Sometimes Hank forgot how quiet it got at night. Downtown was a different story, he couldn't recall a time where that place was ever empty save for that time people were barred off because of construction work. Even as he'd driven through tonight, it had still appeared that many of Lovington's citizens were out on the streets doing God knows what, he only hoped if it was anything illegal that his deputies could deal with it for now.
As soon as he'd turned at the supermarket, however, it was like magic. The streets and roads were suddenly deserted, save for a few cars driving past his own. With it now pushing 11:00, no lights were visible in many of the houses, save for a few. Connor, having been silent, the entire ride, had only spoken up once or twice after they'd arrived at Cage Boulevard, requesting that Hank go ahead and drop him off.
"My foster parents are probably asleep by now, we might wake them up." he'd tried to insist, further adding that the house wasn't far. But Hank had been down this street enough times to know that, even if it was emptier than downtown currently was, it was, in its own right, a very unsafe place to be walking through late at night. He didn't think this had ever been a good neighborhood, not even before his days as sheriff, and for that he'd declined Connor's request.
"Whatever you say, Sheriff…" Had been the last thing he'd said, before going quiet again. Hank had eyed him, unable to see much in the dark of the car, but he was glad to see that he had stopped shivering, at least.
They passed several more houses until coming upon a small grey one. Connor, who had been sitting back in his seat, leaned forward at the sight of it, pointing.
"It's that one, right there." His voice sounded more like a mumble, and he shrunk back into his seat as soon as he was done speaking, clasping his hands back together. Hank nodded and pulled up next to it, settling the car into park. He reached to undo his own seatbelt while Connor undid his, looking up as he was about to open his car door.
"Hey, hey, wait a minute." Connor seized up, quickly releasing the door handle and glancing back over to Hank, who was taking the keys out of ignition. "What do you think you're doing? Wait for me, will ya?"
"Oh, I'm sorry, I...huh?"
"You heard me, wait up." He shoved the keys into his pocket, grabbing the other door handle. "What, did you really think I was just gonna drop you off? Why else would I have parked the car?"
"But...my parents…" Connor's voice trailed off as he glanced between Hank, and the house next to them. The lights were on and there looked to be a couple of visible figures moving about in the front window.
"What about 'em? Doesn't look like they're asleep to me." Hank pointed out, cold air filling the car as he pushed his door open. Crap, with how warm the car had gotten to be, he'd almost forgotten how freezing it was outside. He'd thought to dress in layers when he'd gotten up today but in his hungover stupor had decided not to.
Yeah.
Not one of his brightest decisions...alongside a lot of other bad decisions that somehow always found a way to come back and haunt him.
"Besides, as much I don't wanna, I gotta tell 'em what happened. " Connor's eyes widened at this, but Hank hadn't noticed, having gotten out of the car. "I dunno how long you've been out, but in my experience with shit like this, they're gonna want answers from you, Connor."
He circled the vehicle, reaching the passenger's side where he reached for the door.
"And given the lack of answers you gave me, tonight, I doubt you'll be able to answer 'em on your own."
He'd only managed to crack the door open a tad, surprised to find it being met with resistance. Rolling his eyes, he gave it another yank, succeeding to pull it open a bit more, but was also met with Connor's wide, distressed eyes. Looking down, Hank could see that the boy had seized his side of the door handle with a death grip, clearly having no intentions to release it.
"What the hell are you doin'? Come on, let go-" Hank gave another rough yank, this time causing Connor to accidentally hit his face on the door. In the time he took to recover from this, Hank was able to open the door entirely, and, placing a hand on his hip, stared inside at him with a heavy frown.
"Connor, seriously? It can't be that warm in there anymore, what are you doing?"
"I-" Connor moved his hand from his nose, which was now a bright red thanks to the impact from the door. The more visible distress was gone from his face, eyes no longer wide. "I'm sorry, Sheriff, I don't know what came over me."
He stepped out of the car, all while Hank continued to stare in what he wasn't sure was bewilderment or confusion. Ever since him and Connor's little conversation back at the department, he was beginning to form a small idea of what exactly might be causing these jarring mood shifts, but that didn't mean he was any closer to figuring it out. That was something he would've gladly taken up with that Ms. Stern woman, had he been the one making the phone call.
