“Looking for you, buddy.” Thank the Lord he was okay. She wrapped an arm around him and got a hefty whiff of sweat and the same stale odor that accompanied many of her students—the one she’d labeled the stench of poverty because she couldn’t describe it any other way. Taking a deep breath in through her mouth, she gave him a squeeze, but he stiffened in her arms.
“Where have you been? I was worried about you.”
He pulled away and stared at the ground. “I been around.”
“Around?” She lifted the boy’s chin. “Have you been sick?”
“No.”
“Well, where have you been?”
He peeked at her from beneath his lashes and shrugged. “Just around.”
She waited for more explanation, but none came. “Justice, you can’t skip school.”
“Sorry.” He finally met her gaze and held it, as if silently pleading for forgiveness.
Those deep brown eyes melted Kinley. There was the boy she’d come to know. She pulled him close for another embrace and this time, he didn’t resist. “Apology accepted. But no more missing school.”
He nodded, but his eyes darted to the side, and he began to fidget. “I gotta go. Catch ya later, Miss Reid.” He bolted toward his house, only covering a few feet of ground before the man in the suit came from behind Kinley and clapped a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
After parking Justice in front of her, the man quickly removed his hand and jerked his tailored cuffs down one at a time. Did he think mere contact with the child would mar his image? His blue eyes surveyed her from head to toe. “You’re his teacher?”
This guy was obviously way above her pay grade. Seemed he knew it, too. Her rumpled thrift-store skirt and scuffed flats must have given her away. She tamped down her insecurities and offered her hand. “I’m Kinley Reid. I teach at Martindale Elementary.”
“Nash McGuire.” His hand closed around hers with a firm grip. “Your little friend here has been busy this afternoon.”
Kinley bristled at the cynical edge in his voice, but she couldn’t deny the gentleness in his touch as she withdrew her hand. “What do you mean?”
He glared down at Justice. “He trashed my car.” His tone was grumpier every time he opened his mouth.
Kinley leaned right, trying to see around his bulky shoulders to inspect the red vehicle in the driveway. “That car?” The passenger side was in view, and it appeared to be in perfect condition. The tires, windows, and doors all seemed fine.
“Follow me.” He stalked across the yard with Justice in tow. Kinley marched along behind them until he halted near the car and motioned to the hood. Justice planted his feet, crossed his arms over his chest, and turned his head away as if any old thing on the planet would be more interesting than what was happening in front of him. Kinley moved in closer to the car and found a giant “X” scratched into the paint, stretching across the hood from corner to corner. Okay, that looked bad.
Mr. McGuire gave her an I-told-you-so look, then stepped around the car and gestured to the driver’s side.
Kinley trailed him again and gasped when she saw it. “Oh, no.”
In stark contrast to the cherry-red finish, neon-green spray paint covered the door and formed barely legible words. Rich boy. A white rectangle bordered the phrase and coated every inch of the tires and rims. The side mirror lay bent at a painful angle, and the door was dented.
Staring at the damage, Kinley’s hand drifted to cover her mouth. “I’m so sorry.”
The man’s only response was a grunt.
Kinley searched Justice’s face. She couldn’t fathom that the sweet boy she knew would do something so destructive. Her voice dropped. “Did you really do this?”
He jutted his chin at Mr. McGuire instead of giving Kinley an answer. His dark eyes shot arrows of defiance at the man. She’d never seen Justice like this. “It wasn’t me. You can’t prove nothin’.”
Mr. McGuire reached into the pocket of his tailored pants, pulled out his phone, and tapped the screen a few times. He held it toward Kinley and effectively killed her hope of Justice’s innocence. The screen displayed a picture of her promising young student leaning over the hood of the car with some kind of metal object in his hand—maybe part of a clothes hanger?—in mid-scratch.
Disappointment dropped like a weight in Kinley’s stomach.
“Don’t matter what you got.” Justice balled his hands into fists. “I didn’t do it.”
