When I’ve got the adrenaline rush mostly in check, I pad into the hall. I hesitate outside Lee’s room when I hear Sherm’s voice whispering, “… and she had a shark’s jaw.”
I tip my forehead into my sister’s door, relieved to hear my little brother’s voice after so long.
“You know, there are real live sharks in the ocean right out there,” Lee answers, her voice just above a whisper.
“Seriously?” Sherm asks. There’s the awe of only the truly innocent in his voice.
I shove the Glock into the waistband of my sweats, brace a hand against the wall outside their door, hang my head. When I was nine, I was still innocent too. Sixteen years later, I can’t even see innocent in the rearview mirror anymore.
“Seriously,” Lee answers. “Maybe we can go out in a boat and see one.”
When I open the door and peek through, the moonlight illuminates Sherm, on his stomach under Lee’s covers. Lee’s on her side, her head propped on an elbow, rubbing his back.
It shouldn’t surprise me that he came to her when he was scared, but it stings a little that the thing he was scared of was probably me.
“Why don’t you try going back to sleep,” Lee says. “You’ve got school tomorrow.”
Sherm squirms deeper into the pillow. “Lee?” he asks, his voice muffled.
“What, Sherm?” she answers, laying her head down next to his.
There’s weight to the silence before Sherm asks, “Are they coming?”
My rib cage tightens, making my next breath rasp loudly in the cold silence of the dark hallway.
“We’re safe here, Sherm,” Lee answers. “I promise.”
“When can we go home?” he whispers.
There’s a long second where Lee doesn’t answer. When she finally does, it’s on a weary sigh. “I wish I knew, buddy.”
The sadness in her voice tugs at the deepest part of me. I need to go back and set things right in Chicago before I can bring my family home. I haven’t told her my plan yet because I know she’s going to be all kinds of pissed that I’m leaving her here to deal with the kids. My plan needs to be ironclad before I break it to her. I need her to believe they’ll be right behind me.
I watch Sherm roll onto his back. We’re both the spitting image of our old man, except my whiskey-colored eyes are more jaded. I think that happened somewhere between the time I put a knife into my “uncle” and when I ordered my first hit.
I back away from Lee’s room and stand with my hand on the knob for a long time before heading to the door at the end of the hall. I squeeze through into the tight staircase to the widow’s walk. When I push out the door, the night air is cold on my bare chest and shakes the last remnants of sleep from my system. I pull the Glock out of my waistband, rest it on my thigh as I prop myself into the corner of the rail.
Earth and sea seem to have struck a deal. White surf rolls rhythmically onto the beach below, giving back instead of taking. The breeze sweeps my sweaty hair back from my face. I lift my gaze into the blanket of stars in the vast black sky overhead, wishing the universe could tell me what it’s going to throw at us next.
Never in a million years did I see my life leading me here. Grant is right. This is the middle of fucking nowhere. On top of that, we’ve got a whole set of unknown rules we need to live by now. It would take so little to blow this whole thing out of the water. We might not even know it’s happened until it’s done: an innocent comment to the wrong person, a nosy neighbor asking tough questions, or God forbid Grant should piss off the wrong woman.
None of us can risk getting involved with the locals on any level. Even a casual hookup could destroy everything.
At the thought of hooking up, a pretty, heart-shaped face framed in soft blond waves, with wide-set blue eyes and freckles flashes in my mind.
Adri Wilson.
Maybe it’s just that she’s not hiding behind layers of makeup like most every other woman I’ve ever known, but there’s something so open and genuine about her. And the way she was with Sherm … how she made him laugh …
More than anything, he needs something normal right now. She could be the one to snap him out of this.
Or she could be the one who brings us down.
It would be all too easy for him to slip around her. I need to be sure that doesn’t happen.
***
I stagger out of the shower, brace my hands on the sink, glare at the pair of bloodshot eyes glaring back at me. Morning is not my friend. In our business, things generally happen between sundown and sunrise, so that’s my schedule. But Lee is insisting I handle Sherm’s day to day, which means, despite the three shots of Jack it took to get me back to sleep last night, I’m already showered at seven thirty. Automatically, I look for my tube of hair gel before remembering I don’t have any. My hair was the first thing the relocation consultants changed, tossing my gel and going for a more standard “tousled” look. I comb a damp hand through it and call it done.
All there is in my drawers are the black slacks I arrived in, a few pairs of jeans, a handful of plain Tshirts in various colors, and a half-dozen wrinkled button-up shirts that they gave me at Safesite. I haven’t bought anything new because I don’t know what the fuck to buy. Our guys always handled making sure Pop’s and my stuff was clean and ready to go. They’d take it all to Sadie’s because we could trust her. I don’t even know where to get stuff cleaned around here. There’s a laundry room downstairs. Maybe Lee can figure it out. I grab a pair of jeans and a random button-up shirt and yank them on.
I don’t know how the fuck to look or act around here. All I know is, whenever I leave this house, people stare.
Maybe it’s because they know we don’t belong here.
Lee is standing at the stove in her green plaid bathrobe and fluffy slippers when I trudge downstairs, buttoning my shirt. Sherm is in a kitchen chair, his arms folded in front of him and his forehead resting on them. Neither of them appear to have gotten much sleep last night either.
