When I Found You

by Brenda Novak

  But what if her mother was telling the truth? What if someone else shot J.T.? If she turned her mother over too soon, they might not look any further. Anya was the type of individual who made an easy scapegoat. There were plenty of people who’d gone to prison for something they didn’t do, so it was certainly possible.

  Although Natasha had been let down, disappointed, even disgusted by her mother’s actions, being a drug addict who couldn’t keep her life together didn’t make Anya a murderer.

  “We need to go to the car to get your purse.” If she could find a receipt from the grocery store, maybe she’d have something to indicate her mother wasn’t with J.T. at the time he was shot.

  “Yes,” her mother said in relief. “I need that cigarette.”

  She hurried for the door, but Natasha stopped her. “I’ll get it. Just tell me where the car is and give me the keys. You can shower while I go.”

  Fortunately, Anya had the presence of mind to remember where she’d left her vehicle. At least, Natasha hoped it would be where she’d been told. She got her mother some sweats to change into for when she got out of the shower, walked down to the light and turned left for another eighth of a mile or so before finding the fruit stand with a small parking area her mother had described.

  She couldn’t help looking furtively over her shoulder again and again as she approached the car. It was so dark out, and there were no streetlights. She did have her phone, however, so she used the flashlight function to look around her and then inside the car.

  It wasn’t locked, even though her mother’s purse was sitting on the passenger seat in plain sight. But had someone stolen it, they wouldn’t have gotten away with much. Anya didn’t have enough credit to get any credit cards; she relied exclusively on cash. And unless it was right after she got her disability check, she never seemed to have more than twenty bucks on her at a time.

  The cabin light went on when Natasha opened the door, and she could plainly see dark brownish smears on the steering wheel, where her mother’s hands had been, along with the gearshift. Bloodstains. They made her uneasy and desperate enough that she sat in the driver’s seat, pulled her mother’s purse into her lap and rummaged through it immediately, hoping against hope that she’d find a receipt from the grocery store or some other small shred of evidence to suggest her mother might be telling the truth.

  Gum, cigarettes, makeup, pills—Natasha didn’t even look at the label on the bottle because she knew she wouldn’t approve and didn’t need anything else to be upset about—some change, a ratty old wallet with very little money inside and a multitude of old wrappers and crushed receipts. Her mother’s purse was full of those things and more, but there was nothing recent.

  Yanking the purse strap over her shoulder, she got out so she could search the car.

  She found nothing reassuring there, either. What she did find was a note from J.T. that had fallen between the seat and the console telling Anya that she had to move out right away because he’d met someone else—just the kind of thing that might upset someone badly enough to make them do something desperate.

  “No way,” she whispered.

  * * *

  Mack’s eyes were so gritty he almost couldn’t move them as dawn approached. His back and legs were stiff, too. He’d been sitting in the same uncomfortable chair all night, hoping his father might come around. But sticking it out for six miserable hours had been a waste of effort. While the equipment hummed, rattled and beeped, J.T. hadn’t stirred. Chances were good he didn’t even know Mack was there.

  With a groan, Mack stood and stretched. He had a feeling this was going to be a long day. Last night, the shooting and its aftermath had seemed surreal. It’d been difficult to grasp that his father’s life hung in the balance, that this wasn’t something that could be easily fixed. He’d wanted to believe J.T. would pull through and be able to say who shot him and why, but after being up all night, watching a ventilator push air into J.T.’s lungs, Mack was beginning to understand that may never happen.

  If it didn’t—if J.T. died—then what?

  Intending to go find a cup of coffee or get some food, he opened the door to step out into the hall and had to jump back to avoid colliding with the nurse who’d been checking on J.T. periodically through the night.

  “How’s your father?” she asked, her voice subdued in deference to J.T. and the patients in the rooms nearby.

  “I don’t know,” he replied. “You’re going to have to tell me.” The sickly pallor of J.T.’s skin, his advancing age and his hard living had never been more apparent. Mack knew that much. J.T. looked like a cadaver already.

  She gave him an encouraging smile. “The doctor should be by soon. Meanwhile, I’ll check on him and let you know if I see anything new we should worry about.”

  They didn’t need anything new; they had plenty of old things to worry about. But he understood that she was just trying to be nice. It wasn’t as if she could offer him any guarantees. “Appreciate it.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Is there a cafeteria in this hospital?”

  “Down on one.”

  “Thanks.” With a sigh, he pulled his phone from his pocket as he started for the elevator and was surprised to see that he’d missed a text from Natasha during the night. Apparently, he hadn’t remained as vigilant and alert as he’d thought.

  I’m sorry about your father. I hope he’s going to be okay.

  She knew. Who’d told her? One of his brothers?

  Mack felt a flash of anger. Grady? He’d better not have been too hard on her.

  Or had she heard from her mother?

  To his knowledge, no one had found Anya yet. But it was possible that the police had picked her up—or whoever else might’ve shot J.T.—and he just hadn’t heard about it.