Now that this thought had come back to him, he wouldn't be surprised if that was also why Connor had suddenly seized up so much at the idea of leaving the car. He'd been talking like he was used to being hit for disobedience, maybe he was expecting that to happen as soon he stepped into the door.
Hank hoped that wasn't the case. He hoped that it was only another one of Connor's mindsets and not what was actually happening to him in that house. He'd seen his fair share of abuse and foster kid cases in his early years of being a police officer, and while Connor's situation was close to being identical to a few he'd dealt with before, there was just a small part of him that was desperately hoping that this wasn't like those times, and that for once, it would all just be his paranoia at work.
But then again, this was a bad neighborhood. You never knew what to expect here.
"Uh...sure. That's okay." Hank turned from Connor, clearing his throat. "Let's just get inside, it's cold out here."
"Yes, sir."
The two walked away from the car, heading up to the front steps from what Hank could see, didn't look any too steady. The trees in the yard were barren-as most trees were at this time of year-and their leaves blanketed the ground, sidewalk included, and crunched underneath their feet. Nearing the house, Hank also took notice of the dead plants sprouting out of what had probably once been a flower garden. Dark, twisty vines had curled up onto the porch and up against a window, which was further illuminated by the flashing lights from the television that was hardly noticeable through the mildly cracked glass.
What was more noticeable, were the two people inside. Neither of them had seemed to have taken notice, or had even heard the car pulling up, one preoccupied with shouting at the television while the other stood up, lifting what looked to be a small infant out of a playpen. They were saying something to the person on the couch, but Hank wasn't able to tell what. He wasn't particularly good at reading lips, and even if he was, this window was far too cracked and frosted for him to do so.
He followed Connor up the wobbly steps to the front porch, which creaked and groaned due to the combination of their weight. Even more leaves coated it, but were shortly swept away by a cold wind that revealed a dirty welcome mat in front of the door. Connor stepped atop it, preparing to grab the knob, but he didn't do so right away. He instead stood there with his hand extended mid-air, then looked over to Hank, who was standing nearby. It was a silent exchange, neither of them saying a word to the other, before Connor looked back to the door, and twisted it open.
The repugnant odor of dollar-store air freshener and the scent stains of leftover food hit Hank's nostrils the minute he stepped into the door frame. Connor walked ahead of him without a bother, but it took Hank a moment to will himself to follow. As cold as it was, the air was much more clean outside and he felt he'd much rather freeze to death than have to be greeted with that scent again. He didn't even think his own house ever smelled that bad, but maybe that was because he'd taken to using those scented garbage bags per Amelia's suggestion.
"If you're gonna let the garbage pile up, you might as well make sure it smells nice." she'd said. That was perhaps the one time he'd been glad to take her advice. Not that it had helped entirely, but at least it wasn't a smell that would threaten to knock him out upon inhaling it.
A short, blonde woman soon emerged from the adjacent hallway of the living room they were standing in, presumably having been the one who'd walked off with the infant. Unlike the man on the couch, who had been heading into the kitchen when Hank and Connor had walked inside, she took immediate notice of them and stomped over, a furious glare aimed Connor's way.
"You! Where the hell have you been? We've been wait-" Her mouth popped shut at the notice of Hank standing next to him, and almost instantly, the glare melted into a slightly harsher one. What was no doubt faux worry washed over her face and she pulled Connor into a hug, though he stumbled forward into it very stiffly.
"-We've-we've been waiting up, all night for you! We were so worried!" Just like her facial features, her voice had also shifted into that of a more concerned one, as she caressed her hand against Connor's back. Hank could only imagine the expression the boy must have right now, given how resistant he'd seemed to the hug in the first place.
When she'd pulled away from him, she smiled over at Hank with gratitude that was just as pretend as the worry before. He wanted to groan at it-he'd been in too many instances like this before and was too good at reading people by now. His ex had always said that was his curse, which he had only laughed at then. Now, he found himself agreeing with her.