Lee’s puffy eyes cut to me as I tug open the fridge. “You look like crap.”
“That good?” I ask, pouring a glass of OJ.
She pulls a sizzling strip of bacon out of the skillet with a fork. “Not really. I was being nice.”
“Appreciate that,” I tell her, taking a swig.
“I need the car later. Are you coming right back after you drop Sherm off?”
I shrug. “Figured I’d drop him on my way to check out the south side of the island.”
She sets the fork down, plants her fists on her hips. “And what, exactly, are you looking for?”
My jaw tenses. I have to fight to keep my temper in check, because I have no fucking clue. I’ve never felt so helpless in my entire life. All I know is I have to keep this crew safe until I can bring them home, but I can’t even begin to see what that looks like. “Anything that might be a problem for us.”
Sherm lifts his head, splitting a wide-eyed glance between us. Lee shoots me a warning glare as she pours a bowl of beaten eggs into the skillet. She’s quiet as she stirs them around, but finally says, “Rob, if you keep looking for trouble, you’re going to find it. Just let it lie, okay? No one here knows who we are. Don’t go giving them a reason to want to find out.”
My hand tightens on the glass. I force myself to relax before I crush it.
She dishes eggs onto a plate and slides it in front of Sherm. “Want some?” she asks, lifting the pan.
I shake my head. I have no appetite.
When Sherm’s done eating, Lee loads him in the car and hands him his backpack as I climb into the driver’s seat.
“There are pencils and erasers in the front pocket,” she tells him, then turns to me. “Find out what other school supplies he needs and I’ll pick them up when I’m out.”
“Yes, boss.”
She gives me a measured look as she closes Sherm’s door, as if trying to gauge how far off the reservation I am. I’m going to have to come clean with her soon.
I’m being paranoid. I know that. We were flown from Chicago to DC eight hours after everything went bad. We spent nearly two weeks at the Witness Security Safesite and Orientation Center, where they made us into new people, complete with a new look, fictitious history, and all the documentation we could possibly need to back it up. I’ve got death certificates to prove our parents were killed in a car accident two years ago. According to the paperwork, I was awarded custody of Sherm by the court. If anyone asks, we decided to move from Philadelphia because we have family in Clearwater, Florida.
They originally talked about splitting the adult children up because our group was too conspicuous, but when Lee found out that meant we’d never be able to contact each other, she put her foot down and they agreed to keep us together. They laid our new birth certificates and licenses, our fake educations and histories, out in front of us and grilled us on our own and each others’ until we could recite them backwards and forwards. All of us except Sherm, that is, who wouldn’t talk. They called in their kid shrink, who labeled it PTSD. Said he’ll need treatment and gave us a name of a guy in Tampa.
Once the Feds deemed the WITSEC makeover complete, they handed us our new bank account with seventy-five thousand in seed money and direct deposit stipends to cover anything we’ll need for the next eighteen months, and four gray rolling suitcases full of new vanilla clothes for our new vanilla lives. Then they put us in a black Expedition with tinted windows, drove us to the airport, and handed us plane tickets. Three hours later, when we landed in Tampa, the deputy marshal who met us there handed off the keys to the car and house, four cell phones, and a printed map to Port St. Mary, then sent us on our way.
Pop gave them what they wanted. The trial’s over and all the bad guys are in jail. The Feds couldn’t give a shit about us now. They’re not watching.
But that doesn’t stop me from scrutinizing every car we drive by, or every pedestrian who chooses the moment we’re passing to step into the road. In my world, everyone’s a potential threat. Old habits die hard.
We reach the elementary school a few blocks from the center of town, which consists of a post office, police station, market, gas station and auto shop, and random white church. When we walk into Sherm’s classroom, his teacher is in the back. She’s slender and on the short side—I tower over her by nearly a foot—but she’s athletic-looking, like she takes care of herself. I can’t stop myself from admiring the view as she organizes books on the shelf.
She turns and smiles, and I’m struck again by how genuine she seems. I’ve spent most of my life learning to read people. I’ve heard the term open book, but personally, I’ve never met anyone who wasn’t hiding something. Usually many somethings. On more occasions than I can count, my life has depended on my ability to read between the lines and gain the upper hand.
I’d wager my left nut this is a woman without secrets.
She comes to where we’re standing and looks down at Sherm. “Ready for day two?”
Sherm just looks at her, then the shark jaw.
She steps to the side and retrieves it off the shelf under her desk, then hands it to him. “You want to hold on to this.”
Sherm takes it from her. “There are real sharks in the ocean near our house,” he says in a voice that’s little more than air.
I try to keep my expression even, but no one other than Lee has gotten a word out of Sherm since we left Chicago.
Her eyes widen a little, flick to me again as if she understands the significance of him finally speaking. “There are nearly fifty types of sharks indigenous to the Gulf of Mexico. Big ones, small ones. Man eaters,” she adds with a visible shudder.
“I’m going in a boat to see them,” Sherm says.
“Better you than me,” she answers with a cringe, then turns to me. “Can I speak with you a moment?”
