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I can’t follow the path behind door number two. Margaret knows my full story. She doesn’t know the identity of my foster family, but she knows enough.
She also doesn’t know I keep tabs on all of the people who tormented Terrance Montgomery.
I know exactly where Jack Johnson, the ringleader of the bullies at our high school, lives in Buffalo. Sure, there are dozens of Jack Johnsons in New York State. But I tracked down the one who went out of his way to make me feel worthless, beginning in fucking third grade. The one who gave me a series of mind-numbing concussions in high school.
Jack Johnson manages a bar hundreds of miles away from New York City. He’s behind on his truck payments, and his second wife filed for divorce. He’s got three kids, all boys from his first marriage. And I’m guessing he is raising those poor kids to pick on the next generation of weak outcasts.
“I’m the ‘poor kid’ in these pictures,” I say flatly.
“I connected the dots,” Margaret says in her usual high-pitch tone. But this time the hint of sympathy sounds pretty damn close to genuine. “Do you know who took the pictures? Was it the woman you were dating?”
I shake my head. “I would have remembered Alexandra. She is—” And yeah, I hesitate because it feels like poor manners to call my blackmailing ex-girlfriend pretty in front of my fiancée.
“Too beautiful to forget?” Kayla suggests.
I nod.
“Are we talking Lauren Ann pretty?” Kayla asks. “Don’t forget, I was in your class from the day you moved to town. I knew all the pretty girls too.”
“You were one of them,” I point out. “Still are.”
“That’s sweet.” Kayla pats my freaking leg.
I shoot a look at her that I damn well hope says careful or I’m playing the necessary kissing card again. But I don’t know if that’s a threat right now. I want to draw her close and hold tightly to her. I want to kiss her and pretend these pictures never surfaced. Hell, while I’m walking through my fucking imagination, I’ll pretend I never met Alexandra. I’ll conjure up a reality where my best friend wishes to kiss me more than she wants another plate of tofu dumplings.
I close my eyes. My imagination’s gone haywire. Or maybe I’m craving the comfort Kayla delivered when I was a kid. She would sneak into my room on the nights my foster parents yelled so damn loud she heard every word through her bedroom window. She’d come in through my first-floor bedroom window and offer to study with me. Night after night, she reminded me that there was a way out. She believed I could rise above the bullying and the abuse one day.
And now the past is threatening to pull me under again.
“Gavin?” Margaret says. “Are you certain Alexandra didn’t go to school with you?”
“I’m sure,” I say, opening my eyes and refocusing on the present. “She’s too young. She’s still in her early twenties.”
“A good dermatologist could help her appear a decade younger,” Margaret says.
Kayla tenses beside me at the word dermatologist. I need to shut that line of questioning down before Margaret delves into Kayla’s past relationships. It’s bad enough we’re talking about a woman I was sleeping with around a damn coffee table. If we launch into a discussion of Mr. Mistake, Kayla might walk out.
“I never met her before she took a job at my gym,” I say firmly.
“She might have altered her appearance since high school,” Margaret said. “You changed your name. Others might have too.”
“No, I keep track of the kids who bullied me.” I ignore her pointed comment about my former identity. My past is supposedly under lock and key. Yet, here we are.
“I know exactly how much Jack Johnson hates his life right now,” I add. “And every other kid who beat me until I could barely get off the school bus at the end of the day.”
“Really?” Kayla murmurs. “You never told me that.”
“I didn’t think you’d approve,” I say honestly.
“I don’t.” A small frown replaces Kayla’s smile. “Do you also keep track of the Masters?” She turns to Margaret. “They were his foster family.”
“Rick and Liz served six years in prison,” I say flatly. “Rick died about a month after his release, and Liz moved in with his sister in Vermont. I’ve known exactly where they were since I pressed charges against them when I was seventeen. I’ve also followed my caseworker. Sophia Galanos never went to prison. But she was forced to close that damn agency. She lost her license and never placed another child in a home and left them to rot. I made sure of that. She moved to Greece seventeen years ago to live with her parents.”
I deliver the facts in a monotone. Still, the hate rises up when I think about the so-called parents who kept a roof over my head,
but did little else to protect me. Sophia Galanos wasn’t much better.
Tossing the stack of photos on the table, I look at Margaret. “How do you know these are from my ex?”
