Trent stared at his phone, willing Lauren to answer him. The dead time had arrived and it was only nine-thirty. The night stretched ahead of him, and he was in no mood for it. He thought about walking across the street to the firehouse, where surely there’d be good food and probably a dance party happening.
Why they didn’t have barbecues and big-screen televisions in the police department, he didn’t know.
What he did know was that he and Lauren needed to talk. He hadn’t liked her keeping Porter up, and when she’d suggested his own son didn’t need to take a nap, Trent’s anger had returned in full force.
He’d been thinking about it since he’d woken that afternoon to go get his son from school. No, he hadn’t gotten in trouble with Miss Terry. But Trent knew Porter, and the boy was tired. D