  He waited to respond until he could get off the elevator. But then he discovered that the cafeteria wasn’t open quite yet and walked out into a courtyard to get some fresh air and stretch his legs. His initial response to what’d happened—trying to keep it from Natasha until he could get it figured out himself—seemed ridiculous now. Of course he wouldn’t be able to keep this type of thing quiet for long. But he’d been hoping he could minimize this new drama, serve it up in a more palatable form. At a minimum, he’d planned to reassure her of J.T.’s well-being so that the consequences her mother faced wouldn’t be nearly as bad.

  But J.T. was lying in a hospital bed, fighting for his life, and Mack didn’t know how to make that seem any better than it was.

  So do I, but we don’t know what’s going on yet.

  He waited fifteen minutes to see if she might respond but got nothing. It was early yet, though. He hoped she was sleeping and not just avoiding him.

  He was about to go back in when Dylan called.

  “How’s Dad?” his brother asked.

  “Hard to say,” Mack replied. “Far as I can tell, there’s been no change.”

  “Should I come over?”

  “If you can. I’m dying to take a shower. What time do you need me at the shop?”

  “You’ve got an hour or so. Grady’s there, but he didn’t get much sleep.”

  “He’s furious that Anya has disappeared.”

  “So am I. That she would do this is just...unreal. Have you heard from Natasha?”

  “No,” he said because what she’d sent wasn’t what Dylan was looking for anyway.

  “Do you think she’ll call us?”

  “Have you tried to call her?”

  “Several times. All of us have. But no one has gotten through to her yet.”

  “She’ll respond.”

  “I hope so, because we can’t cut her much slack on this one. If Anya shot Dad, and Natasha knows where she’s at, she needs to turn her in.”

  “What if Anya didn’t shoot Dad and is afraid that no one will believe her?”

 
“Come on, Mack.”

  The skepticism in that statement alarmed him. “What?”

  “You know it was her as well as I do.”

  “No, I don’t. And I don’t think we should rush to judgment.”

  “You’d be rushing to judgment, too, if it wasn’t for Natasha.”

  “Maybe, but still.”

  “That reminds me—how’d the paternity test turn out?”

  The disappointment Mack had felt when he received the results washed over him again. That he was rumpled and tired and worried about this new problem didn’t help. “He’s not mine.”

  There was a brief pause. Then Dylan, his voice filled with honesty, said, “I can’t say I’m sorry to hear that. See you soon.”

  After they disconnected, Mack stared down at the picture he’d selected for the wallpaper on his phone. Dylan might be glad Lucas wasn’t his child. If things got sticky, it would make it easier for the Amoses not to have that wrinkle to deal with, and it had been Dylan’s job to look out for the family for so long that anticipating and evaluating possible pitfalls came second nature to him now.

  But Mack wasn’t happy Lucas wasn’t his son. He’d begun to want that above all else.

  Twenty-One

  Natasha was too new at work to call in sick. Aiyana was understanding and kind enough that she’d probably be gracious, even if Natasha did beg off, but that was all the more reason not to do it. After owning her practice, she knew what it was like to be on the employer’s side, and she didn’t want to take advantage of someone like Aiyana. She guessed Aiyana’s trust and inherent kindness was the reason she did so well with the broken boys she took under her wing. She was one of the few people Natasha had met who seemed to understand that love was the greatest healer there was, and she spread it around liberally.

  Natasha left her mother sleeping in Lucas’s bed and hurried back to the fruit stand. After discovering the letter that gave Anya motive to shoot J.T., she’d been loath to park Anya’s car at her house. But she couldn’t leave it at the fruit stand much longer. The owner might call the cops to report an abandoned vehicle, and Natasha didn’t want to deal with the police. She’d decided to put the old Camry inside her garage until she could figure out what was going on—whether J.T. would recover, whether Anya was lying to her about what’d happened, whether she’d have to turn her own mother over to the authorities.

  She was clammy with sweat by the time she’d moved the Camry and reached her Jetta at The Blue Suede Shoe so she could drive to work. She hated to show up at the school looking as though she could use another shower, but there was no way around that—not unless she was willing to be late. Everything had taken longer than expected.

  She felt self-conscious as she walked into the administration building. It wasn’t that hot yet, but she drew attention just for being new, and now she looked like a wilted flower even though the day had just begun. She hadn’t slept much, had a headache from drinking at the club last night and was so worried about J.T.—whether he’d recover and how this latest development would affect his sons and her relationship with them—that she’d created sores on her fingertips from digging at her cuticles.

  Eight hours. She could get through eight hours. She just hoped she didn’t have any emergencies to contend with. During her residency, she’d been trained to deal with almost anything, and to handle it on very little sleep, but this went beyond rest. She didn’t have any emotional reserves at the moment, either. She hoped the day would be uneventful and that she’d soon be able to get back to her mother, where, with any luck, she could get more coherent answers and a better idea of whether or not Anya had done the unthinkable.

  “Good morning.”

