Page 53

At the intersection, I go right instead of following the bus route.

I know where he lives; I don’t need to terrify him just to prove I can follow him there.

Twenty minutes later, I’m parked on his street, several houses down from his own, smoking with the window cracked while I wait.

It’s a bad habit that I quit once. I was nine months into it when a job in Baltimore went sideways, and Quillan handed me a cigarette outside a hospital that I couldn’t refuse.

I draw smoke deep into my lungs, savoring the harsh burn. I check my watch and see that Kamden should be getting home any second now. Except he doesn’t. Five minutes tick by, then ten. My irritation coalesces into genuine concern. I stub out the cigarette in the metal ashtray, the hiss echoing in the silent car, and sweep my gaze down the street. There are no odd vehicles hanging by the curb—besides mine—and no faces I recognize among the passing locals.

It isn’t for another seven minutes before Kamden finally appears at the far end of the street, looking exhausted—both physically and mentally.

His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders tucked against the evening cold. He keeps glancing at reflections in windows rather than looking directly behind him.

I light another cigarette, and swallow down the distaste that the boy’s hypervigilance leaves in my mouth. On one hand, I’m strangely proud of him for noticing what’s going on around him. He’s smart enough to realize that seeing what he did has put a target on his back. On the other hand, I wouldn’t wish the symptoms of trauma he’s feeling right now on anyone, especially someone as young and innocent as he is.

Eventually, I’d like to get him to the point where he keeps that situational awareness without it causing him unnecessary distress. I’ll teach him that he doesn’t need to be afraid when I’m with him.

I’ll keep him safe.

Kamden has now paused across the road from his home, lingering there with his shoulders tense. People do this before stepping into places they dread, like prisons, hospitals, interrogation rooms—or homes where someone inside holds power over their fear.

It’s a good two minutes before he eventually starts to cross. At the same moment, he catches a drift of the smoke from my cigarette, and his head snaps toward me.

Our eyes don’t meet—I’m too far away, and the windshield obscures enough of my face—but he sees me.

There’s no mistaking the panic that moves through him. He jolts, then hurries the rest of the way to his door.

My cigarette hovers inches from my lips as I watch him fumble with his keys, hands shaking badly enough to be seen from a distance. For a moment, I consider leaving. My presence is obviously scaring him.

But then he gets inside, frantically locks the door, and spends the next minute breathing heavily. I know that because I can hear it through one of the two receivers I placed earlier.

Yeah, that’s the other thing I did today. I broke into John’s house. Although it’s hardly his house anymore. It hasn’t been since he caught her fucking some random dude in their bed and found an apartment to stay in while starting the divorce proceedings.

Honestly, breaking in didn’t bother me. I thought it might feel like desecrating something of his, but then I realized it was basically what he’d asked of me from the beginning.

Sure, he didn’t technically ask me to abduct his child, but what else would you call telling your unrelated SEAL brother to take an eight-year-old from his home and mother? John wasn’t stupid. He knew the courts wouldn’t just hand Kamden over to me based on a verbal account I couldn’t prove.

Shortly after Kamden left for work in the morning, Sherry drove over to a liquor store. Because why let your son use your car to get safely and quickly to and from his job when you can keep it parked in your driveway most of the day and do nothing but waste air?

She was gone twenty-six minutes. I was in and out in just under fifteen.

Kamden and Sherry live in a duplex, owning the first-floor unit, while a neighbor lives up top with a separate entryway.

Sherry, in all her wisdom, didn’t even lock the door when she went on her little morning excursion.

Stepping inside, the stale scent of cigarette ash and spilled whiskey hit me before I even scanned the room. Ashtrays brimming with gray stubs crowded every flat surface. Empty bottles of beer, cheap vodka, and wine clinked together in the dim light. Past-due notices peeked out from beneath unopened stacks of mail, their red lettering shouting for attention they would never receive, if I had to guess. Wade’s belongings were scattered everywhere.

I also found two holes in the drywall, unmistakably caused by fists.

No photographs of John anywhere, and only two of Kamden.

One school picture from years ago shoved into the corner of a mirror and a different picture from his graduation than the one I have.

While the one I have must’ve been taken by a school official or hired event photographer, this one looks like Wade took it, guessing at Kamden’s downcast eyes as his mother smiles brightly beside him, a manicured hand clamped tightly on his shoulder.

No framed family portraits or special keepsakes from Kamden’s childhood. No indication anybody cared to preserve memories.

Pushing open Kamden’s bedroom door, I found that the lock was broken—bent and ineffective. I hate the implication of that.