Mr. McGuire’s lips pressed into a tight line. “I’ve already called the police. They’re on their way.”
Justice looked away again but otherwise held his position. His eyelids fluttered as though he were trying to blink back tears. Kinley’s heart twisted. “Justice, why don’t you go sit on the porch for a minute. I’d like to talk to Mr. McGuire.”
As soon as the boy shuffled away, she fired sharply whispered words at the fancy man with the fancy car. “The police? Is that really necessary?”
He lowered his voice, but with the force it contained, he may as well have been yelling. “If I don’t file a report, my insurance won’t pay for the repairs. Do you know how much this is going to cost?” He nodded sharply toward Justice. “Besides, there should be some consequences for what he’s done.”
Kinley agreed that the boy should make it right, but not like this. Not as part of the juvenile detention system. “He’s only ten.”
“In this neighborhood, that makes him about twenty-one.”
Kinley closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose before trying once more to convince the man to be lenient. “Mr. McGuire, I don’t think you understand what the juvenile system does to these children. It makes things worse, not better.”
His jaw clenched, and his face turned such a deep shade of red that Kinley thought his head might explode. When he spoke, his voice was controlled, but fierce. “Miss Reid, don’t presume to know what I understand and what I don’t.”
She held her palms out, pleading with him. “Can’t you just let him work it off?”
“No.” The word erupted from his mouth. “The police will decide what to do with him. I don’t have time to babysit a delinquent.”
“He’s not a delinquent.”
He cut a glance toward his car, and then looked back at her with one condescendingly raised eyebrow.
“He’s just a boy who needs a second chance.” Surely the man couldn’t deny him that.
He hesitated and seemed to soften for a moment, giving Kinley the tiniest spark of hope that he’d change his mind. But then he tore his focus from her eyes, looked to the street, and shook his head. “It’s not up to me.”
Seconds later, a black-and-white cruiser pulled up to the curb. A uniformed officer climbed out of the driver’s seat, and Mr. McGuire blazed toward him with long, determined strides. He couldn’t wait to seal Justice’s fate. Could the man not muster even a little compassion for a ten-year-old child?
Kinley hurried to Justice on the porch. He would need a caring adult by his side when the police questioned him, and it seemed she was all he had.
#
Nash stood in front of the large picture window in his downtown loft and looked out over the city. On a weekday, cars would be backed up on the streets below, people rushing to grab their coffees and get to work on time. This early on a Saturday, the smart people were still in bed. Aside from the jogger panting by, the street below was silent. This familiar place usually brought peace, but yesterday’s trip to his childhood home haunted him. When he’d left that part of town years ago, he’d vowed to never go back.
So much for that plan.
Somehow, the tentacles of that place had wrapped around his ankles and yanked him back, mocking the life he’d worked so hard for. How long before they strangled the life out of him? It was bad enough he’d have to spend the next few weeks there to refurbish his late mother’s property, but now his car was ruined, too. And he couldn’t settle the question playing through his mind. Had he done the right t
hing by turning the kid over to the cops?
The idealistic teacher had certainly made her opinion known. Those compassionate hazel eyes had nearly convinced Nash to give in, but he knew there wasn’t much hope for a troubled boy from Martindale. Even if he had a do-gooder like Kinley Reid on his side.
Nash’s phone buzzed. The commercial real estate business didn’t stop just because it was the weekend. He pulled it from his pocket and scrolled through the text message from his assistant. He responded to confirm a meeting and then checked his voicemails. Two were from clients wanting to see buildings downtown. He looked at the number of the third voicemail—it seemed vaguely familiar, but Nash couldn’t place it.
He played the message, and his ex-fiancée’s voice filtered through the speaker. “Hi. It’s me.”
Nash’s chest tightened. Why in the world would Amanda call him?
