“You make the popcorn. I’ll be right there,” she promised, placing her reader on the charging pad. He left the room and she took in a deep breath, blowing it back out slowly. Meeting the woman tonight had unsettled him, even if he didn’t realize it yet. He misses Mom. She knew the signs, had learned them early, and knew what to do to best soothe her big brother, one of her favorite people in the world. I’d do anything for him.
She glanced at the pictures on her walls, a mixture of candid photos and her father’s sketches. One of the pictures caught her attention and she stood, turning slowly to face it. Four pairs of shoes were arranged in a row on spring-green grass. From left to right, they were her father’s running shoes, scuffed and broken in from hard use. A smaller pair of pristine pair of tennis shoes, laces still in that complicated weave only shoe stores knew how to do. Another set of men’s shoes, sized to fit Sammy’s sixteen-year-old stinky feet, soles held together with duct tape and not much else. On the end were her shoes, round-toed to keep her eight-year-old self from tripping.
She remembered that day. Sammy had just gotten his driver’s license, and they had made their first trek to the graveyard without their father accompanying them. It had seemed surreal to be driving between the gates singing along to the song on the radio, Sammy’s face wreathed in a wide smile, happy to have the freedom of a car’s steering wheel between his hands. Normally those trips started out upbeat, but by the time they made it to the cemetery a blanket of sadness would have settled on all of them, silencing any chatter. That was the first time he’d told her one of the stories on his own.
Sammy leaned into the back of the car and took out a box. “Faynez, grab that blanket, would ya?”
“Okay.” Eager to help, she wrestled the door open on her side of the car and wrapped her arms around a bulky bundle of fabric. It stood up in front of her face and she leaned her head to the side to see around it, careful of the curb. Her big brother appeared next to her and closed the car door with a bump of his hip.
She followed him, walking the path he trod, weaving in and out around the huge headstones that were planted in long rows. She knew the way, but Sammy had gotten so tall, it was easier to keep track of him than wrenching her neck to see.
He placed the box on the ground and took the blanket from her. Faynez shook her tired arms out, looking around. “It’s just us today.” Sammy grunted as he spread the material on the grass next to their mother’s grave. “Kinda nice, Samboni. It’s never just us.”
“It is nice.” He dug in the box and handed her a bottle of juice. “Did you put sunscreen on before we left the house?”
“Shoot.” She wrinkled her nose and he laughed.
“Come here, squirt.” Faynez frowned. She didn’t like that nickname. Sammy’s best friend Jonny called her squirt all the time. “What? It’s just a name. Not like you like Faynez any better.” She rolled her eyes, then closed them tightly and leaned towards him. He smoothed lotion on her face and the back of her neck. “Love you, Faynez.” She opened her eyes and looked up at him, watching as his gaze followed his fingers stroking the last bits of sunscreen across the bridge of her nose.
“Love you, too.” She sat on the blanket and toed off her shoes. “What else did you bring?”
“Stuff.” He settled beside her and leaned back on his arms, face tipped to the sky. “What story do you want today?” It had always been their thing, shared with their father. Stories about the times before, back when their mother was still alive.
She leaned her head against his shoulder, knowing he needed the contact more than she did. For her, this was normal. Just her and Sammy and Daddy. All she’d ever known. Sammy, though, still felt the loss of their mother keenly. Some days Faynez felt disloyal, because she couldn’t be as sad as she thought they wanted her to be. How can you miss something you’ve never had? Different than sadness, there was a longing that had settled behind her breastbone, pain tucked in so tightly around her heart she felt it every time she tried to breathe. She wanted what he’d had, what her friends had. A mom who loved her. Who chided and corrected her, and showed her all the right things to do. Because some days it felt as if Faynez was making it up as she went along, never knowing when her next words would blunder into a pocket of pain for her father.
“So?” Sammy bumped her shoulder and she glanced up to see him staring at her. “Want a story or not?”
Begin at the beginning. That’s what their dad would say.
“Tell me about the day I came home.”