"I can't thank you enough, officer. I was just about to convince my husband to go out and look for him before you showed up." The woman was saying, one arm remaining wrapped around Connor's shoulder. Connor on the other hand, looked like he wanted to be anywhere than underneath her grasp.
"It's uh, it's sheriff. Sheriff Anderson." Hank corrected, taking his hands out of his coat pockets. He'd forgotten he'd put them in there while they were walking up to the house, he blamed the smell for making him forget. "And you're welcome, Mrs…?"
"Phelps. Heather Phelps."
"Right. Well Mrs. Phelps, I know its getting kinda late," He shifted on both his feet, almost losing his balance on the knotted-up bunch in the carpet (which, wasn't a knotted-up bunch at all, but a cat toy that had been hastily shoved underneath it). "But, if it isn't any problem, I'd like to talk with you and your husband for a few minutes."
The smile disappeared from Mrs. Phelps' face. She moved her arm away from the quietly relieved Connor, folding it into the other.
"What about?"
"Your foster son, ma'am. You see, we found him at-"
"Heather, that dumbass old cat got outside again!" Hank was interrupted by a tall, slovenly dressed man, who he assumed was Mr. Phelps, who came walking out of the kitchen-fists bared and swinging at his sides. "Fuck, I step outside for one fucking minute to take a smoke and that little bastard think it's free game-"
His fists unfurled, his rant cutting off upon seeing Hank.
"What the hell is this?" Before Hank had a chance to restart his explanation, the man had locked his eyes on Connor and was starting towards him. "Don't tell me he's here because of you, what the fuck did you do?"
"I-I'm sorry-"" Connor looked like he wanted to stumble away, only managing to take one step before he was grabbed by the arm. Hank immediately noticed how the man's hand had seized onto Connor like a vice, internally wincing at the sight. In fact, his entire hand was nearly wrapped entirely around the boy's skinny arm, looking like he could break it at any given moment. Hank had seen it before, and he hated that he had. He could recall far too many times where he'd called someone's parent in only to watch the child be roughly handled.
It made him sick. He would've never dreamt of grabbing Cole like that, not in a million years. It was one thing to be cross with your kid but Christ, holding them tight enough to hurt them was just downright cruel. So maybe it was that thought that caused Hank to step forward and pull Connor away, despite some resistance from the other man's unwillingness to let go.
"Hey, hands off the kid, will ya? He's had a bad night." He couldn't help but snap at Mr. Phelps, who backed off at the tone of his voice. "Now look, Mr. Phelps, I'm guessing? Yeah, if you'd just hold on for one minute, I was just about to tell your wife what was going on. I'd suggest holding off anything else until then."
He looked over at where he'd thought Connor had gone to stand beside him, but instead turned to find the boy standing behind him, almost like he was hiding. Not that Hank could blame him, as though he'd backed off, Mr. Phelps still looked ready to clock him the minute he stepped out.
"You okay?" Hank had to check, Connor had gone stiff ever since they'd gotten inside, but he looked like he was barely breathing now. He did nod, which gave Hank enough ease to turn back to his conversation with Mr. and Mrs. Phelps.
"Um, how about we all sit down?" Mrs. Phelps offered, sounding as though she was trying her hardest to be polite. Her words had came out more forced than anything, but that was a given considering the weight of what was currently happening. The adults all seated themselves on the scratchy plaid sofa while Connor awkwardly perched nearby on a rickety rocking chair, sitting up and straight with his hands folded back in his lap, for what must've been the thousandth time tonight. He looked nearly ready to get up and bolt out of the room, from what Hank could tell, but there was something keeping him put.
Probably that stupid obedience regime that Ms. Stern's beaten into him.
"Uh," Hank looked away from Connor, back to where Mrs. Phelps was attempting to smile at him. Mr. Phelps still had a death glare on his face, not surprising. "So, Sheriff, could I um, get you anything? Before we talk, that is, maybe you'd like a coffee?"
"Nah, no thanks. I've had my share for today." Hank shifted on the uncomfortable mattress, trying to get comfortable. He tried to prop his leg atop the other, but felt a spring pop beneath him as he did so. "We're all seated already, anyways. It's better I just get to the point."
