Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 82187 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 82187 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 411(@200wpm)___ 329(@250wpm)___ 274(@300wpm)
After he’d paid that, he barely had enough for gas and laundry.
He thought about the money from Mercer he’d tucked away—the money that made his stomach twist every time he remembered where it came from.
The second he touched it, Fox or Free would catch it. No doubt they were monitoring his finances, especially his debt.
Besides, the thought of spending that blood money made bile rise in his throat.
Morals were hard to maintain when a person was in constant survival mode. That was where he lived twenty-four-seven. Anxious, broke, hungry, and dreading another bologna sandwich for dinner.
Maybe Joshi would cook again tonight.
He collapsed back onto the bed, eyes gritty and head hurting.
The second he started to drift off, everything went weirdly silent.
The humming from his space heater stopped, he no longer heard the loud rattle of his refrigerator, and the buzzing neon numbers from his nightstand clock disappeared.
“Fuck!” he shouted into the darkness.
He’d forgotten about the extension on his electric bill.
He stayed in bed all day, drifting in and out of a fitful sleep until eight, before he got up and dressed for his shift using the flashlight on his cellphone.
He shivered as he buttoned up his uniform shirt and found a pair of relatively clean socks by touch.
He made a mental note to swing by the dollar store after work to buy some candles.
On his way to the precinct, he took a detour to the nursing home.
Vasquez walked fast through the disinfectant-smelling hallways with his head down. He didn’t want to run into the head nurse or any of the admin staff. He didn’t have it in him to beg for forgiveness for whatever recent offense his father had committed or defend his outstanding balance.
When he slipped into his father’s room, the sight made his chest tighten.
His old man lay there asleep, wheezing softly, his bony shoulders exposed to the cold air. His blanket was on the floor and the sheet had slipped down his back.
The little humidifier Vasquez had scraped together cash to buy was sputtering dry on the nightstand.
Vasquez refrained from screaming into the hall at the useless staff as he grabbed a clean wash rag out of the closet and wet it in the bathroom sink. He soaked it with warm water, wrung it out, and went back to the bed.
He wiped his father’s forehead, the corners of his mouth, and the crust around his nose.
His father moaned softly, eyes flickering beneath half-closed lids.
“Is that you, Carmen?” his dad rasped. “I missed you…missed you so much sweetheart…” Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes. “Don’t leave me again.”
Vasquez didn’t correct him. He just kept working, keeping his touch gentle.
He pulled a clean pair of long johns from the dresser, coaxed his father into them, and tugged the tube socks up as high they’d go. Last, he applied a layer of VapoRub to his sunken chest, then refilled the humidifier and set it closer to the bed.
Vasquez reached into the side table and pulled out the battered, spine-cracked copy of Les Misérables. It was so old the corners were frayed and the pages had yellowed.
His mother’s name was still written inside the front cover in neat, faded cursive.
She used to read it aloud, whether or not either of them wanted to hear it: during dinner, when they were watching TV, before going to bed, it didn’t matter.
She’d go on and on about how it was the greatest story of redemption, love, and the importance of compassion and forgiveness.
He thumbed through the dog-eared pages until he found one of her favorite chapters, where the bishop shows forgiveness toward Jean Valjean.
Vasquez cleared his throat and began to read quietly.
It wasn’t long before his father’s restlessness eased. He stopped mumbling, the pulsing in his temple slowed and his inhalations came easier.
He stayed for another hour, dozing in and out in the chair until he was sure his father was asleep.
Before he left, he pressed a kiss to the thin patch of hair on his old man’s head. “I’ll see you later, Pop. Love you.”
At the precinct, Vasquez lingered near the edge of the narcotics task force department until everyone was gone and God was alone.
He’d got there a few minutes before his shift so he could do what he thought was the right thing.
Vasquez took a deep breath.
If it were me…I’d wanna know.
He walked into the office and God looked up, a scowl instantly carving into his granite face.
“What the fuck are you doing in my department, Vasquez?”
He shifted his weight back and forth already regretting his decision. “I uh…I got somethin’ you might wanna see.”
God
God stared across the room at Vasquez, rage and exhaustion pounding behind his eyes like tectonic plates.
“If you’re here to confess to being a rat bastard traitorous bitch,” he snarled, “then you can stay. Otherwise—get the fuck out.”