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“Finn!” I called out, though I saw him already making his way through the crowd toward the commotion.
Grady was approaching from another direction. I tried to follow, but the crowd hindered any forward progress, their bodies creating a barrier I couldn’t get through.
The music had stopped, replaced by shouts and the crashing of bottles and glasses. By the time I got closer, Finn had already intervened, pulling Wyatt away from Mark. Wyatt’s body was rigid with anger, his fists still clenched, and a trickle of blood ran down from his nose, which he wiped away. Finn was speaking to him in hushed tones, trying to diffuse his fury.
Watching Finn’s ability to calm Wyatt stirred a twinge of jealousy in me; I wished I could be that for him.
Grady and I reached them, relief clear on Grady’s face that the fight was over.
“Are you okay?” I asked Wyatt, but my concern went unnoticed.
Mark was slowly getting up, grimacing with pain, unaided and ignored by everyone. Wyatt’s glare was unwavering.
“Shit,” Finn muttered, eyeing the entrance as two police officers made their way in.
They assessed the situation, consulting the bartender, who recounted the events. Wyatt remained stoic, his arms crossed defiantly, making Mark shrink back in fear.
In moments like these, I wished Wyatt’s stubbornness would give way to reason.
He didn’t resist as the officers handcuffed him and led him outside. Another patrol car arrived shortly after, and we looked on as Mark was also arrested.
“Well…” Finn broke the heavy silence that had fallen over us. “Let’s go get him.”
Chapter 32
Cat’s In the Cradle - Harry Chapin
Wyatt
Ihad been sitting in the jail cell for almost three hours, according to the wall clock on the other side of the bars. My stomach grumbled, and I had to piss.
Nobody had come in to talk to me. I hadn’t seen a single soul since they put me in there. I laid back on the concrete bench and put my hat over my face; I was tired from going over what that jackass had said to me.
Word was Jake Collins was dead. Dead.
The thought churned in my mind. I would know if my dad was dead, right? But who was I kidding? Like I had some spiritual connection with the guy. I hated him. But someone would’ve contacted me. Except that I had no permanent address, and my relationship with my phone was an on-and-off thing. Fuck.
Could my dad be dead, or was Mark Dwyer a lying bastard? Both scenarios were equally possible. I was at a police station; I could file a missing person’s report as soon as I got out of there. If I ever got out of there. I would get bail, right? Kinsley would…
Shit. I grabbed my hat and threw it across the cell. It hit the bars and fell to the ground. I dragged my hands down my face.
I had no doubt Kinsley would bail me out. That’s what she did; she bailed me out of trouble.
“Fuck!”
Maybe I should stay there. Did bar fights warrant prison time? I didn’t think Mark was badly hurt or anything. How bad was this? I couldn’t afford a lawyer or anything, but they gave you one for free if you couldn’t afford it, right?
The sound of a door opening snapped me out of my downward spiral.
A cop approached, keys in hand, and unlocked my cell. “Had a chance to cool down?” he asked in a practised, no-nonsense tone.
“Yes, sir,” I replied.
“Good. Let’s go,” he commanded.
“Go where? What happens now?” I got up, picked my hat off the ground, and trailed behind him, apprehension and relief threading through me as we made our way down the hall.
“You’re free to go. Lucky for you, we know Mark Dwyer real well around here. Most of us have wanted to punch him many times, but I don’t suggest trying that again, or we’ll be keeping you in there a lot longer.”
