me because I, in her words, ‘interrogated’ the security guy at her condo complex. When I explained I was simply ensuring he was doing his job, she shot back that her chances of being hit crossing the street to her office
were higher than someone breaking into her condo and hurting her. “Kels called
me paranoid,” I muttered.
One of his dark brows rose above the rim of his sunglasses. “I hate to break
it to you, Cyn, but I think that’s a hazard of our job.”
“Paranoid photographers are generally called paparazzi.”
“You’re not just a photographer, you’re a soldier.”
I frowned at him. “I’m a civilian.”
A full-fledged smile broke out. “Once a marine…”
“Always a marine.” My lips quirked. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Leave me my thin
illusions.”
Pulling into a dead-end street, Kayden slowed to a stop in front of a low-slung building. “This it?”
Checking the address against the one on my phone, I said, “Yep.”
At one time, it could have served as a small motel, but it now masqueraded
as apartments. There was a disassembled car perched on cinder blocks in the weed choked front yard. Window treatments were predominantly cardboard and
cheap vinyl blinds. Plastic milk crates offered seating on the cracked walkways.
I stood on the weed choked sidewalk, my skin prickling in awareness.
We were being watched.