He made a noise in his chest and she held her breath, not sure what she’d done wrong. “Okay.” Voice gruff, he cleared his throat and repeated himself, “Okay.” Instead of beginning the story, he rolled to his knees and reached for the box. “Let me set these up first.” He kicked off his shoes, then held out a hand, “Give me your shoes, Faynez.” Perplexed, she placed them into his hand, surprised to see he could easily hold both, fingers wrapping around the rubber-covered toes. From the box he pulled a pair of their father’s shoes, old retired ones Daddy had said had too many miles to be any good anymore. Then he took out a box. When he opened the cardboard, there was a brand-new pair of women’s shoes inside, gleaming white in the sunshine. He arranged them, then changed the lineup a couple of times, eventually ending up with her and Daddy’s shoes on either end. “These,” he pointed to the new shoes, “are Mom’s size. Look how we stack up right now.” He rubbed a hand over Faynez’ hair and she scowled at him as she reached up to smooth it down. “You’ve got some catching up to do, baby sister.”
She studied the shoes. His and Daddy’s were nearly the same size, Sammy’s just a tiny bit longer, but not as wide. Mommy’s shoes were smaller, even wedged between the two worn pairs. Hers were the smallest of all, looking tiny in comparison. It made her sad to look at them, so she twisted and turned to the side, looking out over the grass. All those stones poking up from the earth, each one marking a family’s loss.
“So, the story.” He paused and she heard him moving around, then he bumped her shoulder. “There you were, the loudest baby in the history of the world. Between crying, pooping, and burping, you pretty much had all the gross bodily functions mastered already.” She whirled and scowled up at him but couldn’t hold the expression. Sammy was smiling down at her and the look on his face was fond and sweet, and so full of love she gave up her anger right away, grinning back. “Nah, who am I trying to kid? You were cute and perfect, and I loved you as soon as Daddy carried you into the house. Always have, and always will, little sister. Uncle Deke and Aunt Mercy were staying with me, and we all made such a fuss over you. Pretty much everyone who saw you fell in love at first sight when Daddy brought you home.”
Faith’s steps slowed and she paused just outside the door to the living room. “When Daddy brought you home.” The stories never varied. That was one of the truest things she knew…the stories were set in stone. They were what happened, and that was that. She could trust their words about the stories, which meant she could always believe other things they said like “your mother would have loved you in that dress,” or “Mom would be so proud.”
The stories never varied, except that one had. When Daddy told it, he always said, “when we brought you home,” and she’d taken that to mean him and Mom. A small thing, a tiny thing, but since she had a sum total of eight pictures of her as a baby with her mother, it mattered. She’d built up an idea of Mom and her here, in the house, at home.
“When Daddy brought you home,” did not say “when Dad and Mom brought you home.”
“Samboni,” she called, and then went on without waiting for a response, “I forgot something. I’ll be right there.” She was already running for her room when he gave a muffled shout, and she slammed the door behind her and twisted the lock, shutting him out. Falling to her knees beside her bed, she reached underneath and drew out a box. Unlatching the lid, Faith quickly thumbed through the folders and envelopes inside. This was her box of important things, and it included thing
s her father didn’t know she had. Like the cutout of the newspaper obituary for her mother that Aunt Mercy had given her years ago.
Reading, she let the words flow past her without pause until she got to the part she needed. Hope Annabelle Collins Rogers passed away unexpectedly. She is survived by her husband Isaiah Rogers, son Samuel Isaiah Rogers, and infant daughter Faith Inez Rogers. The date listed was very familiar to Faith. It was her birthday. Not months after. Not weeks after. Not even one day.
Papers fluttered from her fingers and back to the box, but Faith wasn’t watching them. She was staring straight ahead, seeing again those never-worn shoes that Sammy had to have bought just for that picture. “When Daddy brought you home.”
“Mom never came home. I did, because Daddy brought me home.”
She kept her eyes focused on the empty place on the wall, not wanting to look around and see images of the accusing eyes of her father or brother, or the fake smiles they had to plaster on every time they remembered what she’d done.
“I killed my own mother.” The words sounded as evil on the air as they had in her head, and Faith struggled to quell the trembling inside her belly.
