by Nicole Snow
“Protest what?” Dad barks. That's the prize question no one's ever answered.
From the old reports I read, Marshal went into a fury as soon as he was on the ground, tackled by my brother, fighting for his life. He screamed incoherently about something that happened overseas, something terrible he thought Jackson did.
“I'm sorry. It doesn't matter anymore, I suppose. Let me talk to Jacky,” dad says quietly. But he can't hide the soft, slow breath leaving his lungs once mom takes his hand, pushes her fingers through his, and squeezes. Please, her grip says. A cry from a sensitive side we thought was lost in her mind. “I don't like this, but I'll tolerate it.”
My heart flutters hopefully. My parents are quiet the entire time I step forward, throw my arms around them, and hug until my arms hurt.
For once, I'm grateful. Without my brother in the mix, it's actually possible for us to solve our disagreements without screaming across the room like howler monkeys.
Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. One more day to cobble together gifts and figure out how I'll deal with Jackson at dinner after he's done licking his wounds.
I take a long shower, trying to sift through today's shell shock in my head. The steam helps, but by the time I'm drying my hair, the only thing I really know is uncertainty.
This is a ginormous risk. Nothing less.
I don't know if the knee-jerk decision to take his extended nanny offer is a huge plus, or the worst decision of my life.
I don't know how I'll find the strength to look my brother in the eye, and prove that I still care about him, despite working with the man who freaked out on him years ago.
I don't even know why I miss them so much already.
Not just the little girl.
I miss him, too. Miss his brooding, his mystery, the sideways glances he gives that always make me wonder if he wants to give me a tongue lashing, or just take me against the nearest horizontal surface.
Marshal is a conundrum and it makes him irresistible. That, in turn, is what makes him so dangerous.
I'm laughing in the mirror, combing my hair, finally face to face with the awful truth.
This can only go one way: I'll come out of this job better off, or completely wrecked.
4
Lost Again (Marshal)
I must be off my fucking rocker.
It's seven o'clock on Christmas night and I'm sitting in my truck outside a stranger's house, heat running full blast, Mia singing carols softly in the kid's seat. My stomach growls. No good reason after I filled it with two slices of the best apple pie in town.
It's been a long day for us both. If I hadn't taken the notion to swing by Red's house and sit outside like a stalker, I could easily say it's been the best Christmas in years.
This year, I was ready. I woke up with a smile at the ass crack of dawn when Mia barged into my room screaming, ready for presents.
I sat down while she attacked everything under the tree. Sipped my coffee calmly, spiked with a shot of Irish whiskey like the happiest man alive. I actually smiled watching my daughter rip through her gift pile, summoning endless patience for the butterfly kisses she dive bombed into my cheek every time she revealed something new. I got everything she wanted and then some.
Dolls. Books. Games. Imported chocolate with names neither of us can pronounce.
I even cooked an entire turkey dinner. Couldn't do the dessert justice, which is why I decided to take her into town, after she woke up from her nap.
Sheryl's Diner has a reputation for the best pies in the county going back before I was born. There's no better day than Christmas to get our fix.
I only had to sit through one small gaggle of pricks on the other side of the restaurant giving me those looks, and then quickly shifting their eyes away the second I looked back. On any other day eating here in town, I'd have to worry about at least a dozen sets of eyes doing the same, and then the whispers, which always make it to Mia's innocent ears.
Daddy, are people talking? I tried everything the first five times I heard that question.
Denials, little white lies, warped admissions that weigh on me later like a cancer.
Sure are, honeybee. They're talking shit because they don't know daddy got in big trouble a few years ago for flipping out on a fucking murderer.
Those thoughts never leave my head, of course. I'm not insane.
We had a lovely time at the diner with our Christmas treats anyway. Apple pie a la mode dripping with warm caramel for Mia, and flaky, tangy cherry for me. I was so in the zone I didn't even think about the last time I had cherry pie for Christmas, not long before the mission, scrapping cheap imitation cherry goo out of an MRE.
I didn't think about my boys either. First time ever that's happened this time of year.
I just sat quietly, brain fixed on one thing only: Red.
Her whiplash tongue. Her lush ass I glimpse every time she's got her back to me. How much salvation and torture she brings every day I have her around the house, and how fucking lucky I'll be not to screw myself over, with her sleeping in the same house, if she actually decides to take my offer.
Something else nags at me, too. I wonder why the hell she looks so familiar.
What do I really know about this woman I'm asking to move in, to be my short-term live in nanny? There wasn't exactly time for a background check the day she showed up. Her references were the professionalism I saw at the clinic, plus her spitfire mouth.
Leaving the diner, I decided I'd had enough of letting that mouth do all the talking for her up until now. I made sure Mia didn't need a bathroom break, and then I loaded her into our vehicle, telling her we'd be taking a quick detour.
I drove to the only address I had, a house I'd been by years ago, and tried to forget. My eyes started to burn as soon as we turned on the familiar street.
Hard to recognize with so many houses decked out in their full Christmas glory.
Difficult, but not impossible.
