“You have my cell number if you need anything. I have to be getting back. No telling what trouble your son’s getting into.”
“No more than usual, I’m sure. Frankie.” Ezzie stood and slipped an arm around her shoulder. “Thank you for telling me about what happened. I know I’m a pest to have around, but I couldn’t stand the idea of Roman being hurt and not being within earshot to help. Especially during the holidays. Please humor me the next few days.”
“I don’t have to humor you. You’re his mother. Sure you were concerned.”
“You’re a good girl, Frankie. I can see why my son likes you.”
Frankie rolled her eyes. “Don’t start that again. Roman and I are friends, Ezzie. And he’s my boss, not to mention he won’t be here very long. Please don’t expect it will ever be more.” Because she wouldn’t let it become more. She couldn’t. She might have entertained the warm thought before, but she certainly couldn’t now. Not when it was clear he’d be leaving.
And sooner rather than later.
* * *
IT HAD BEEN a week. A long, torturous, stomach-clenching week since his mother had arrived. Beyond feeling restless over his imprisonment at the station house, beyond feeling angry for letting Gil get one over on him where the station’s budget was concerned, the darned cast on Roman’s leg was itching as if he had an ant hill living beneath the plaster. If, and that was a big if, he managed to keep his weight off his leg for two weeks, the doctor had told him he’d switch him out to a walking cast, meaning he could ditch the crutches. But until then...
Pots and pans clanged in the kitchen, followed by the muted, although not totally unfamiliar, mutterings of Jasper trying to get a handle on preparing meals. Their probie had decided, without much input from either Roman or Frankie, that he’d take up residence in one of the rooms upstairs while Roman was out of commission. He wasn’t expecting to go out on calls, but he could take care of the busy and scut work, freeing Frankie to focus on the emergencies. Personally, Roman had the feeling Jasper was sticking around in case Roman fell flat on his face—a good possibility, given his lackluster talent with his new metal companions. He’d only tripped a few times. So far.
He clicked his way out of the entertainment room and planted himself behind the desk, waiting for Frankie to get back. They needed to talk. About a lot of things, but she had shown no interest in conversing with him. In fact, she seemed to be going out of her way to avoid him. Not an easy task considering the close quarters. When another pan hit the ground, he’d had enough.
“Jasper, it’s after nine,” Roman called as his head pounded. “How about you turn in and leave whatever’s left for tomorrow.” When his head had a bit more time to heal. The constant noise wasn’t doing anything to help.
“You sure?” Jasper poked his head around the corner. “I’m almost done with the—”
“I’m sure.” Roman was resisting the urge to dig into his pocket for the painkillers the doctor had prescribed. “Go ahead. If there’s a call, you’ll hear about it.”
“You think Frankie will take me with her this time?” His dark eyes went wide with excitement.
“I’ll talk to her about it when she gets back. Go on.”
“Great. I have a chapter on accelerants I’ve been waiting to read. ’Night, Chief.”
“’Night, Jasper.” The smile that curved his lips surprised him. Aside from the broken leg and the eccentric citizens, Butterfly Harbor was growing on him, far more than he’d ever expected. He groaned at the sight of the endless boxes piled every which way and added that to the top of his list to deal with tomorrow. He retrieved his laptop and flash drive and settled back in at the desk.
The updates he’d planned to add to his résumé halted suddenly. So far Ozzy was the only one who had come straight out and asked him about his short-term contract and plans to move on. Either Frankie and everyone else were ignoring that bit of information or they didn’t want to talk about it. He could understand that. He didn’t want to talk about it, mainly because...well. Because he wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted to do.
Huffing out a breath, he clicked his laptop shut and tidied up the desk. When he found himself sorting paperclips from rubber bands, he realized he’d hit his frustration quota. He grabbed the stack of scratch paper off the corner of the desk, pulled open the bottom left drawer and froze. Plan of Action. The green folder staring back at him had Frankie’s distinctive cursive on the front.