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“Who, Sadie? Who? Who the fuck got you…Jesus!” Jackson can’t bring himself to say it.
Then his hands are on my shoulders. Thumbs digging into my clavicles. He’s screaming something my ears have lost the will to comprehend.
“It was him. Him. Fucking him!”
“Jackson! No, no, holy –“ Jackson flings her away. Ginger squeals, holding tight to him for support, but barely.
His eyes widen and his grip dies. It takes his pregnant wife nearly slamming into the wall face first before he lets go.
Jackson steps back, disgusted. I wish I knew if it was meant for me, or himself.
“Fuck. I’m so sorry, baby,” he growls, clenching Ginger to his chest. He cups her reluctant face, sliding his fingers through her hair, giving me and dad the evil eye.
For once, I stare right back, finding my strength. I did not make you do that, asshole.
“We’re going home, and I’m sorting out the shit nobody else has the stones to deal with. I’ve got a lead on that Castoff prick. Mark my words, I’ll pay him a visit myself. Before the police show up. I want a chance to beat the ever-living shit out of him first for wrecking my life.”
“Jackson!” Dad barks his name one last time, but there’s no stopping him.
He’s gone, heading through the garage, a sobbing Ginger hooked on his arm. I’m still alone, cold, and utterly crushed.
Even when my father finally turns to me, disgust fading from his eyes, and holds me in the tightest embrace I think we’ve shared since my Sweet Sixteen, it isn’t enough. It isn’t consolation. It can’t help.
I know what’s coming next: disaster.
12
Growling Closer (Marshal)
“Daddy…it’s cold.”
“Working on it, honeybee. Give me a minute and drink your hot cider. Little sips, baby girl, just like I told you.” I break another log apart, hurling the wood into the old furnace, slamming the metal grate shut.
Of course the temperature had to plummet on day fourteen of exile. Ten days past the time we should already be several states away from Port Eagle.
The real problem isn’t that this trailer parked on the abandoned hunting ground is too cold, too dreary, too far removed from civilization. It’s that it’s working too well. It’s comfortable enough to keep me here, hiding away with Mia while I try to force myself to pull the pin. There’s no hurry to start the long, permanent road trip that will take us God knows where.
A different end of the country, certainly. That much, I know. Anchorage, maybe, or Tucson.
Whatever mid-sized city has never attracted a single person from Port Eagle, Iowa, and who can’t identify me as the Castoff behind my growing scruff. I reach up and scratch.
Shit itches. Another week, the full beard will start feeling natural, and then I’ll be able to settle into the cover story I’ve concocted, wherever we wind up. I’m telling our new neighbors I’m a Missoula affiliate. One of those lumbersexual gun shop owners who made a killing selling ammo to the Prairie Devils MC, or whatever the hell other scary syndicate I can name drop to make people keep their nosy ass questions to themselves.
Easy. I hope.
Leaving this place, on the other hand…putting more miles between me and Red…
God damn. I sit down next to Mia, pushing my fingers through my hair, trying not to let her see me scared.
It’s hard, and it shouldn’t be.
Why am I fucking up like this today? Why for the last week have I been telling myself we’ll check the truck and leave? Tomorrow, honeybee.
Always tomorrow. Never today.
“Daddy, I’m hungry.” She tugs at my flannel sleeve, giving me a longing look. For a second, I look through the wall, wishing like hell I’d never posted that nanny ad.
I’m an okay cook, but nothing like Red. My little girl misses her grub even if she won’t say it. Hell, so do I.
I wish I’d done things differently, like never bringing Sarah Kelley into my house. But by the time I give Mia my reassuring smile, promise her mac and cheese, and start rummaging through the tiny fridge to see if we have any frozen peas left for a veggie add-in, I know it isn’t true.
I don’t regret this, however much I hate roughing it out with my little girl. I don’t regret her.
Fuck, I miss her more than ever.
Little Mia’s sing-song humming while she waits for me to boil water just drives it home. It’s the Star Spangled banner. I cock my head, listening to the national anthem. Out of place, out of context, but damn if it isn’t what they were working on before the terrible night that ripped her away from me.
I try not to slam the knife down on the onions and mushrooms I’m adding to our poor man’s macaroni casserole. At least I have real cheese to flesh out the instant powder.