When I parked across the street, turned the radio to low, ears tuned to the soft, slow carols drifting by, I finally let it hit me. And with Mia singing along with her mushy, adorable little voice in the backseat, all I'm able to do is grip the fucking steering wheel until I'm afraid I'll tear it clean off.
Her house, her name, her face is so familiar because it's the sickest trick God ever played.
It's his family's house. It's his sister, his cousin, his something I don't want to begin to comprehend. It's his fucking truck in the driveway.
It takes everything I've got not to open the door, unlatch my belt, and take a crowbar from the back. I want to break his windshield before we get the hell out of here. The cherry pie churns in my guts, making me fight to keep it down.
I don't realize I'm shaking until my knuckles pinch the wheel so tight it burns.
Use your head, asshole, I tell myself. You have to turn this vehicle around and leave. Right now.
“Daddy?” her tiny voice interrupts the volcanic roar in my head.
“Yeah, honeybee?” I'm on another planet, trying to return to earth, hoping her small sweet face will bring me home in the mirror.
“Are you lost again?”
Such an innocent question for a four year old. So innocent, and so fucking loaded.
I sigh, loosening my death-grip on the wheel, eyeing the street for traffic. It's time to go. “No, honeybee. Not anymore. Sweet of you to ask. Let's watch some movies tonight, okay? It's still early...”
“Okay, daddy.” She sucks at the juice box clutched in her hands.
For a second, I ignore how fucked up this is. Pretend my whole world isn't caving in, and hasn't thrown me into a new crisis.
If I force myself not to look back at Red's house, avoiding the happy lights and an ordinary family bustle of cars, I'm able to regain control. I don't breathe until we've turned the corner, putting the nightmare behind me well out of view.
The rest of the drive home is peaceful. I nudge the radio up, listening to Mia hum Frosty t
he Snowman, joining in myself for the last few verses with a deep, baritone hum.
It's Christmas night. That's all this is; a tender, happy moment with a father and his daughter. Something I'll try hard to remember in the years to come, long after I deal with the scalding lump of coal Santa just dropped on my balls.
She drifts off in front of the TV a couple hours later. A claymation yeti spins his eyes, one more reminder I've had enough today.
I switch off the TV and carry my sleeping little girl to her room.
Mia stirs lightly as I tuck her in, pull her blanket close, and place my nightly kiss on her forehead. “Sleep tight, honeybee. Sorry there's so much crap on my mind lately. Would've been a whole lot worse without you making this day worth something.”
Despite the horrific shock at the Kelley household, it's the best Christmas I've ever had, hands down. First time I've genuinely laughed in years, and not at the grim, bawdy jokes from the men who used to keep me company on an Afghan base.
My little girl's growing up. I stop in the doorway to her room, looking back, marveling how big she's gotten in just a few years. Won't be long before she's older and wiser, asking for shit I can't afford, and then getting pissy when I don't let her stay out late with awkward, skinny boys on Christmas Eve.
Funny thing is, I know I'll love her as much as I do right now. Doesn't matter how old or antsy or wild she gets. To me, her old man, she'll always be innocence itself, hunkered in her little bed with the overstuffed tiger I got her two birthdays ago.
Time marches on, relentless and impatient as ever. It doesn't give a damn how fast it's threatening to walk over me. Or how far it's dragging me away from the past, kicking and screaming. It doesn't let up for justice, or even just so I can catch my breath.
I put out the fire in my living room, staring through the darkness outside, wondering if I really want to go out there tonight. Five minutes later, I'm bundled for the arctic, grumbling through the cold as I walk into my shop and throw a fresh log on the wood stove.
I need warmth. I'm not in here to work. The light from the soft fire is plenty for the trunk.
The ammo box's old hinges groans as I pop the lock, throwing the top open. I wipe my face, pull my hood down, blood going several degrees hotter the second I look inside.
Everything is still there – and why wouldn't it be?
It's not like I've had time to make good on any promises.
“Erik, Zane, Adam...I'm fucking sorry.” I grab what's left of my friends, my brothers, the men who fought and bled in that hellhole by my side.
A cracked shot glass. Zane's favorite for the brown honey he snuck between missions to warm himself, before we deployed with our orders. Also his weapon of choice the times he drank every man on base under the table, including me.
A lingerie magazine from the eighties, dog-eared and worn. Erik's contraband. We laughed at his sorry ass for being so desperate he had to beat it to nudes snapped before he was born.
A charred mini-portrait I pulled from Adam's pocket the day he died. Inside, Bev's face is smiling, a lovely young woman who became a widow way too soon. He said it was his good luck charm, his reason for being there, the thing that kept him going.
It was with him to the bitter end. I wish to God almighty it had been enough.
I dig deeper. The old stuff is there, taunting me. Folders stacked thick with newspapers, printouts, obituaries.
There's an entire tanned folio bursting with everything I could find about Jackson Kelley. I flip through it, stopping when I see their old address on Westlund Street, confirming my worst fear.
It's the very same I stalked tonight. The family names were always there. Except this time, one stands out like lightning in the night.
Sarah Kelley.
Sadie.
Red.
How the fuck did I forget he had a little sister?