Another spring popped as he continued to shift around. Deciding to give up on trying to find a comfy position, Hank decided to rest his arm on the couch arm rest instead. He wasn't sure where to start, exactly, a lot had happened today as was, this was something he hadn't accounted for. And while his headache was gratefully withering by now, a slight pain still throbbed at the back of his head.
"Erm..yeah, so, as I was saying before…" He paused, shifting his eyes at Mr. Phelps. "Before we were interrupted, I was just about to tell you-and I-I don't want to cause any upset by saying this, we, that is, one of my deputies and I-"
Images from earlier that night came back to him. Walking out of the bar, the rain slowing down. Heading to the back gate, hearing the footsteps behind them. Connor's voice calling out.
"One of my deputies and I, we um, we were just leaving Jimmy's Bar downtown, when we found your foster son there."
"What?" Mrs. Phelps looked surprised, while her husband looked almost entirely disinterested at the revelation. This was ridiculous, regardless of whether this was his child or not, he should've seemed a little more alert than he actually was. That and his unnecessarily rough hold on Connor had already earned him two strikes on Hank's list of people he wouldn't mind punching. He imagined it wouldn't be long before strike three came along.
Mrs. Phelps, on the other hand, at least seemed to making some kind of attempt to show she was invested. She'd pressed a hand to her chest, no doubt feigning concern.
"Well...what on Earth was he doing there?"
"You tell me, ma'am. You're supposed to be responsible for him, aren't you?" The feigned concern switched to annoyance and Hank continued. "Because if you are, let me just be the first to congratulate you on doing a horrible job."
Now Mr. Phelps seemed alert, jolting forward at Hank's apparent insult of him and his wife.
"Now wait a minute, what are you trying to say?" He nearly pushed Mrs. Phelps aside, who in turn held out an arm in front of him as a means of restraint. She looked bothered by her husband's reaction. "Let me tell you something, Sheriff, we've been this kid's legal guardian for six months now. You can't call us irresponsible or else he would've been taken away from us, by now."
"You think you aren't irresponsible?" Hank cocked his head at the other man, almost wanting to laugh in disbelief. "Okay then, let me ask you something, Mr. Phelps. Do you think it's responsible to let a sixteen-year old kid go out by himself, at night, no less, and for him to end up behind a bar trying to peddle off illegal narcotics?"
This silenced Mr. Phelps almost instantly, genuine horror overcoming his face. Even Mrs. Phelps, who'd been doing a wonderful acting job so far, looked just as upset. Connor remained as still and quiet as ever on the rocking chair, not uttering a single word. All eyes except for Hank's were on him, as an uneasy, heavy silence took the place of the previously loud conversation.
"You can't be serious...he wasn't actually…" Mrs. Phelps gasped, while her husband kept his eyes locked on Connor. There was something uncomfortable about the way the man was silently glaring at him, but either Connor hadn't noticed or didn't want to notice, because his eyes were staring right past the group of adults at nothing in particular. He looked like an animal on alert, waiting for the right moment to scamper away.
"He wasn't actually doing that, was he?" She glanced back to Hank, eyebrows creased in concern. "I mean, we didn't-he-"
"I wish I could say no, Mrs. Phelps, but unfortunately, that was the case."
"But-that's not-" Stammering, Mrs. Phelps stopped a minute to presumably compose herself before continuing, taking a deep breath. "I don't understand, we only sent him out for some milk. The supermarket is only a short ways from here, how did he...I mean, the drugs...why would he be-"
"Again, I'd hoped you would tell me." Hank sighed, feeling his headache coming back. Whether it was from caffeine or stress this time, he had no idea. "He's your responsibility, after all, I thought you'd be able to offer some insight. You say you sent him out for milk?"
"Yes!" Mrs. Phelps exchanged a nervous glance with her husband, swallowing down a visible lump in her throat. She was running her hands along her pants, leaving behind faint sweat stains. "Yes, we um, we didn't have any for breakfast tomorrow morning. I didn't see the harm in it really, like I said, the store is right down the street from us."
Something in this story wasn't adding up. It might've been because of her anxious mannerisms but Hank wasn't buying anything she said. Out of the corner of his eye, he'd seen Connor watching her as she'd spoken, his eyes squinting in what he could only guess was disbelief. Despite this, he hadn't shouted out any protests to state that she was lying, so Hank had no choice but to continue with his questions.
