Truth Be Told (Blackbridge Security Book 4)

by Marie James

  “He’s grounded.”

  “For sneaking out again or trouble at school?”

  “Trouble at school,” I say, but turn to face her. “Is he still sneaking out?”

  Mom shrugs, her weak shoulders barely lifting an inch before they fall back down.

  “I wish Dad was here.”

  “Me too, honey.”

  My father knew how to fix everything. He wasn’t the most forgiving man. He was set in his ways and had ideals about life that just don’t mesh with modern society, but he loved his family until the day he died. He was the only male influence Alex had, and that was ripped away from him in a work accident six years ago. Alex has never been the same.

  “That kid needs a male role model,” my mother supplies as she tries to unpack canned goods from the bags Alex placed on the table.

  “I’ll do that, Mom.”

  I know she wants to be helpful, but she tires easily.

  “Cooper called earlier,” she continues, talking while unloading groceries.

  I turn around to unload my own bags, so she doesn’t see how hard my eyes roll.

  “Yeah? What did he want?” Money. The answer is always money, like we’re hiding some trust fund from him or something.

  “He was just checking up on me. He got a new job, but he doesn’t start until next month.”

  “How much money did he ask for?”

  “He didn’t.” She’s a horrible liar. “But I did offer him a place to stay.”

  I spin back around. “What?”

  She doesn’t meet my eyes, and my jaw hurts from keeping my mouth clamped so I don’t say hateful things to my sick mother.

  “He’s going to be working on those oil rigs out in the ocean.”

  A perfect job for my brother. With his criminal history, there’s no doubt in my mind that it’s one of the few jobs he’s able to get.

  “It’s so dangerous,” she muses, turning the cans to face the same direction in an attempt to not look in my direction.

  She’s well aware of how I feel about my older brother. He’s been in trouble for as long as I can remember. He lived here with my grandmother before we did because Dad made him leave our house in San Antonio seven months before Dad lost his job, which forced us back to Houston for a couple of years.

  “Is he coming or not?” I don’t really have a right to put my foot down and tell this woman what she can or can’t do with her house, but I have a son to worry about, and Cooper Holland, Jr is not the type of man I want around my impressionable kid, especially not when he’s looking for anything outside of my guidance to grasp onto.

  “He said he didn’t know.”

  This time, I can’t tell if she’s lying or not. Hell, for all I know, the man will be in the house casing it for sellable items before the sun comes up tomorrow.

  I snort a laugh at the thought of having anything valuable in the house. We had to sell everything long ago to pay medical bills. If it wasn’t for Mom qualifying for Medicare, we would’ve lost her long ago. Chemo is incredibly expensive, and something only millionaires are able to pay for out of pocket. We’re far from being rich.

  “What do you want for dinner?” I ask in an attempt to change the subject.

  If we stay on the topic of my brother long enough, it’s going to change to speaking about another man from my life and my mother’s disappointment in not “letting” him help take care of Alex. Dad hated Ignacio, but Mom was always fond of him. I know it had more to do with his charming personality and those dark, mysterious eyes than anything else. My mom has always been a sucker for a handsome man.

  “I’m not hungry, dear.”

  “Mom,” I groan, knowing how tonight is going to end up. “You have to eat something. What about taco soup? I can make it mild, hardly any spices.”

  “Then you and Alex won’t enjoy it.”

  “Enjoy what?” my son asks as he brings in the last load of groceries. Without being asked, he begins to help put them away, and I know he’s doing it to be helpful, but also in part because he thinks he can task his way out of being grounded. He should’ve learned by now, I don’t give in, no matter how much he helps.

  “Taco soup,” Mom says.

  “I love taco soup,” Alex says with a wide grin. “But Mom made it too spicy last time.”

  Although my son is a better liar than my mom, I let it pass this time. He knows it’s Mom’s favorite meal, and as much as he loves it too, he knows she can’t eat it the way we used to.

  “Can you make it less spicy?” he asks as he turns in my direction.

  “I can.”

  “I’d love some taco soup,” Mom says, her heart big enough to eat just because it makes her only grandson happy.

  Tears threaten to spill over knowing how much they love each other. Losing her is going to be another devastating blow, and I know that if I can’t get things under control where he’s concerned that I may just lose them both.

  She doesn’t have much longer. Treatments have stopped due to the continued growth of her cancer and her weakened body just not being strong enough to take anymore. It won’t be long before my entire world falls apart.