She was still talking, but he hadn’t heard a word after “It’s me.” He turned from the view and crossed the oak-planked floor to his couch, where he sank onto the soft leather. After a deep breath, he started the message again.
“Hi. It’s me. Um, I know this is weird, but your brother called me. He tried your old number and couldn’t reach you, so …” Silence, then she cleared her throat. “Anyway, he said he needs to get in touch with you, so I gave him your number. I just thought you would want to know.” More silence. “Nash …” She sighed. “I hope things are going good for you. Bye.”
Was that regret in her voice? Did she miss him?
Not that it mattered.
If Cade were trying to get in touch with him after six years, that could only mean one thing—he’d been released from prison and needed a place to freeload. Naturally, Nash was his first target.
He fisted the phone and pounded it against his thigh, but a tiny voice niggled at the back of his mind. Maybe Cade is different now. Time in prison could change a man’s life.
The idea searched for a place to anchor, but Nash shoved it away before it could take hold. Nothing short of a miracle could change Cade McGuire, and Nash hadn’t witnessed any miracles lately.
A knock at the door jarred him from his thoughts. He padded through the living room, pulled the door open, and his past slapped him directly in the face for the third time in twenty-four hours. “Well, that was fast,” he mumbled.
His younger brother lifted his chin and tossed out a casual “Hey,” as if he hadn’t spent the last six years in federal custody. Hard time obviously hadn’t altered Cade’s easy grin and mischievous eyes. Chances were good nothing else had changed, either.
Nash gripped the doorknob. “What are you doing here?”
“Amanda told me where you lived.”
Add that to the list of things Nash would never forgive her for. “So …?”
“Can I come in?”
“Just for a minute.” Nash stepped back to let him in.
Cade crossed the threshold and looked around the apartment, admiration swimming in his eyes. Probably casing the joint. Then, he moved through the living room to the espresso-colored leather chair.
Nash perched on the edge of the sofa. “When did you get out?”
“Three months ago.”
Three months? Nash would’ve expected him to show up begging for help within a day or two. “Where have you been?”
“Here in the city. I found a place to live and a job, and I’m working toward getting my GED.”
Job? GED? What kind of new scam was this? “Sounds like you’re doing fine on your own, then.”
“I’m trying. I feel like I’ve been given a second chance. I don’t want to blow it this time.”
A second chance. Suddenly Kinley Reid’s face filled Nash’s mind, and he heard her voice, full of conviction, saying those same words. She had clearly never met someone like his little brother, though. “Why are you here now?”
Cade glanced at the hardwood floor.
Here it comes.
But when Cade looked back up, his eyes were filled with something Nash couldn’t quite name. Sorrow? Desperation? It was hard to tell. Whatever it was, at least those eyes were clear instead of drug-hazed. That was new.
“I wanted to tell you I’m sorry.”
Nash narrowed his eyes. “You’re sorry?” He could hear the cynicism seeping from his own voice, but he couldn’t stop it.
“Yes. I’m truly sorry.”
“What exactly are you sorry for, Cade?” There was a whole list of things, but Nash doubted he would acknowledge any of them.
“For everything. The drugs. Stealing. For dragging you down with me.” He hesitated, dropped his voice. “For leaving you alone to take care of Mom. I know those years were hard on you.”
At the mention of their mother, a wave of sorrow rolled through Nash’s chest. Cade must’ve felt something similar because his expression sagged, along with his shoulders. He obviously shared Nash’s grief, but he had no right to. “You don’t know anything. You weren’t there. Not even when she died.”
“I know. That’s my biggest regret. I’m so sorry.” Cade’s hopeful eyes pleaded with Nash, but his brother would have had better luck asking for a loan—or his firstborn child.
They sat in silence for a long moment. Finally, Nash sighed. “So, you didn’t come here to ask me for money?”
Cade lifted his hand as if swearing an oath. “I’ll never ask you for money again. I really am trying to start fresh.”