“Faith Inez,” Sammy bellowed from the other room. “Popcorn is ready. Where the heck are you?”
“Coming.” Her response came out as a tiny squeak and she cleared her throat and tried again. “Coming. Gimme a minute, jeez.”
Sing-song, teasing, just like he’d been her whole life, Sammy called out, “I’m not waiting.”
“I’ll be right there.” I took his mother away. An image of her father’s face rose in her mind, expression ravaged by grief. She choked off a sob, burying her face in her palms. I’ve gotta make this right somehow. She didn’t know what she could do with the knowledge, was surprised by how her heart ached. But Faith knew she had to find a way to help her dad and brother heal.
***
Mason
Mason startled up from sleep, head lurching off the pillow. Breathing heavily, he pushed up to one elbow and looked around the room, verifying he and his wife were alone. She rolled towards him, murmuring a questioning, “Chunk a hunk?” Her way of asking if everything was okay.
He smiled and bent to her, nuzzling against her neck as he told her, “Sleep, babe.”
“’Kay.” She sighed and settled against the pillow, her eyes never opening.
Swinging his legs off the mattress, he stood and stretched, and then padded down the hallway. Pausing at the first door, he slowly opened it and looked inside to see his daughter sleeping. Hands folded under her pillow, Dolly’s breathing was slow and easy, her sleep deep and dreamless.
The next door was already partially opened, and Mason used his palm to ease it wider. Garrett, just over a year older than Dolly, lay sprawled on his back, hands and feet anchoring the corners of the bed. His head angled backwards, prominent Adam’s apple showing proof of the boy’s advancing age.
Mason pulled the door back to the original position, leaving it cracked to allow a stream of light into the boy’s room. He passed by the next door with just a tap of his finger, hearing the echo from inside marking the emptiness within. Chase had moved out on his own a while ago, and the change still bothered Mason.
He made his way to the kitchen and stood, hips canted to the side. Moving slowly, methodically in a way that showed his mind was elsewhere engaged, he filled a small glass with water. Checking on his family had settled him somewhat, but the dream still followed him. In his head he still could hear Morgan talking and Shooter yelling, screaming at him about their mother. Shooter had ridden straight through from Little Rock to Adken, stopping only to call contacts who had backed up the story Mason had fed him.
“What the fuck did you do to Mama?” Shooter’s shouts rang through the tiny coffeehouse. “Did you kill her?”
“No, boy. You know what happened to Crystal.” Morgan’s voice held a tone of patient long-suffering, not something Mason was accustomed to hearing from the man. “You saw her.”
“I saw what you wanted me to see.” There was a hard slam and Mason felt Bones jerk in response. He held out a hand in a signal to hold and from his peripheral vision saw Bones nod. “You brought your trick pony in and I rode that motherfucker. I rode the hell out of it, didn’t I?”
“What do you want from me?” A clink of a coffee cup hitting the top of a table was almost swallowed by Morgan’s words. “What in the hell do you want from me this time?”
“I want the truth. That’s all I ever wanted.” Boot leather scuffed the floor and Mason inched forwards, putting his eye to the crack between the doors. He caught a flash of Shooter stalking past, headed closer to where Morgan sat. The coffeehouse windows offered a reflected view, and he stared at the standoff. Shooter was arched over the older man, his posture striving for intimidating. Morgan, on the other hand, looked far from impressed, kicked back in the chair as if he were seated at his own kitchen table.
“God, I fuckin’ regret this.” Morgan’s head swung back and forth slowly, as if he were exhausted. “Out of my whole life, there’s really only one thing I wish I could undo.”
“What do you regret?” Shooter shuffled closer, his hands lifted, waving wildly, gun clutched in the fingers of one hand. “Huh? What?”
“Should have taken Judge from you sooner. Kept him from your poison.” Morgan lifted his cup, quickly reaching out to grasp and hold Shooter’s arm when he would have slapped it from his grip. “Jesus, boy. Stop your shit already. You never were fast enough or tough enough to take me.”
