Chapter 70

The cops showed up at school today. Swear, I had flashbacks of being eight years old, when they came to tell me my parents were dead. My immediate thought was that something had happened to my grandpa. I didn't want to go through it again, especially alone, and so I subconsciously searched for comfort. My eyes instantly found Harlow, and then backed away just fast. I turned to Jonah instead, and he was everything I needed at the time.

My grandpa was fine, thankfully. The cops were there to ask if I wanted to press charges against him for domestic assault. I told them I didn't, but that doesn't mean he gets to come home. He still has all the charges from his arrest, and when I called the station yesterday, they informed me that the judge was looking at his case. All I had to do was wait. Easy for them to say.

I've cleared most of the mess in the living room and removed the display case completely. It's in the back of my van, ready to be thrown in the dumpster behind the rink when I work next. Now, I'm on my hands and knees, scrubbing the fuck out of the carpet, trying to remove all signs that nightmare of a night ever happened.

There's a knock on the door, and I groan in response. The knob turns, and the door opens, revealing Jonah. "What's up?" he says, walking into the house as if he's done it a thousand times before. He hasn't. At least not this house.

"Just cleaning up."

He stands in the middle of the living room, taking stock of his surroundings. Hands in his pockets, he mumbles, "Looks good."

I don't know what he means, and I don't ask.

He sits down on the couch, gets comfortable.

My gaze shifts from him to the still-open door, then back again.

"Mom asked you over for dinner tonight," he says. "You don't have to come, but she said she's going to make you a plate anyway."

I look down at my glove-covered, bloodstained hands. "Yeah, I can't tonight."

"She thought you'd say that," he responds. "So she wanted me to tell you she's going to save you a plate every single night until you do." And then he stands up again. "Dinner's at six thirty, if you change your mind." He leaves without so much as a goodbye, closing the door behind him.

I go back to scrubbing the floor.

Barely a minute passes before my phone rings. I slip off my gloves, eyes narrowed, because I don't recognize the number calling. I answer, "Hello?"

"Hi, is this Jace Rivera?" It's a woman on the other end, and she sounds older, stern, and very professional.

"Yes…"

"Hi, Jace. I'm Judge Wallace, and I'm handling your grandfather's case…"