My hands push through dead men's relics again. Somewhere, they're smiling ear-to-ear, enjoying a good cosmic laugh at this fresh kink in my master plan.
Karma for past mistakes, maybe, for dragging my feet for so long.
The newspapers laid over the guns aren't just for show. It takes a lot of paper to cover the entire length of a NATO standard rifle. One of my old biker clients hooked me up with his black market connections several years ago, not long after my Fourth of July shitshow.
Clenching my jaw, I lift the papers, the same faded issue of the Port Eagle Standard. My eyes drift over the lethal fifteen minutes of local infamy I never asked for.
It was my own fault, triggering the fistfight.
If only I hadn't gone to that goddamn parade after having a few drinks. Thank God Mia wasn't there to see it.
She was away for the weekend with her grandma, Andrea, the only woman who ever laid eyes on her from her mother's side. And now she's as dead as the reckless creature who incubated her for nine months, and then walked out.
I'll never understand how a bitch like Jenna came from a completely normal, understanding mother.
Knocking her up could've been the worst mistake of my life, but it wasn't. I wouldn't trade honeybee for the world.
My one night stand is also eclipsed by the major league fuck up the day I became the Castoff, turning my back at that stupid parade, and then trading blows with a man I should have already put six feet under.
My anger got the worst of me then. It set me back years. Too premature and thoughtless.
Now I'm too afraid, too comfortable, too prone to over-thinking.
The truth hasn't changed. Neither has the seething need for justice.
Jackson must pay for the blood on his hands, satisfy the men I promised vengeance. I refuse to become the dark angel hastening his judgment. But I'm the man who'll dispatch him to the next world, once I get my head straight and the courage to pull the trigger.
So, what's the fucking holdup? The old newspaper slips and hits the ground. Rather, half of it does. The rest falls open to a section I never paid attention to, an old graduation spotlight for the local high school.
It's a sick joke that my eyes fall straight to the spot where she's listed. Her name. Her picture in black and white. Pretty, and way too young for me then.
Four years ago, Red was just a clueless kid with straight As, bound for a school in Des Moines by the looks of it. I don't know what brought her back to this town. It's a safe bet she didn't come home just to nanny for the bastard who's going to kill her brother.
“Sadie, I'm sorry.” It's my second apology tonight, and the last.
Picking the newspaper up with a sigh, I grit my teeth, stuffing everything back into its tidy box. I seal the ghosts away for another evening, giving the padlock a tug to make sure it's secure.
I move to the safe underneath my workbench. I spin the dial, entering the right combo from memory. There's a satisfying pop. I'm careful to put my gloves on before I grab the tools, look them over, and then the old maps and traffic reports I dug up from the library.
There's a lot of fine print I haven't ironed out yet. The devil's always in the details, and when it comes to offing a man and not getting caught, the details better be picture-fucking-perfect.
It's getting closer. I can feel it.
Less theory. More action. Fewer delays. Closure.
If I manage not to screw this up, I'll never have to spend another restless winter night cooped up in my shop, prisoner to hopes and dark promises.
I know what needs to happen.
First, I need to tuck this shit away, get out of here, and hit the sack. Some sleep will clear my head, make the next phase of Operation Vengeance more obvious.
Tomorrow, I'll cut Red loose. I'll let her down easy. I don't have a choice. I'll post a new ad for a nanny in town, a better one, and next time I'll make damn sure I don't bring anybody on who's ever so much as brought Jackson Kelley a drink of water.
It might delay the plan by a few more weeks, but so what? As long as this gets done. As long as I'm able to fulfill the other promis
e I made to myself, and to Mia, the ones I never said out loud.
I swore she'd have a normal life before school begins. If I can't get past this and rehabilitate my reputation as something other than Castoff freak, we're leaving town. I'm not having her subjected to derision from other little shits who want to make her life hell thanks to my mistakes.
Before my little girl starts kindergarten next fall, she'll have a dad who's fully alive, fully in the present, truly in this world.
Her world. Ours. No longer shackled to an ugly, secret past she'll never know.
Once Jackson dies, I'll slam this book shut, and shove almost everything in that ammo box off the steepest bluff I can find by the Mississippi.
I'm willing to risk a lot to see this through. Hanging around to watch the smoking ruins I've made out of Sadie's heart isn't part of it.
She shows up bright and early the next morning. I know who it is on the first knock, still perched at the kitchen table sipping my coffee. I put my mug down, stand up, and stomp over, jerking the door open.
“Hey, I've got a box in my trunk, if you want to give me a hand.” Her lips are just a shade or two dimmer than her dark red hair. Such a wicked contrast to the forest green in her eyes.
“What box?” I growl, patience already running thin.
She's more radiant than ever today, standing on my porch under the dull December light like a pinup. Except no pinup girl ever looked this hot in layers meant for an Iowa winter.
Just my fucking luck. If this were easy, it wouldn't be my problem.
Red cocks her head. “It's in my car. Just a few things I packed. I mean, I don't have to move in today, but I figured it'd be good to get a start. Whenever you want me, I'm –“
“We need to talk.” I take her wrist, yank her inside, backing off with a hand on her back, pointing her to the table. “Have a seat. Please.”
