Page 90 of Summer Holiday Lifeline

When the two men tried to bolt, the younger men blocked their escape, and then Wyatt was again at Myles’s side, handing over his cane.

“Are you okay?” he asked, breathless.

Myles shook off his hands. “I’m fine.”

“Dude—”

“I’m okay,” Myles said, more calmly. He turned to the person on his other side. “Thank you.”

“I’m Lidia.” She held out a hand. “That was really brave of you.”

Myles snorted. “Stupid of me.”

She grinned. “That too. Are you really okay?”

“Nothing as damaged as my pride.” He turned to the scene in the neighbouring parking lot.

Wyatt’s assailants were cuffed, and the three young men were all talking and gesturing at once as one of the cops tried to take notes and the other tried to shut them all up.

A horn honked in the take-out line.

“Oh!” Lidia glanced at the truck that had almost run Myles over. “We should move that.” She glanced at her companions, now—finally—all listening to one of the cops. “Oh dear.”

“You move it,” Myles suggested.

She sighed and hugged herself. “It’s a stick-shift.” She waved at the three men. “Those are my brothers. It belongs to the blond one.”

“Keys in it?” Myles asked.

She nodded.

“Mind if I move it out of the way?”

She shook her head. “That’d be awesome. Thanks.”

“Okay, then.” He climbed up and grimaced through the effort of manipulating his hip enough to engage the clutch and the gas, but soon had the truck out of the way of the other Tim Hortons patrons.

It took longer than Myles’s hip liked for the police to talk to everyone involved, and Myles had to go through his statement three times. By the time he was on his third go-round, his phone was buzzing like mad in his pocket. He ignored it. Cops didn’t like when they didn’t have your full attention. The buzzing was probably Jet. The distrust of cops was so ingrained he felt like his past life collided with his present one, making a tangled mess of both his gut and his thought process.

“Do you know why these men attacked Mr. Jones?” the cop who had identified himself as Charles Clairemont asked him for about the fifth time.

“I have no idea.”

“And tell me again how you know Mr. Jones?”

Myles flicked a glance at Wyatt, who looked away at the ground the instant their eyes met.

“A friend of mine runs a shelter,” Myles said. “I was trying to convince him to come and check it out.”

Wyatt’s head jerked up, and he stared.

“Where is this shelter?”

Myles gave Wyatt a small nod before turning his attention back to Clairemont. “Gryffin’s Elbow. Which is why I think he was hesitating. Why would he get in a car with a near stranger for a lift to the next town? It’s not safe.”

Clairemont nodded. “Smart.” He looked over at Wyatt. “This true?”

Wyatt gave one fast, jerky nod, eyes wide, face pale under the dirt.