Don't Go by L.J. Breedlove (series like harry potter txt) 📕

parked. “Come on, my friend,” he said. “Let’s get you in the house.”

They were still on the sidewalk leading to the front door when two men in suits approached them. They sure stood out in this neighborhood, Cage thought. White men in suits never was good news. He kept walking, urging Ryan along. He wasn’t sure Ryan had even noticed them yet.

“Ryan Matthews?” one of the men said. “We need a word with you.”

Ryan stopped. He had a migraine now on top of everything else. “Can it wait?” he asked. “I’ve had some bad news, and I need to take some medication for a migraine.”

“This won’t take long,” the younger of the two assured him. “We need the whereabouts of Teresa Valdez or her son Rafael Valdez.”

“Do you have a warrant?” Ryan asked, and he took another step toward the front steps to the parsonage.

“Do we need one?” the man asked.

“Do you have some ID?” Ryan asked.

The silent man pulled out a badge opened it to show him. Cage looked. “ICE,” he said neutrally.

“Then yes, you need a warrant,” Ryan said, and then he was on first step. Cage moved ahead of him onto the porch. “And you can present it to my attorney when you get it.” He gave them a name, and a number. He fumbled a bit on the number.

“We know them,” the agent muttered.

Ryan opened the front door.

“We’re not done talking here,” the second agent said. He took a step onto the parsonage property.

“You’re on private property,” Cage said.

The agent backed up. “We have more questions.”

“Warrant. Lawyer. Good night, agents.” Ryan was in the door, and Cage closed in behind him. Cage locked the front door.

Rev. Washington was standing there. “Good job,” he said.

Ryan peered at him. “Been a rough day,” he said. “I want to see Rafael for a few minutes, but then I’m going to crash. And I don’t mean that as slang for take a nap.”

“He’s in the back yard with Martha,” he said, leading the way. “Are you hungry? We’re about ready to eat. Cage? You’ll stay?”

“Sure,” Cage said easily. “Ryan? Food?”

He’d had those nachos, that wasn’t going to be enough to take his migraine meds on. In fact, he couldn’t have chosen a worse food for a migraine. He nodded. “Let me take some medication,” he said.

But he had to see Rafael first. Reassure himself that he was safe and happy. He stepped outside, and Rafael saw him, came running with arms wide. “Papa,” he said. Ryan swept him up in his arms just as Rafael had expected him to. He hugged him.

“What have you been doing today?” he asked. Rafael chattered at him. Mostly Spanish, some English, and some Rafael’s own private language. Ryan didn’t understand it, but he got the gist. Rafael had a good time today.

And that was what mattered. He carried his son into the house to wash up for dinner. He sat Rafael on the counter by the sink. Rafael patted his head. “Malito?” he asked.

“No, I don’t feel good,” Ryan said in English, and then haltingly in Spanish. “Dinner and then I will go to sleep and feel better.”

Rafael nodded, and used the washcloth on his own face before also washing Ryan’s. Ryan laughed. He took the prescription meds along with the Excedrin. He was having more migraines than usual, he acknowledged to himself. He might mention that to Dr. Clarke. The name reminded him of everything he’d learned, and his head pounded harder.

He picked up Rafael who protested.

“Puedo caminar,” Rafael said stubbornly. “Soy chico grande.”

“You are, are you?” Ryan said and laughed. He set the little boy down and held out his hand. “Maybe it’s me who needs a hug.”

Rafael looked up at him and took his hand. He tugged on it until Ryan bent down, and then he hugged him. “Te quiero papa,” he whispered in his ear, and then he giggled. “Hambre!” And he raced to dining room.

Ryan laughed and followed. He felt better already.

Dinner talk was general conversation. Mrs. Washington talked about having Rafael with her, which she seemed to have enjoyed. Cage talked about the ICE agents who tore down the posters at the school. “Silly,” his mother opined. “Thin-skinned monsters.”

Ryan laughed. “I may borrow that phrase for the headline of an editorial,” he told her.

Cage cleared the table and loaded the dishwasher. “Just leave the pans to soak, son,” Martha Washington said. “I’ll do them later.”

Cage kissed her and then his father. “I need to get back. I’m going to move Ryan’s car to the back lot, should have parked there in the first place.”

“You’re taking the bus?” his father asked.

He nodded.

“Be careful. I’m concerned about those ICE agents,” his father said.

“No problem,” he said. “I’m always careful.”

He affected righteous indignation as both of his parents laughed at him as he left.

“Time for bed, little man,” Ryan said to his son. He let him walk upstairs, by himself, and then there was the night routines, pajamas, and Rafael was in bed. His own headache was clearing, and he thought he might talk to the Reverend for a bit.

Rafael looked at him, and he tucked him in. “¿Mamá?” he asked. “¿Cuándo vamos a ir Mamá?”

“Soon,” he promised him. And for the first time, he believed it. Soon they would go after Teresa. But he had to get his own head straight first.

He came downstairs and found both of the Washingtons in the living room. Clearly, they each had their space. The Reverend was in a recliner facing the television which was on but had the sound turned low. Martha Washington sat on the couch. She had her reading glasses on, but the book was in her lap.

Ryan took the opposite end of the couch. “No J.J.?” he asked.

“He called to say he would be leaving the newsroom at 8 p.m. when he got his story done for Emily,” Mrs. Washington answered him. “He said he’d pick up some food at one of the food trucks.”

Ryan laughed. “He hasn’t been exposed