Which, he didn't want to do. If his job obligations didn't require him to do this kind of shit then he would've left after making sure Connor was alright.
"Right down the street...okay, and you didn't think there'd be any harm in it?" He leaned forward, resting both arms on his knees. "Mrs. Phelps, I hope you understand that you live in a rather bad neighborhood. Sending him out by himself was probably the most unsafe thing you could've done. In fact, I don't see why you couldn't have just gone to buy the milk yourself if you needed it that badly."
"I…" Mm, he wasn't surprised that she was hesitating. He had a thought that that question would stump her. "Joe….my husband, he had a headache. He gets really bad headaches, Sheriff, would you really expect me to leave while he was in pain?"
Even Mr. Phelps looked like he was rolling his eyes at that statement, and Hank would've done the same if he wasn't trying his hardest to stay patient. He noted that the other man hadn't really said all that much since taking insult to Hank's earlier comment and decided to turn to his attention on him, not that he expected any truth from him but he was sure he was going to keel over if he had to listen to anymore of Mrs. Phelps' bland excuses.
"Mr. Phelps," He looked at Hank, looking just as disinterested as he as he had been before. "Care to make any comments?"
"Comments?" Sniffing, Mr. Phelps rubbed at his nose and leaned forward himself. "Yeah, sure. How come this little shit is sitting in our living room instead of a jail cell right now?"
Connor seemed to jolt a bit at his derogatory comment, but still said nothing. Hank fought back the urge to snap at the man, but even so, his voice came out sounding louder and more pissed off than he'd meant it to sound.
"Because, Mr. Phelps, if it interests you, he didn't even manage to sell the drugs off. And from what he's told me, they might have not been his in the first place."
The disinterest on Mr. Phelps face was replaced by a look of alarm.
"What did he tell you?"
Oh, so now he was interested. If Hank was a more spiteful man (which he could be, at times), he would've just left it at that and gotten up to leave, but he knew that wouldn't look good. Not for him, or Connor. Who knew if he was better off telling or not telling, but he was starting to get the feeling that either way it wasn't going to end well for the boy.
"Not much. Just that the drugs weren't his and that someone else gave them to him to sell." Hank sat back up, bringing his hand to the back of his head in order to rub at the headache that was making another attempt to come back. If this conversation went on any longer, then he could safely confirm that this headache was because of stress and not from his huge caffeine intake.
"Did he say who?" Mrs. Phelps was speaking now, mouth pressed into a tight line.
"No ma'am, he did not. Apparently he doesn't even remember." Hank eyed Connor, who'd lowered his head. "He said that...whoever it was, hit him after he initially refused and all he remembers after that is being in the alley. Now, I have no idea who that could've been, so that's what I was hoping to ask you two."
He brought his hand back out, resting it and the other atop the couch.
"Do you know of anyone who might've been responsible? Any friends, maybe people from school he hangs out with?"
"Oh, no….I don't think so. Actually, he doesn't even go to school." Mrs. Phelps nodded towards a stack of books on a nearby shelf. "We homeschool him, with curriculum offered by his group home. Even then, he doesn't go out nearly enough to really know anybody."
"Huh...I see…well how about-"
"Look Sheriff, I don't mean to be rude but is this going to take much longer? We're supposed to be having a visit from the social worker tomorrow and we were plannin' on being in bed by now." She cut him off, tone of voice having shifted from concern to annoyance. "We already told you we don't know anyone who could've asked him, isn't that enough for you?"
"Not nearly." Hank shifted upon feeling yet another loose spring beneath him in the mattress. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Phelps, but you can never be too sure in situations like this. I just want to be thorough, that's all."
"Well, you can be more thorough when we have stuff to tell you." Mr. Phelps said as he got up from his seat, alongside his wife who ended up hastily leaving the group at the sound of a crying baby coming from another room. "Fact is, we just don't right now, okay? So unless you have any questions that we can actually answer, then I suggest you leave. Like my wife said, we were plannin' on being in bed by now, and it's getting late."