  A male voice at the door startled Natasha, nearly causing her to drop her coffee. As she was coming into the building, she’d cast a wary glance at the office in the back corner and gotten the impression that Aiyana was out. Betty May was in the reception area, punctual as always, but she’d been so busy dealing with the throng of students waiting to get help with various schedule issues, appointments with the school counselor or forms for a field trip or after-school activity that Natasha had been able to scoot past her with barely a nod. She’d stopped at the break room so she could fuel the next few hours with caffeine and slipped into her office, where she’d been safe.

  Until Eli had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.

  “Hey.” She set her cup on her small desk so Aiyana’s son wouldn’t be able to spot her damaged cuticles. “How are you doing this morning?”

  “Great,” he replied. “Just wanted to check with you to make sure you were okay with what happened at the club last night.”

  Taken off guard, she blinked at him. “What was that?”

  He checked behind him as if to make sure Betty May was still too busy to listen in. “My mother mentioned to me—maybe a day or two ago—that Roger was making himself a nuisance where you were concerned. So when he approached you last night, I didn’t know whether to step in. You seemed to be enjoying yourself, which is why I didn’t, but I thought I’d ask—for future reference.”

  “Oh, no. He’s fine. You did the right thing. I needed a night out, and he was friendly and willing to dance.”

  “I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, except—” he shifted uncomfortably “—when we left we saw your car was still in the lot, and...then I began to worry.”

  “I didn’t go home with him,” she said with a laugh. “He gave me a ride because I’d let loose a little too much, if you know what I mean.”

  “Of course. I’m glad you were able to have a good time,” he said with a kind smile, and she couldn’t help thinking how much he sounded like his mother.

  Grateful she’d made it to work in spite of the difficulties of the past twenty-four hours, she sank into her chair. She’d purposely avoided looking at her phone this morning for fear she’d find more messages from the Amos brothers. But she knew it would only provoke them if she put off responding for too long.

  She sighed as she checked her messages.

  No more calls or texts from Dylan, Aaron, Rod or Grady. They’d reached out, made it clear they wanted to talk to her. Now they were waiting to see what she’d do. The ball was in her court, so to speak.

  The only new message she’d received was from Mack. He’d responded to what she’d sent him in the middle of the night when she couldn’t sleep. She’d been hesitant to contact him. She’d known he could easily be awake, given what had occurred, and might try to call her if he realized she was up. Eventually, he, too, would ask where her mother was, and she wasn’t ready to contend with that moment.

  Fortunately, he hadn’t asked yet. But now that she’d read his message, she almost wished she had talked to him. She was dying to get more information on how J.T. was doing, where he’d been shot and what damage had been done. As a doctor, she was especially interested in those details, so that she could form her own opinion on his chances of survival. But she was also longing to be part of their worry and their concern—as she would’ve been if it hadn’t been Anya who was probably to blame.

  So do I, but we don’t know what’s going on yet, he’d said.

  That told her nothing, and she hadn’t received anything else from him. Why didn’t they know more by now? Was J.T. dying?

  She tried to imagine what must be going through Mack’s mind—through the minds of his brothers, too—and understood how betrayed and angry they must feel. She remembered how they’d reacted when Anya took her to meet them for the first time at a steak house in Sutter Creek. Anya had been so excited to get her hooks into them, so there’d be some benefit to having married J.T., she’d arranged the meeting before J.T. was even released from prison.

  Although they’d been polite, Natasha had been able to tell they were far less excited to meet Anya than she was to meet them, and the way her mother had acted, as if she expect
ed to be accepted as family right away, embarrassed Natasha. She’d sat at the table, sullen and angry and unable to eat, and somehow Dylan and the others had been able to understand the terrible position she was in as a young girl who had no control over the situation. Natasha honestly felt that, in the beginning, they’d put up with her mother for her sake as much as J.T.’s.

  Then J.T. had gotten out after twenty years behind bars, and he’d had nowhere to go and no money, either, so the brothers had let him move in to the house, too. Natasha remembered being shocked by how entitled J.T. had acted. The house had been his in the beginning. Natasha understood that. But she didn’t feel as though Dylan, Mack and the others owed him anything. Without their hard work while J.T. was in prison, there would’ve been nothing left. No house. No business.

  “Damn it,” she muttered as she straightened and re-straightened her small desk. She owed them so much. But she was all her mother had. How did she turn Anya in without first making sure it was the right thing to do?

  Because she was trying not to obsess about it until she could get home and speak to her mother once again, and she was missing her little boy, she sent a text to Ace.

  How’s Luke?

  He didn’t respond. But Ace was often up late, gaming, so he could still be sleeping. She assumed it was his mother who was taking care of Lucas and hoped she’d hear from Ace later. She needed a bit of reassurance. Everything in her life seemed upside down right now, including Ace’s sudden interest in taking Luke for an extended visit. The paternity test and the threat of another man being Luke’s father seemed to have made Ace snap out of his selfish preoccupation and apathy.

  That might prove to be a good thing for Luke in the long term. Natasha certainly hoped so. But what did it mean for her?