Enough. Mason gestured and knew without looking that Bones would have his back. He always did. He shoved the doors open and stepped inside, shifting to the side to make room for Bones, his true brother in the room. Didn’t matter if Shooter was blood, Bones was his brother. “Morgan,” he addressed the only man who’d ever come close to matching him in long game strategies. Shooter he ignored.
“Mason, good to see you, son.” A slow and knowing smile slipped across his face. “Damn good to see you.”
Mason had given up denying the parentage link, but this might have been the first time Shooter had put the puzzle together, because he turned from Mason, gave him his back, and faced their father with a horrified look on his face. “Is it true? All the shit I’ve been hearing? Is it all true?”
Mason took a step towards the pair. “What are you doing here?”
Morgan didn’t glance at Shooter, his gaze steady on Mason’s face. He hadn’t flinched at facing three weapons, hadn’t risen to his feet or raised his voice. Almost clinically Mason studied his posture and bearing, drawing correlations between this man and how he’d chosen to lead for so many years. Once he let doubt slip in about who his real blood father was, Mason had spent a lot of time staring up at his bedroom ceiling thinking. The man he’d been raised to believe had spawned him would have been on his feet, blustering, shouting in response, trying to control the situation. Is it because I wanted to be what the old man wasn’t, or because of who Morgan is?
Gesturing at the coffee cup on the table, Morgan smiled and said, “Having a cup of java.”
“Not what I’m asking, and you know it.” Mason shook his head, casting the twisting thoughts aside. Time enough for that later. Right now he needed to understand what had pushed Morgan to keep his mother from him, from Bethany, and especially why he had secreted her away from Shooter. “How often do you visit Ma?”
Shooter spun and stared at him, mouth gaping wide. Morgan just grinned, this expression sly and proud. “I knew you’d find her. Once you caught wind of the girl, you’d have to put eyes on her. That’s just who you are. Did you talk to Crystal yet, Mason? Don’t be afraid if you did. She’s still your momma in there. She just gets confused easy like.”
“What’s special about those five women? Why are you holding them prisoner like this? What did they do to deserve being taken away from family and home, from people they loved?” All the info Myron had found showed each of the five women housed in the fa
cility south of town were either dead and buried, or had been missing so long they’d been declared dead. “Why? And why do you come back here to torture them? What kind of excuses do you make in your own mind to justify this?”
“What in the hell are you talking about? Five women? What does that have to do with Daddy?” Shooter took a step sideways and placed himself between Mason and Morgan. “With Momma?”
“You know why I had to do what I did.” Morgan shook his head. “Kept them safe. Learned my lesson with John, you know what I mean? Learned my fucking lesson. If a body chooses this life, that’s one thing. Forcing it on ’em? That’s a death sentence. Every time. Don’t make the same mistakes I did, Mason. Keep your family well away from what you do, how you live. First John, then Luke. Proof is in the pudding, and that spoiled early, didn’t it?”
“And Justine? What about her?” Mason’s mind was reeling, trying to keep up with all the implications of what Morgan had revealed.
“I know you get it, son. You did the same with sweet Bethany. She’s making her own choices now, and that’s on her, but at least you gave her the space to be her own person. John here, I didn’t know enough to know better. Thought if I pulled him in tight and early, lined him up to take the weight of the crown when it was time to pass it on, he’d be my legacy. Carry on in the family name, so to speak.” Morgan shook his head. “John,” he addressed Shooter for the first time. “I asked you once, if you could be anything in the world, what would you be. You were fifteen, sixteen, something right in there. Nearly a man grown. Do you remember what you answered me?” Shooter shook his head and Morgan smiled at him. “You told me ‘Anything but this.’ I didn’t listen. Arrogant to the point of damaging. I held you tight and watched as you lost your sense of right and wrong, never thinking it was me doing it to you. I’m sorry, son.” He shifted his gaze to Mason. “Did right by you, even if I didn’t know it. Crystal was smarter than me when she hid you away. It took me a bit, but I learned. I learned, and followed her example. Hell, even Kim was smarter than me, wasn’t she, John?”
Rebel Wayfarers MC Boxset 4 Page 80