Hank looked up at the man, contemplating if he wanted to bother asking anymore questions or not. He had had more questions, but given that Mr. Phelps had told him to only ask if they were questions they could answer, he decided against it. These people weren't going to tell him anything else, he'd talked to people like this enough to know that all he was going to get was more phony excuses and lies.
That, and he was eager for any excuse to finally leave this place.
He'd been eager to leave the first minute he'd stepped inside and been hit with that awful smell, but after seeing the way Mr. Phelps had handled Connor...he wasn't so sure he felt okay leaving him here. Unfortunately there was nothing he could do about that right now, while he had his suspicions, that's exactly all they could be for now.
So, not even bothering to force a polite smile, Hank stood up.
"Fair enough. I guess I've kept you up long enough."
Mr. Phelps only grunted at this, his arms folded. He turned his head at a soft "meow" and scratching that was coming from the back door and left the room, going to let back in the cat he'd been yelling about when Hank had first met him. This left Hank and Connor in the room alone, and as Hank prepared to leave, he allowed himself one more look at the kid.
He was looking up at him. That numb fear was back in his eyes, but there was something different about it this time. Something that seemed to be pleading for help, something that made Hank feel like even more of a heel for leaving him. And all Hank could do was offer him an awkward pat on the shoulder, and despite his being so stiff, he flinched.
"Erm...goodnight. Take care of yourself, I guess." He gruffly murmured, receiving no reply in return. Connor only remained seated in the same chair, continuing to watch Hank as the older man made his way to the front door, and left. There was a slight temptation to go back inside the minute he'd stepped out, but he ignored it, heading straight to his car without looking back once.
It was only when he'd seated himself inside his car that he dared to look again. He could just barely make out Connor standing at the window, which in-turn caused him to quickly look away and start his car back up. Once the old engine had roared to life, Hank turned the wheel and pulled away from the Phelps house, trying so much to ignore the thoughts that were now flooding his mind.
Connor kept both hands pressed to the window, watching as Sheriff Anderson's car backed away and drove off. He would've watched until the headlights had gone dim, but was promptly snagged by the hood of his jacket and tossed to the floor, where he landed hard and in a heap. Not even having a moment to compose himself, he looked up in time to see Joe coming back over, fists drawn and the anger he'd been holding back during the sheriff's visit all over his face.
He'd known this was coming. He'd known this was going to happen the very minute Sheriff Anderson had repeated what he'd said to him.
Why why why why oh god why-I told the truth, I told the truth the best I could. I didn't even say that much-
These words and more flooded Connor's thought process as he stayed frozen on the floor, hands gripping the rug tightly as if that would save him from what was coming next. But it didn't. It didn't help anything at all, only staying clutched in his hands as Joe grabbed him by the neck and roughly lifted him to his feet. It, too, fell in a heap, as Connor was forced to release it as-out of instinct-he reached up, trying desperately to free himself as Joe's hand was beginning to constrict his airway.
"You son of a bitch, what the fuck were you thinking? Huh?" Joe yelled at him as he gasped, choking on what little air he had left. He was then tossed across the room, straight into the very bookshelf Heather had pointed out to Hank. Several books fell out on top of him as he tried to not to push himself back up, but Joe was quick to step on top of him, his heavy work boot dropping down on Connor's back like a paperweight.
"Nuh-uh, I didn't tell you to get up. You stay down, you hear me?" He was kneeling, his work boot replaced by his hand, which held onto Connor's back with a tight ferocity. "You stay down until I tell you to get up, you got that?"
"Joe, please, I'm sorry-" Smack. Joe's fist collided with Connor's jaw, silencing him.
"Shut up! You've talked enough, already!" He was practically yelling into Connor's ear now, close enough for his hot, stinky breath to waft onto him as well. "What the fuck happened, Connor? Huh? What the fuck happened in that alley, it isn't like I was asking you to do rocket science. All I wanted was one simple thing, and you had to go and fuck that up! We could've used that money, Connor, I was going to get good money for that stuff!"
