Page 18 of 10 Signs You Need to Grovel

“So,” she says slowly, “if he asks about you during that time, we’d tell him your family still can’t find you?”

I nod. “They agreed to the plan. The hikes start in two weeks.”

Brow pinched, she focuses on the table and blinks for several slow beats. When she looks back up, there’s more color in her cheeks. “I’m a bit nervous about lying to him, but I think it actually might be a good way to do this. Let him get to know you without all the anxiety that comes with such a huge event. Thank you, Des.” She dips her head shyly. “For thinking of this. For thinking of him.”

A familiar burn tightens my throat, but a rush of relief has me relaxing. “He’s all I’ve been thinking about these days.”

She sniffles and nods. “When we do tell him, Max knows the whole witness protection story. I explained it to him before meeting your family, so we don’t have to navigate that.”

“That’s good,” I say quietly. “Do you two need money? Anything at all?”

“Thank you for offering, but we’re fine. What I want is to know more about you.” Her gaze drops to my neck, lingering on my tattoo, then drifts to my lips. For a second her eyes seem to flare with heat, and my body reacts like it always did—desire licking up my spine—but she flicks her attention to my eyes. “How did you get through it all? Witness protection is only this crazy thing I’ve seen in movies. It must have been horrible.”

“Horrible?” I laugh, but there’s zero humor in it. WITSEC talk is an excellent libido killer. “There isn’t a big enough word to describe what it’s like to learn your father’s a criminal who lied to you for years, but you get screwed for it.”

“But why? I don’t understand why he did it.”

“Greed? Narcissism? Ego?” I force my locked shoulders to lower. “I honestly don’t know.”

“And his tell-all book—the articles about it said your dad’s testimony sent Victor Becerra’s son to jail. That he was killed there and Victor put out hits on your whole family as retribution. You must have been freaking out.”

“Me? Nah.” I go for unaffected, but my shrug is more of a jerky twitch. “What’s a death threat or fifty?”

The corners of her lips lift. “I forgot you watched the Rocky series in one night. You could totally take down a hitman.”

“In my sleep.”

“With one hand tied behind your back.”

“While blindfolded,” I add, doing a half-ass karate-chop move.

Her small laugh cracks me open in the best and worst way. Joking with Sadie is a breath of fresh air, but I can’t evade the tough stuff. Not with our messed-up history.

Spreading my thighs apart, I lean my elbows heavier on the table. “We were obviously all rough for a while. Mom put on a brave face. Kicked Dad out once the US Marshals got us settled in Houston and did her best to provide some normalcy, but none of us left the house much in the early years. We got pretty reclusive.”

“God, Des. I’m so sorry.”

No one’s more sorry than me. “We moved on with life eventually. Got jobs and our own apartments. But none of us made any real friends. Trusting people was hard, and having to lie about our pasts was a conversational dead end.”

I had my book club of two, though. Days and nights where I’d read a bunch of sometimes boring but usually thought-provoking books so Mom and I could gossip like a couple of middle-aged housewives about the juiciest parts—“Any dude who proposes on a jumbotron deserves to be ditched” (The Proposal).

“E’s doing great now,” I say, steering us to less morose topics. “He’s back with Delilah, and his graphic novels are incredible, which you probably already know. Lennon runs his outdoor camps for kids. Jake and Callahan work together doing construction. They seem happy staying in Houston.”

“And you?” she asks hesitantly. “Are you happy with your life?”

“Me?” I lean into my bench seat, still going for cool. “If I were any happier, you could use my energy to power a space station.”

She stares at me, no lip twitch in sight. Guess she doesn’t buy my bullshit.

“Missing you, Sadie . . .” I close my eyes briefly, my heart feeling like it’s covered in paper cuts. “It sucked the life out of me.”

She makes a tiny sound, and I meet her pained gaze, wishing I could erase her hurt, but I need to hear her story too. Face the heart-wrenching history I’ve tried to bury. “What about you? How did you deal with everything?”

The only connection I had to her at the time was social media. Her worried and angry posts were similar to Delilah’s and broke me word by word:

If anyone hears from the Bowers, I need to find Desmond.

Desmond, you have to call me.