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“Thank you,” I murmured, looking into hazel eyes that, like Decker’s, seemed to be peering straight into my soul.
“This is Keon Edgemon, also known as Edge,” Decker said when the youngest of them stepped forward.
Edge’s unruly dark hair was clos
ely cropped on the sides but a little wild on top. His deep brown eyes held a twinkle of mischief as he brought my hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it.
“That’s enough,” growled Decker, taking my arm out of Edge’s grasp. “And this is Miles Stone, who we call Grinder.”
The last man to approach and shake my hand was the most hesitant of the three. His smile was engaging, but behind it, I saw a haunting hint of pain. “It’s nice to meet you,” he said. “I am also sorry for your loss.” There was an edge in his words that spoke of hurt. I found myself wanting to put my arms around him and hug away the sadness in his eyes that mirrored my own.
Grinder took a step back, and the three men turned to Decker, who invited them to take a seat.
I turned to him too, and when I took a step toward the bedroom, he held out his hand. “The conversation we’re about to have involves you, sweetheart.”
I nodded and came to sit by his side.
Rile sat forward in his chair and took a deep breath. “Your friend from Boston, Adler. What do you know of his background?”
“Not much, to be honest.”
“Let’s begin with what you do know.”
18
Decker
I watched Rile as he walked Mila through what he already knew and what he wanted to know from her perspective. Part of me wished he’d shared the report he obviously had on Adler Livingston, but the other part was fascinated by Rile’s technique. As long as the man didn’t cross a line that would unfairly put Mila on the defensive, I’d sit back, watch, and listen.
“What about his parents? Have you met them?”
“I have not.”
“Do you know how Marshall Livingston accumulated his wealth?”
When I saw Mila flinch, I moved closer and took her hand in mine. The color drained from her face.
“Gentlemen,” I heard Rile say, motioning to Edge and Grinder, who both stood and left the room.
“What just happened?” I asked, keeping my voice soft and even.
“Adler’s father’s name is Marshall?”
“That’s right.”
Mila wrapped both arms around her stomach. “Can I have some water please?”
I walked to the kitchen, never taking my eyes off of her. I held the glass out for her, and after taking a sip, she handed it back.
Mila stood and walked over to the bookshelves that lined one wall of the living room. She studied the books in them, running her fingers across the spines.
“I met you once before,” she said.
“I remember.” It was more than that, though. I recalled every detail of that particular day. It was shortly after I’d been taken out of one foster home and placed into another that was on the outskirts of Austin.
The area was predominantly affluent, but my foster parents were from the poor side of town. It was the family that came before my last foster experience—the one that took me to Hays High School where I met Quint Alexander and the trajectory of my life had changed so dramatically.
I’d been thirteen at the time, and the school I attended was so small that elementary and junior high was in the same building.