When those big, blue eyes connect with mine, an electric current crackles under my skin and my eyes lower against my will. No one’s ever been able to force me to drop my gaze before. Not holding another’s eyes is a sign of weakness—something I could never afford to be. But there’s something disarming in that searching gaze. It’s almost as if she could glean all my secrets with just a glance.
“Sure.”
She looks down at Sherm. “If you want to look at the other stuff on this shelf, or at the books in back, that would be great. I need to talk to your brother for a sec, okay?”
Sherm nods, plunking himself down in front of the shelves of odds and ends in front of the teacher’s desk.
She gestures with a tip of her head toward the classroom door. I follow when she heads that direction. We step outside and I realize I’m on autopilot, casing the school grounds, when she clears her throat and brings my focus back to her.
“Mr. Davidson—”
“Rob,” I say, then wonder why I volunteered that.
“Rob,” she repeats pensively, those baby blues peering past my walls again. “Those are the first words your brother has said since he’s been here.”
I drag in a deep breath. “He’s been having a rough time with the move.”
“Is he talking at home?”
I hesitate a second too long. Her eyes narrow slightly, peering deeper into mine.
“He’ll be fine.”
Her gaze brushes over my face again, trying to read me. I fight to keep my eyes on the ones staring back at me, seeing more than they should. “Can I ask … where are your parents?”
“They were killed in a car accident.”
Her face crumples. “Oh. I’m so sorry.”
But I can see her starting to fit the pieces together as to why Sherm’s so withdrawn. She thinks it’s because of our parents. I don’t correct her.
Finally, she sighs. “I also wanted to talk with you because I messed up with Sherm yesterday and I thought you should know. I made the error of giving him another student’s desk, and this particular student took exception. Sherm was great about it and moved spots, but, unfortunately, this other child is a little bit … aggressive, and he and his friends have started picking on Sherm. It was my fault. I made him a target. The student in question has been sent to the principal’s office, and if the problem persists, we will be taking more severe disciplinary action. I’ll keep you updated. And please let me know if Sherm seems stressed, or … just not himself in any way.”
We’re all stressed and not ourselves, but I can’t very well tell her why. “Have they tried to hurt him?”
She shakes her head vehemently. “If that were the case, I’d have contacted you yesterday. It’s more just little things, but I need you to know I take it very seriously, and I don’t want Sherm to feel uncomfortable here.”
If this were me sixteen years ago, Pop would have told me to “deck the fucker,” and I would have done it. When you deal in the business of fear and intimidation, as I realized at a very young age my Sicilian family did, the currency with which you make purchases is violence. When doled out sparingly, at appropriate times, violence will buy you the world. I’ve tried to protect Sherm from all that. But maybe I’ve gone too far the other direction. The kid should know how to defend himself.
“I’ll talk to him,” I say.
“Good. That would be good. And again, I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to get him off on the wrong foot.”
She’s nervous. I intimidate her. Which is good, because the feeling is mutual.
“He’ll be fine,” I say. Fine seems to be my mantra lately, even though none of us are anything resembling fine.
She nods, stares at me. The stupid thing? I just stand here staring back, giving her more of myself than I should through my gaze, but
unable to look away.
“So … ,” she finally says, “you’ll be back for Sherm at two thirty?”
I give her a slow nod. “I will.”
“Okay.”
I turn for the parking lot. When I glance back and see she’s still watching after me, I’m almost embarrassed to slip into our shitty blue Lumina. We had a fleet of cars back home, and a staff that cared for them. None of us ever would have been caught dead in something like this. I back out of the parking spot and can’t stop myself from glancing back at her before I take off. But now, she’s not just watching after me, she’s running after me.
Adrenaline floods my veins. I fling my door open and bolt out of the car, sure something’s happened to Sherm.
She skids to a stop in front of the car, slams her palms down on the hood. “This is my car.”
That’s the last thing I expect her to say. It throws me off balance—a place I’m not used to being. I just stare at her a second, trying to process what the hell’s happening. Is she joking?
“What?” I finally manage.
“I don’t know how you hot-wired him so quickly, but you know you can’t just pick one, right? That they all belong to someone?”
I tip my head at her, feel my eyebrows arch in total bewilderment. “And this one belongs to me, unfortunately.”
“Nice try, but I’ve had Frank since high school.”
“Frank?”
She leans more of her weight on the hood of the Lumina. “Frank.”
I have no idea what she’s playing at, but there’s no way I’m leaving the most important person in my life in the hands of this woman. She’s delusional if she thinks she’s going to make me believe this isn’t my car, as evidenced by the fact that she wants to fight me for a piece of junk no one in their right mind would ever want.
“Listen … ,” I say, flicking a glance past her to the classroom door, where students are filing in. “I think I’ll just grab my brother and go.”
“Oh no, you don’t.” She strides around the side of the car and stands in front of me, her feet wide and her fists planted on her hips, like she’s gearing up for a fight. If I wasn’t trained to detect even the most infinitesimal trace of fear, it would be easy to miss the tremble at the hem of her skirt. “You’re not going anywhere. I’m calling the cops.”
Outside the Lines Page 4