"Joe-" Try as he might, he couldn't stop the hot tears from brimming in his eyes, but was met with another fist to the face, which this time, hit his other eye. Don't cry don't cry don't cry-oh god don't cry, you can't cry. "Stop-sto-I didn't-"
"You didn't what? You didn't mean to fuck up?" Joe's grip on him grew harsher, voice louder, as he shook him violently."Too late for that! You've already lost the drugs, pissed off two of my friends, and talked to the goddamn sheriff. What else did you tell him, Connor? What else did you say?"
"Nothing!" Connor cried out, voice cracking in desperation. Stop it stop it stop it stop it you aren't supposed to be acting this way, this isn't how Amanda said to act. She said to never cry to never cry to never cry- "I didn't say anything about you! I promise, I didn't Joe, I promise!"
By this point in their altercation, Heather had come back out from the girl's room to find her husband pinning their foster son down on the floor. She didn't look so bothered by it, more like aggravated, only standing there with both hands on her hips. Joe continued shouting things at Connor, whose face was now marred by the blossoming of several fresh bruises.
"Joe, he's had enough! You keep this up and you're gonna wake the baby up again!" She snapped at him, her words a momentary distraction and relief for Connor as Joe stopped shouting at him. "Hell, you're gonna wake all the kids up!"
"They can wake up, I don't care." Whoops, too soon. He was pulling Connor up by the back now, positioning him upright like a seal. Connor met Heather's uncaring gaze with his own, lower lip split and quivering. "You think I'm going to let this fucker get away with squealing on us? He needs to be taught a lesson, Heather!"
"Then do it quieter, for God's sake! You keep this up and the neighbors are gonna threaten to call the cops on us again!"
"Aw shut the fuck up, Heather. No one's gonna call the cops."
They bickered for about a minute before Heather stormed out, once again leaving Connor at Joe's mercy. He was dropped back to the floor, face first, and Joe stood back up. He didn't dare move, staying put to await the next hit that was surely about to befall him. But it didn't come straight away, and he wasn't sure why. He didn't look up to know, and he didn't hear anything that might tell him.
Footsteps. He heard footsteps, it must be Heather coming back. Had she finally had enough common sense to try and stop her husband, Connor wondered? He wondered that many times before, but just like those other times, he was wrong. He turned his face from the floor, eyes darting up to see Heather handing over what looked like a giant leather belt to her husband. He took it, folding it together as he looked down at Connor, jutting his chin out at him.
"Lift your shirt up." he ordered, and Connor obeyed. He didn't want to, but it wasn't like he was being offered any other choice that was remotely better. Pulling up his jacket, and shirt, he pressed his face back to the floor as Heather nonchalantly stepped over him and walked over to the couch, picking the remote back up from the coffee table.
"Now you're gonna be quiet while I do this, you hear?" Joe was cooly speaking to him now, and he could hear the belt snapping. "You so much as much squeak, and I'll break your entire back. Got it?"
Connor managed a nod, not before wincing at the sudden impact of the belt against his bare back. His fingers sprawled out, digging into the floor, as Joe continued to bring the belt down on him. Smack-smack-smack-again and again, he felt it, heard it, but he made no sound. Joe had said to make no sound, Joe had said to go out and sell the drugs, Joe had said to not say anything if he was asked-
He'd disobeyed enough tonight. He'd known this was going to happen. He should have said something-said something while Sheriff Anderson was talking, something, anything-
No.
He shouldn't dwell on this. He was only here now because of his own doing. This was his fault. This was all his fault. Again.
Maybe he would've been better off staying in a holding cell, after all.
A light snow had begun to fall by the time Hank pulled up in his driveway, which was not at all a welcome change from the rain, it only served as different weather to what Lovington had been entreated to for the past week and a half. But this and the cold were not the reasons for which he stayed seated in his car for several minutes.
He had other reasons. Many, many other reasons, in the form of the events of that day. He couldn't believe it had only been one day, when it felt like time had passed even slower. With the way he was feeling, it should be Friday already, but when he checked his phone, the date remained the same as ever. Monday, November 8th, 2018.
How had it only been one day? Too much had happened for it to have only been one day. Within the span of nearly 15 hours, he'd not only dealt with paperwork and files, but been called down to a crime scene to find a murder victim, only to find out said murder victim was dealing with red ice and that there was possibly another outbreak about to happen. And to top it all off, right when he thought he could go to Jimmy's Bar and drown his problems with whiskey, he just had to find a dumb kid in the back of the place trying to sell even more red ice.