  The least I can do is make the most amazing woman in my life her favorite meal.

  Chapter 3

  Ignacio

  I’m going to hear the beeps of these damn machines for the rest of my life, the soft in and out of forced puffs of air. True to form, my grandfather didn’t have a medical directive. There was no DNR on record when he collapsed a week ago, meaning the doctors had no choice but to put him on a ventilator and perform all sorts of lifesaving tactics.

  They didn’t know this abusive, bitter old man probably deserved to die right there in the middle of the grocery store by the canned peaches where he collapsed.

  But as much as I feel that in my bones, knowing the end is coming very soon, I still feel a little heartbroken. Not for him, but for the grandfather I should’ve had, for the man every boy needs in his life.

  He wasn’t always hateful and cold. My mother grew up in a very loving home. He doted on her, treated her like a princess. She could do no wrong in his eyes until she married a Mexican and dishonored her family. His bigotry showed then, and by the time she had a son of her own, they no longer communicated. He wanted no part of her life and in turn, no part of mine, despite living only a handful of miles from each other. Then Dad went off the deep end, and he ended up with her spawn.

  Maybe I should be grateful that he didn’t force me into foster care, but from the way I grew up, I have no doubt that probably would’ve been the better option for me. He made sure I knew daily how much my dad ruined her life before ending it.

  The injustices I suffered from the age of six and up was the deciding factor in why I decided long ago to never have children. I scrub my hands over my face, not letting my mind go there. I can only handle one damn thing at a time right now, and as I glare at the weak, feeble old man in the bed, I will each forced breath from the ventilator to be his last.

  The time doesn’t come until the early morning hours, where despite the machines breathing for him, his heart stops on its own. I watch the line on the machine begin to flatten before it finally remains solid.

  I’m sure the pits of Hell are opening up to welcome him home, and as awful as it sounds, I don’t have a tear to shed for him. He hated me when I was born and every day since. Maybe now he’ll find a little peace not having to walk the same earth as the son of the man who destroyed his entire world.

  Staff charge in to turn off the machines, and I can only sit in the corner and wait for them to finish. One asks if I want a few minutes alone, but I decline. I’ve given enough of my time to the old bastard, but even though I know I need to stand up and walk away for good, I wait for the orderly responsible for taking the bodies wherever they go after they expire to leave, spending a few more minutes alone in the room once it has been cleared out.

  I need to call Wren with all the questions I won’t get answers t
o on my own, but I’m not a big enough asshole to do that this early in the morning.

  For some reason, when I walk out of the hospital for the last time, I feel freer than I have in a long time. Maybe because when I showed up, I thought my last-living relative was soon to be gone, and even though I hated the man, that blood connection still meant something deep down. Seeing Tinley with that boy yesterday changed everything. Even in my anger, I know that kid is mine. I just need proof before I act.

  ***

  Even with as anxious as I am to get answers, my exhaustion wins out. I only meant to close my eyes for an hour or so until I was certain Wren was at the office and able to work his computer magic, but it turned into passing out for six hours on the couch.

  I wake with a start, lungs and mouth gasping for breath with the dream that haunted me so often many years ago. I haven’t had the dream of Tinley walking away with tears streaking her face in nearly a decade, but being back home, seeing her again, has brought that demon right back. Only the one I just woke up from included a crying baby in her arms as she left me for good. Still unable to get the sounds of their pain out of my head, I cup my hands over my ears and hum until it goes away, like I did many times in my closet as a child hiding from my drunk grandfather. If I was quiet enough, he’d forget I existed and would wallow in his own pain and misery until he passed out.

  When I open my eyes, I busy myself with making a pot of coffee, hoping the tremble in my hands will dissipate as I work. It doesn’t. Of course, it doesn’t. That shake, half anger and half terror will stick around until I have answers. Knowing this, I pull out my phone and call the office.

  “What’s up, man? We were just talking about you,” Wren says right as the call picks up.

  I don’t doubt they were. The guys at Blackbridge Security gossip more than anyone I’ve ever met.

  “I need everything you can find on Tinley Holland.”

  Without questions of his own, I hear Wren’s fingers move over his keyboard. I can’t even concern myself with the fact that I’m on speaker phone and there’s no telling how many members of the team are in the room to hear what he’s about to say. I need answers, and as much as I’d like to keep my private shit private, I know they’ll be talking about it the second I hang up. At least this way they’ll get the information straight instead of through whispers of half-truths and exaggerations.

