Page 25 of Property of Booker

“Hey,” I say, stepping closer. “I'm not leaving. I'm just getting behind the curtain. You stay right here, okay? Right by the sink. I'll still be able to hear you, and you can hear me.” He nods slowly, looking unsure.

I step into the shower stall and pull the opaque plastic curtain shut. I stepped in fully clothed, so I start tearing them off my body and tossing them over the rod. The water is still warm from his shower, so I keep talking to keep him grounded. “Everything alright out there?”

“Yeah,” he mumbles.

I step into the spray, letting the heat bite at the tension in my shoulders. I scrub the grime from the ride off my skin, watching the dirt swirl down the drain. It’s the first time in forever I feel clean. Once I’m rinsed and my hair’s washed, I cut the water. It’s quiet enough to hear him breathing. “Kolter?”

“Yeah, Mom?”

“I forgot my pajamas on the counter.” I hear him shuffle toward the sink. “Could you grab them? Just slide them between the curtain and the wall, please.”

Fabric rustles. A small hand reaches around the plastic, offering the cotton set. I take them, his fingers brushing mine, a quick and grounding connection.

“Thanks, baby,” I say, hanging the clothes on the dry rack inside.

“I’m right here,” he says, throwing my own words back at me. It’s like he knows I need the reminder just as much as he does.

“I know,” I whisper, turning back to finish getting dressed. Knowing he's right there, listening, helps the last of the tension bleed out of my muscles.

Stepping out of the shower, I see him looking closely at the pair of toothbrushes and the tube of toothpaste left on the counter. “Are these meant for us?” he asks.

“I believe so. Let’s clean our teeth and get to sleep. I have to admit, I’m completely exhausted,” I tell him. Once we finally crawl under the covers, he snuggles up tight against me. As our heartbeats settle and sync, we drift into a deep sleep.

CHAPTER

FIFTEEN

Booker

Sleep eluded me. A persistent anxiety kept me awake, even though I know for a fact that we wiped out all of Jerome's muscle. There's a missing piece to this puzzle that's completely eating away at me. I'm certain Jerome and Patrick will get what's coming to them once Rip, Icer, and Indiana get back from Pokey's send-off, but the lingering dread won't let up.

I start a checklist and mark them off one by one. Nothing stands out as glaringly obvious, so I wonder if my paranoia has taken root and refuses to leave. The ceiling tiles blur in the darkness. Sleep stays just out of reach. Every time I shut my eyes, I’m back at that perimeter, hearing the roar of the fire and the scream of the engine. We wiped out Jerome’s crew. Every last one. But it feels too clean. That’s what gnaws at me. I’ve been over the raid a thousand times in my head. We got Kendall out. We got the kid. Everything went according to the plan, but something sits wrong in my gut.

I pace the small room, the floorboards creaking under my weight. I’m hunting for the flaw in my logic. Maybe I missed a guy in the conflagration of fire. Maybe a call went out that we didn't intercept. I run through the list again, ticking off the names, the positions, the timing. Nothing jumps out as a failure. I stare at the wall and think about the syndicate. Are they really done? Or are they just regrouping, waiting for us to lower our guard? It feels like we’re standing on a trapdoor and we haven't noticed the latch yet.

“It's done,” I mutter to the empty room, reminding myself of that fact.

My voice sounds thin. It doesn't convince me. I rub my face with my palms and sit on the edge of the bed. I’m probably just tired. I want to believe that, but my instincts are screaming that the danger isn't gone. It's just shifting its shape. I pick up the notepad again and start to scratch out the names of the Dragon members we know are neutralized. I need to see it on paper. If I'm missing a threat, it’s hiding in the gaps. I’ll find it before it finds us.

A soft, tentative knock startles me, and I’m on my feet in a heartbeat. I yank on the jeans I kicked aside last night while trying to sleep. “Give me a second!” I call out, pulling on socks to dodge the bite of the cold floor. I trudge across the room, turn the lock, and pull the door open. “Kolter. You alright, son?”

“You said if I needed anything I could come to your room, right?” he asks, shuffling from one foot to the other.

“That’s right, I did. And I meant it. What can I do for you, kiddo?”

“Am I allowed to have breakfast? Have I earned it?” he probes, his face full of fear as he asks me this.

The question hits me like a physical blow. I stare at him, feeling the air turn cold. The idea that he thinks he has to trade labor for a bowl of cereal makes my blood boil. Jerome really broke him, bit by bit. I want to hunt that bastard down in the catacombs and feed him my fists, but I shove the anger into a dark corner of my mind. I can't let him see that kind of rage.

I crouch down to meet his gaze. “Kolter, listen to me closely.” I keep my voice steady. “You never have to ask for food again. You don’t earn it. You don’t trade for it. You’re hungry, you eat. That’s the rule here.” He shifts his weight, his eyes wide and uncertain. “Breakfast isn’t a reward,” I continue, trying to soften the edge of my tone. “It’s just breakfast. You’re safe now. I’m not Jerome, and we aren't playing his games. You want to eat, you go to the kitchen, and you grab what you want. You get me?” He nods once, though he still looks like he's waiting for the hammer to drop. I reach out and ruffle his hair, feeling how thin his head is beneath my palm. “Come on. Let’s go find something to eat.”

We walk past the room he shares with Kendall, and I notice the door is slightly open. “Mom’s still sleeping. I didn’t want her waking up and getting afraid that I wasn’t there, so I left it cracked. That way she’d know I just slipped out for a second,” Kolter offers in a small voice.

His reasoning hits me like a kick to the gut. He’s already strategizing how to manage her reactions, terrified of being the trigger for her alarm. It’s a survival mechanism, hammered into him by a bastard who forced him to shoulder the emotional weight of everyone in his life. It makes me sick. He should’ve learned how to be a kid, not how to move through a room without making a sound.

“That’s real considerate of you, Kolter,” I respond, though I have to grit my teeth to keep my tone level. “But you don’t have to stress about that here. Your mom knows you’re safe, and she knows you’re coming right back.”

He glances up, scanning my face for a hidden agenda. “She won’t be angry?”