by Hope Anika
For a long moment he said nothing, and Fiona clenched her cellphone. Part of her wanted to hurl it across the midway—or, better, at his head—but another part—that idiotic, foolish child who lived on in quiet, stubborn determination—wanted to believe.
“Please,” he said. A quiet, solemn word, one he’d never before said to her.
One that sounded sincere. One that dumbfounded her.
“Screw you,” she rasped, her throat painfully thick, her eyes burning. “You hurt me, Max. I thought we were family.”
“We are family,” he snarled.
“Since when?” A tear slid down her cheek, and she swiped it away, fury and pain and that sick, twisted hope churning within her. She didn’t want this. To believe again, to trust, to want, only to have him grind her beneath his heel. He would betray her, just like before.
But she was not the child she’d been, not for a long time.
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. Again.
The dickhead.
Was he manipulating her? Because he was not above that. But neither was he a man to sacrifice his pride—not for any reason. So if he was saying it, he probably meant it. And he sounded...desperate. Desperate.
As if, for once, she held all the cards.
Stunned, she tried to digest that earthshattering realization. Had she somehow tripped over the extension cord and knocked herself unconscious?
Alternate universe for friggin’ sure.
“Fi.” Max’s voice was tight. “Listen, I know there’s shit we need to hash out, but there’s no time. Not right now. Right now, I need your help. I’ve got a kid in trouble, and if I don’t get her somewhere safe, she’s dead.”
Dead. A kid.
Hang up, Fiona thought. He deserved all of her hate. All of her derision and disappointment and disgust.
But the kid... The kid didn’t. The kid was innocent. Alone. And in trouble.
Something to which Fiona could relate.
“Craptastic.” She sighed. “This is insane.”
“No. This is perfect.”
“Only for you.”
“I can compensate you,” Max said in a hard tone. “If that—”
“You’re being a dickhead again,” she told him. “There’s an entire midway full of people here, Max. Innocent people. Your witness—just by virtue of her presence—will endanger all of them.”
“I’ve got that covered.”
“You can’t possibly,” she protested.
“You have to trust me.”
Another harsh laugh rasped up her throat. “You burned that bridge a long time ago, brother.”
“Then give me a chance to rebuild it.”
Her stupid, foolish heart leapt, and she reached up to rub the back of her neck, more than a little unnerved. This was certifiable.
“The show is the perfect hiding place,” Max insisted. “People rarely look too close. It will work.”
Goddamn it, she wasn’t really considering this, was she? You dumb shit.
“Why?” she demanded. “What’s going on that you can’t keep her in a safe house? Has your precious Bureau been infiltrated?”
Again he said nothing, and the chill winding its way through her veins spread like an ugly stain.
“Awesome,” she said sarcastically.
“Just for a few weeks,” he promised quietly.
It was one thing to endanger herself; it was quite another to endanger her help and everyone on the show. What the hell was she thinking?
“She’s fourteen years old, Fi. Two nights ago she watched her entire family get capped. I have to keep her safe. I’m all she has.”
You were all I had, too. Yet he’d walked away without a backward glance.
And now here he was—because he knew she was hard only on the outside, an inconvenient and often painful truth she did her best to protect, and he was not above using that knowledge—the dickhead—which was spectacularly disappointing, if not surprising. That alone should have been enough to send him packing. But this decision...it wasn’t about Max. It was about an unknown fourteen-year-old kid, who was little more than a child, who—even faceless—Fiona could relate to. She knew what it was to be alone.
So now what? What are you going to do? Who are you going to be?
Who you want to be, or who you should be?
Goddamn it.
“Three weeks, no more,” she said, her voice hard. “And I’m putting her to work.”
“Deal,” Max said quickly. “We’ll be there tomorrow, before noon.”
He ended the call with an abrupt disconnect, and thunder rumbled overhead, a violent drumbeat that resonated through Fiona’s bones. She squinted up at the darkening sky, her head whirling with the sudden turn of events.
She needed her head examined. To trust Max again, even after he’d proven so unworthy of that trust. And to bring the kind of danger that came with him here... No matter what he’d said about having things covered, all bets were off.
No one would be safe.
Which was on her. Entirely. Because she was cursed with a soft heart, and no matter how much she hated Max, she loved him, too.
Always had, always would.
In her hand, her cell dinged. “Yeah?”
“Thank you,” Max said into her ear and hung up.
“Shit,” she said. Because...thank you.
Another thing he’d never bothered with.
“Shit,” she said again, angry. At him. Herself. Life.
What had happened, to change him so drastically?
And that right there was exactly why she should’ve said no. Because she didn’t know squat about him. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been on leave from Afghanistan to attend their parents’ funeral. She had no clue where he’d been in the decade that followed, not who he’d been, not what he’d been doing. She only knew he was FBI because Hatchet mentioned it once in passing.
Hatchet. Who was the closest thing to family she had, and who’d clearly kept in much closer contact with Max than she’d ever realized.
What the hell was going on?
A federal agent turning to his carny stepsister to keep his witness safe? Please, fool. That’s what the U.S. Marshals were for, no? Men with badges and guns; trained men, armed men. Men with license to do whatever was necessary to protect those they served. Was it not their very job to babysit federal witnesses?
Yes. Yes, it was.
So why would Max turn to her for help—and not them? There had to be a pretty significant reason, and it could be nothing good.
Thunder boomed down again, startling her. The sky had grown dark, and rain was falling in earnest now, heavy sheets that washed down the midway toward the unlit Ferris wheel, where it sat like a giant headstone, looming over the bright array of games, rides and concession trailers. She rubbed at her arms, chilled.
Nice visual.
God willing, it wasn’t prophecy.
*****
About the Author
Hope Anika is an indie author who lives in the Greater Yellowstone area. Her books have been finalists in the Daphne du Maurier Award for Excellence in Mystery and Suspense and The Fool for Love Contest sponsored by Virginia Romance Writers, Chapter 19 of Romance Writers of America. She can be reached via Facebook, Instagram, www.hopeanika.com or [email protected].