Free Ribbons by J R Evans Page B

Dwayne?
    “I don’t need this. Can’t you tell we’re going through a lot right now? He just died!” That was definitely Christy’s voice.
    Matt looked at the front door. All his stuff was upstairs. He hadn’t settled in yet, but he had thrown his duffel bag into Uncle Quent’s old bedroom. His laptop was in there, too, along with some of his “improvised” IDs. On top of that, he only had about twenty bucks in his pocket. That wasn’t much to start over with, and he would be on the run again. He needed that bag.
    Maybe he could just claim that he was a customer. They could book him if they wanted to, but they seemed more interested in the employees at the moment. No, that wouldn’t work. They’d probably point him out as the new owner if they thought it would help. He hadn’t exactly made any friends here yet.
    He started heading up the hardwood stairs. They weren’t quiet at all, despite his careful steps. Every other one seemed to squeak. He decided to go for it and sprinted to the top, hoping no one would notice over the shouting.
    “Isn’t this over?” The cop yelled the question, trying to force it into a statement.
    Christy held her own. “Well nobody told the hospital that the whorehouse was closed. Adam’s still sick, and they keep sending bills. So no. It ain’t over!”
    Christy’s room was to the right. Luckily Matt needed to go left where Uncle Quent’s old bedroom stood next to his office. In fact, Matt wasn’t sure how much his uncle had actually used that bedroom. The office looked more lived-in. It had pictures of his travels and misadventures, as well as some knickknacks that he must have picked up along the way. Food crumbs hid in the love seat cushions, and the throw rug had a threadbare path worn through the middle. Plus, it smelled like biker.
    The bedroom, by comparison, seemed empty. The bed was lumpy and covered with a plain comforter so faded Matt couldn’t tell what its original color might have been. There was a thick layer of dust on the dresser, and he had to rock the drawers back and forth if he wanted to open them. The chair in the corner was missing a pad on one leg that made the whole thing wobbly. He would bet that Uncle Quent slept on the love seat in his office most nights. Matt was tempted to do the same. He grabbed his bag off the wobbly chair and headed back out into the hallway.
    He stopped two steps away from the stairs when he saw the boy. Adam must have come up right after him. He didn’t look at Matt. He was standing at the top of the stairs with a notebook in one hand and a pencil in the other. Matt thought he saw math equations on the page it was open to, but the symbols didn’t look like anything he could remember from school. Adam took a step toward his mother’s door but then stopped when the shouting started again.
    “I thought we could make another run of it. He’s my son. I can help.” The cop was loud but sounded like he was trying not to be.
    Christy, on the other hand, wasn’t trying to quiet down at all. “He’s not your son as far as I’m concerned. You wrote him off years ago.”
    Adam took another step forward. He was right in front of the door now.
    “I was eighteen!” shouted the cop.
    “I was seventeen!” Christy shot back. “Just because you have a badge now doesn’t make you a good father!”
    Matt watched Adam as the boy stared at the frame around Christy’s door. It had pencil marks going up one side with Adam’s name next to them. Based on the ages next to the names, Adam and Christy had been here awhile. Adam dropped his notebook, and he reached out a hand toward the doorframe. He slowly slumped down the wall next to it until he was on his knees. He started to shake.
    “This isn’t a good life for him.” The cop was almost using an indoor voice now, and Matt barely heard him.
    He didn’t have any trouble hearing Christy. “We do fine! Together. Just like we have for nine years.”
    Adam’s eyes were closed. He