“I’m just going to have a talk about the benefits of sobriety and temporary guardianship,” Jack said with a grim smile. “Don’t worry, Doc. I won’t get your hands dirty.”
Ten minutes later, the Crown Vic was crawling away from the cemetery. Paulie had fallen asleep in the back seat, curled into a ball. He was breathing deeply, feeling safe for the first time in years. Eleanor sat in the front, watching the wipers clear the light snow from the windshield.
“Why are you doing this, Jack?” Eleanor asked. “Yesterday you were just a driver. Today you’re in the middle of a crime story.”
Jack shifted gears. “Three years ago, I was pulling people out of that warehouse. The roof was buckling. I found a woman, she was unconscious. I got her on my shoulders, but then the collapse happened. I got pinned, and she… she didn’t make it. I found out later she had a son.”
Eleanor turned to him, her breath catching.
“Paulie…” she whispered.
“Yeah. It was the same warehouse. I recognized him from the photos in the investigation files. I’ve carried that weight for three years. Today, you led me to that grave, to that kid. You gave me a chance to settle the debt. So, Doc, we’re in this together. All the way.”
The car turned onto the main boulevard. A fight was ahead of them, but Eleanor looked at the sleeping boy and then at Jack’s steady hands. For the first time since her husband left, she didn’t feel alone. The emptiness in her house was about to be filled, and the emptiness in her life was being replaced by a shared mission for justice.
“Take your coat off, make yourself at home.” Eleanor’s voice sounded loud in the quiet of her foyer.
The apartment met them with the scent of lemon polish and a sterile silence. Since her divorce, Eleanor had cleaned obsessively, as if she could scrub away ten years of marriage. The floors were spotless, the books perfectly aligned. That order now felt cold.
Paulie froze at the door, afraid to step onto the polished wood. Muddy water dripped from his worn-out sneakers onto the rug. He fumbled with the stuck zipper of his jacket.
“Let me help,” Eleanor knelt in front of him. She pulled the zipper down. Under the thin jacket was a faded sweater covered in pills. The boy smelled of dampness and old cigarette smoke—the scent of neglect.
“Miss Eleanor, are you going to call the cops on me?” Paulie looked at her with wide, fearful eyes. “Uncle Joe said if I ran away, they’d put me in a juvenile home where they only feed you cold oatmeal and beat you.”
Eleanor felt a surge of anger toward the man who had put that fear into a child’s head.
“Listen to me, Paulie,” Eleanor took his cold, dirty hands in hers. “In this house, no one will touch you. And no police are coming. You can stay here as long as you want. And I hate oatmeal. We’re having mac and cheese for dinner, okay?”
The boy nodded slowly, his shoulders finally relaxing.
In the bathroom, the steam rose from the tub. Eleanor added some lavender bath salts—her one luxury. While Paulie soaked, Eleanor raided her closet. She didn’t have kids’ clothes, but she found a small cotton T-shirt and a plush towel.
When the boy came to the kitchen, he looked small and vulnerable. The shirt reached his knees, and his wet hair stood up in spikes. A bowl of steaming mac and cheese was waiting for him, along with a glass of milk.
Paulie sat on the edge of the chair. He ate quickly, as if he expected the food to be taken away.
“Miss Eleanor?” Paulie pushed the empty bowl away. “Is that man with the scar a bad man?”
