The next morning, Jack's phone buzzed with a text from the bank. He blinked at the screen. Refund: $5,000.
For a moment, he couldn't place it. Then it hit him—the bail money. The father and son. Daniel Lawson and his boy, Jacob.
Jack sat back in silence. He hadn't thought of them in weeks. The morning he'd paid that bail had blurred into a storm of bullets in a parking lot, Gray nearly killed, the weight of shootings and aftermath pressing down on him. Lawson had slipped out of his mind, filed away like background noise.
But apparently, the man had stayed clean. No trouble since.
Jack scrolled through his contacts, thumb hesitating, then tapped the number. Daniel's voice on the other end was tentative but warm. The story came quickly: a kind judge, a solid past record, Angela vouching in court. Just one month of community service—sentence served, case closed.
Jack ended the call and sat there for a moment, staring at the empty living room. He felt a flicker of something strange—relief, maybe. Or guilt.
He didn't want to just let this drop. He'd stepped into their lives once already. Leaving them adrift now would gnaw at him later.
So he drove.
Along the way, he picked up groceries—milk, cereal, bread, little things that weighed more than their price tag in a struggling household. On impulse, he added a hundred-dollar children's bicycle. He remembered the old, rusted one leaning outside Lawson's place. Jacob deserved better.
Genesee Street hadn't changed since his last visit. Rows of modest homes, blue-collar neatness, streets scrubbed cleaner than most parts of LA. Not many Black families here—strange, in its own way—but Jack had stopped expecting fairness from the city's patchwork neighborhoods.
Lawson answered the door in work clothes, face lined with nerves the moment he saw Jack. Jacob peeked out from behind him, clutching his father's pants, wide-eyed as if the cop on the doorstep had stepped out of a nightmare.
Jack set down the groceries with a smile. "Relax. I just came to check in. Glad to see you're not behind bars. Got something for Jacob too. It's in the trunk."
For a heartbeat, Lawson just stared. Then gratitude softened his features, almost breaking him.
Jack pulled the bike out and unfolded it on the patch of yard. Blue paint gleamed in the sun. Jacob's hesitation melted the instant his small hands wrapped around the handlebars. He pushed off, wobbled, then steadied, circling the yard in triumph.
The boy's laughter filled the air. Both men watched, smiling despite themselves.
Jack's chest ached at the sight. He looks like I did, once. And Lawson… he's not so different from my father. Same tired eyes. Same quiet desperation.
He cleared his throat. "So. What's next for you?"
Lawson's answer came without bitterness, only a cautious hope. "I'm selling the house. Moving to Salt Lake. My dad owns a shop there—auto repair. He said he'll take us in, help me get steady again."
Jack nodded slowly. "Got a buyer yet?"
"Not yet. Market's tough. This isn't the best neighborhood. The bank gave me three months. If I can't sell, they'll take the place."
Jack let the words hang. His mind ticked over possibilities. He'd been searching for a place of his own—somewhere stable, somewhere that wasn't Hannah's house. Living with her any longer, especially now, would tangle them even tighter. If they crossed into something deeper, he didn't want it to look like he was a kept man.
Money was tight. He hated loans. But police officers got decent terms. And this house…
"Would you mind showing me around?"
Lawson's eyes widened in disbelief. "You—you're serious?"
Jack gave a half-smile. "Show me."
The tour was quick but thorough. Two floors, four rooms, two baths. About two hundred square meters. A basement with potential—a storage room, or maybe something else. A living room that could be reshaped into a real kitchen.
And the backyard. Seventy, maybe eighty square meters. Enough space to breathe. Enough space to build. He could already see the outline in his head—training dummies, a small garden, maybe even a pool one day.
Jacob rode the bike in wide circles, shouting with joy. Jack found himself smiling again.
"I'm interested," he said finally. "But get a real quote first. I'll bring in someone I trust to check it out."
Lawson nodded eagerly, already dialing a realtor. Hope radiated off him like sunlight breaking through clouds.
That afternoon, Jack called John. If anyone could sniff out a fair deal, it was him. They arranged to meet in the evening. Jack spent the rest of the day at the bank, pushing through pre-approval paperwork. Complicated, tedious, but doable. Transfer escrow companies could smooth the rough edges.
By nightfall, John finished his inspection and leaned back with a grin. "You've lucked out. Structure's solid. Plumbing's clean. Less than ten years old. Price is four-fifty—frankly, that's a steal in this area. You should take it."
Jack let out a slow breath. Relief. And a quiet sympathy for Lawson. In this country, one bad turn could send a family spiraling. Climb down one rung of the ladder, and there was almost no way back up.
But Lawson and his boy would get their chance. And maybe Jack would get his home.
That night, when he walked into Hannah's house, she was toweling off sweat, hair sticking to her forehead. Her eyes caught his, and her expression shifted into something half-petulant, half-hurt.
"So. You're moving out already?"
Jack ruffled her hair playfully, forcing a smile. "Can't live in your pocket forever."
Her pout deepened. He leaned in, teasing. "Place needs a hostess, though. Think you're interested?"
Hannah's cheeks flushed. She wrapped her arms around him tightly, breath warm against his neck. Her scent, sharp with exertion and something softer beneath, pressed into him.
Jack closed his eyes, steadying himself. He'd trained with her long enough to know her smell by heart. He didn't dislike it. If anything, it drew him closer. And that, more than anything, was dangerous.
(End of this chapter)