And now he'd left that kid back in a possibly abusive situation, unable to do anything because he only had suspicions and not actual evidence.
One day. All this had happened in one fucking day. He couldn't believe it.
He moved his hands from where they'd still been clutching the steering wheel, covering his face as he heavily exhaled. Headaches and thoughts alike pressed at the back of his head, and exhaustion was threatening to pin down his already heavy eyelids. God, he needed sleep. He just wanted to sleep, and forget everything about this day, forget that there was a drug problem, forget about Connor…
But even as he got out of the car and dragged himself inside, he knew there would be no forgetting. His brain wasn't likely to let him do so, and knowing his luck all he would be forgetting would be a website password or some important case file information. It was often that he'd find himself wishing he had a selective memory, or perhaps a means of controlling what he could remember and forget.
In that regard, maybe he wouldn't be such an ill-tempered man all the time.
Sumo was all over him the instance he stepped into the house, barking and whining as he danced on his front two paws. He sniffed his owner intently as the man knelt down to lend him some affection in the form of a head rub, drooling and looking up at him with curious eyes. No doubt he could smell the contents of the Phelps house all over Hank, reminding him to throw these clothes in the laundry next chance he got.
"Yeah, reeks doesn't it?" He bitterly chucked, continuing to scratch the big canine behind his ears. "I know, I don't like it either. You look like you've had a better day than me, at least."
He gave Sumo one last pat on the head before standing back up, and shrugged his oversized coat off. He tossed it onto a living room chair as he walked to the kitchen, while Sumo headed into the living room. Another search of the fridge and cabinets sent another reminder to Hank that he also needed to buy groceries tomorrow, and thus he settled on pulling out a beer from the lone pack sitting in the fridge.
When he entered the living room, he found Sumo all settled on the far end of the couch, his large head resting on one of the tattered pillows. Hank sat next to him, giving the dog another scratch on the back before reaching for the television remote. He made it a point to avoid any news related stations and ended up settling on a channel that was showing Star Trek reruns.
Taking a long sip of his beer, he tried his best to settle into his usual nightly routine of watching enough television before passing out drunk, but found he was not able to do so tonight. These new added issues were the only thing he could think of, not the show in front of him, and not even his beer, which he absent-mindedly kept taking sips of.
The red ice was one thing. He'd just been hoping it was a small issue, that it had only been Lonnie and maybe one other guy involved. And whoever that other guy was, well, that's who had probably killed Lonnie. But now that he and Chris had found Connor with a bag of the stuff, something told him it was bigger than just Lonnie and the other guy.
There were too many things going on. Too many things happening. And the more he thought about it, the more he was beginning to dread work tomorrow. Someone else was bound to call in reporting some incident related to red ice, that or he'd end up finding another dealer by accident. He only hoped it wouldn't be Connor this time.
Connor...oh. Yeah, that was the other thing.
Despite his best efforts, the image of Connor's fear-consumed eyes had not left him as of yet. He'd seen that look come over the boy's eyes three times in total tonight-once when he'd pulled the gun on, second when he'd first spoken to him in his office, and third when he'd been saying goodbye to him.
He'd tried not to imagine what was going on over there now. Nothing good, he figured, not with how Mr. Phelps had been handling Connor earlier. He felt ill just thinking about it, and not even the bitter taste of his drink could help with that. Why hadn't he done something...he could've done something, not anything drastic but...he could've at least left a phone number with the kid or something. Just in case something like that happened…
No.
It didn't matter. Even if he'd left a number there, there was a good chance Connor would still be at the mercy of his guardians...but then again, if he'd left the number, he could've….maybe he could've...
Fuck.
He needed to stop thinking about this, this wasn't any of his business!
Or was it?
He was the sheriff, after all, legally it was his business to do something, but what? No, there was too much going on already. He just needed to focus on one thing at a time, that was all. One thing at a time, one day at a time...and right now, the only thing he wanted to focus on was finishing this beer and going to sleep.