Nash had heard it all before. He looked Cade over. Clean-shaven, nice hair-cut, fitted blue T-shirt, and dark denim jeans. He actually looked like a decent human being. The only indicators of his thug life were the tattoos peeking out from under his shirtsleeves. “You got a job, huh?”
“Yep.” Cade’s grin spread across his face.
“Doing what?”
“Working in the kitchen at the rescue mission.”
Nash furrowed his brow. “Is that where you’re living, too?” Because in Nash’s book, that didn’t really count as finding a job and a place to live.
“No, I’m in a little apartment near there. Paying the bills myself, being all legit and responsible.” The grin grew into a full-on smile.
Nash grunted. “You seem pretty proud of yourself.”
Cade relaxed into the chair and crossed one ankle over the other. “I know it’s nothing like you’ve accomplished, but yeah, I am proud of how far I’ve come. I’ve got a lot further to go, but I’m headed in the right direction.”
“Seems that way.”
“I know there’s no good reason for you to believe me, but I’ll prove it to you. I’m on the right track, and I won’t blow it this time.”
“I hope that’s true, man.”
“It is. You’ll see.” Cade glanced around the room again. “It looks like a lot has changed since I left. You’ve done pretty well for yourself.” He sat up and leaned forward. “What about Amanda?”
“It didn’t work out.” And Nash didn’t want to talk about it.
“Why not? You two were head over heels for each other.”
“It turned out she was more interested in my business partner.” Nash stood and walked toward the door, hoping Cade would take the hint. They’d had quite enough heart-to-heart for one day.
“What’s this?”
Nash stifled a groan, knowing exactly what Cade was talking about before he even turned around. Nash closed his eyes for a split second, and then faced him. Sure enough, Cade was holding the violation notice from the City in his hot little fingers.
“It’s nothing. Just a notice about one of my properties.” Nash walked over to take it from him, but Cade moved out of his reach and pulled the paper up for a better look.
“This is Mom’s address. What’s going on?”
“It’s taken care of. You don’t need to worry about it.”
“Yes, I do. If something needs to be done, I want to help. I owe it to Mom.” He nailed Nash with that same desperate, sorrowful look he’d used earlier. “I owe it to you.”
; There was no stifling Nash’s groan this time. The last thing he needed was to be back in Martindale with his brother tagging along. Trouble would find them before they knew it was coming.
“Just tell me what to do,” Cade said.
Nash pressed his mouth into a tight line. “Leave it alone. That’s what you can do.” He strode back to the door, opened it, and motioned for his brother to leave.
Cade’s shoulders slumped, but he returned the letter to the coffee table and started for the door. As he strolled past, he placed his hand on Nash’s arm and gave it a light shake. “Things will be different this time. You’ll see.”
Nash nodded slightly, closed the door, and leaned against the solid mahogany as though it could keep his stable life from careening out of control. He wouldn’t let Cade, or the old house, or even the fiery little teacher pull him back into that tumultuous world. Not after he’d clawed his way out by his fingernails.
As soon as he renovated his mom’s property, he’d sell it and cut every last tie to his past in Martindale.
#
Just after noon on Saturday, Kinley planted herself in the same spot as she had the day before—in front of the dilapidated blue house in Martindale. The damaged red car sat in the driveway next door, glorious and preening on one side, pitiful on the other. Kinley prayed Justice hadn’t caused any more trouble for his neighbor. She didn’t want the boy to head down a destructive path, and she had zero desire for repeat dealings with Nash McGuire.
She trudged through the yard and up the steps without breaking an ankle—a feat in itself—and knocked. Justice’s grandmother answered, the creases of a sneer burrowed in her face.
“Hi, Ms. Williams.” Kinley held up a yellow folder. “I brought this for Justice. I meant to give it to him yesterday, but—”
The woman grabbed the edge of the folder and yanked it from Kinley’s fingers. “I’ll give it to him.”
The Art Of Falling Page 15