  I hear whispering, but it isn’t loud enough for me to decipher.

  “Tinley Renee Holland,” Wren begins before giving me her social security number, date of birth, and her home address, one I’m intimately familiar with. “She’s currently employed at Big Freight in Houston. She currently has fourteen college credits from El Centro Community College in Dallas, all general studies. She left her previous employer, another discount store, eleven months ago.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “She has a son, almost thirteen years old, named Alex,” he adds.

  “Is that his full name?” I ask, the palm of my hand growing so sweaty I nearly drop my damn phone.

  “Alejandro Cooper Holland,” Wren says, and I can tell he’s reading from the screen in front of him.

  A cough or a gasp, some sound of shock, filters through the phone, but barely registers. Wren has just confirmed what I suspected but wouldn’t fully allow myself to believe over the last eighteen hours.

  “Hey, isn’t your middle name Alejandro?” someone asks, but I end the call before I can be bombarded with a million other questions.

  Alejandro Cooper Holland.

  Tinley knew my middle name from making fun of my driver’s license photo. I never told her I hated it. Never confessed that it was my dad’s first name, and one that will haunt me until I die, a little piece of the man that stole my mother from me.

  Cooper is her father’s name making her brother a junior. CJ, as the younger Holland is known, was an acquaintance of mine before his sister moved to town. He was always down for trouble despite being several years older, but that friendship crumbled when I began to show interest in his younger sibling. I was good enough to get high and steal with, but when it came to Tinley, he didn’t want me anywhere near her. He only stuck around town for a couple months after her family moved here thankfully.

  I shoot off a text to Wren wanting him to gather everything he possibly can on her entire family. He confirms that he’ll send it all in an email once it’s compiled. I know I won’t have to wait long but sticking around here until it comes through isn’t an option.

  What turned into a week or two to get my grandfather’s shit in order after his death has managed to turn my life upside down. I want to be happy, proud that I have a son even though what I saw of him at the school and in the parking lot tells me he’s sort of an asshole in desperate need of redirection, but right now all I can feel is a sense of loss and irrational anger at Tinley for keeping something so important from me.

  Pacing won’t help.

  It won’t calm me down.

  It won’t make my need for answers any less prevalent, and since I’ve always been a man to face my problems head-on, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

  I have no idea why I hit the shower, dress in my best jeans, and put on cologne before leaving the house.

  Well, that’s not true. I know exactly why I do those things. Tinley has lied to me for the last thirteen years by omitting the fact that I have a child, but despite my anger, she was always the one that got away.

  Chapter 4

  Tinley

  With Alex out the door for school, I spend the remaining twenty minutes before work getting things ready for the home health nurse that comes a couple of times a week.

  “You should stop by that place you like and grab a coffee before work,” Mom suggests as I pull out a new dressing gown and underthings for her to have available after her shower.

  “I will,” I lie. “That new mocha drink is now back in season.”

  I don’t have the means to be frivolous to buy expensive coffee drinks, but I saw the sign advertising the seasonal mint mocha chip latte in the window last week. Mom doesn’t need to know how bad things are. Worrying about finances is the very last thing she needs to be concerned with right now.

  I hate even leaving her, wanting instead to spend every second I have with her, but her death, although we both know it’s coming, is something we just don’t talk about. It’s the proverbial elephant in the room, as if ignoring it will prolong her life. I’d give everything I have to anyone able to guarantee the possibility.

  Losing Dad was abrupt and devastating, but losing her slowly, watching her wither day after day is just as traumatic. I realize neither is easier now that I’ve experienced both.

  I kiss her clammy forehead and rest my hand on her shoulder. I feel completely drained, as if the lithium cells in my rechargeable batteries are faulty. Sleep at night isn’t restful. Work is exhausting, considering I work in a town where no one seems to have an ounce of work ethic, and I do the job of three. Alex getting in trouble at school doesn’t help, but thankfully he was only suspended for half a day yesterday. Mr. Branford has given him more than his fair share of breaks, and I’m pretty certain his luck is going to run out very soon.

  “Get out of here,” Mom urges, her tired hand lifting to swat me away but falling to her lap before she can get it halfway up to my side. “I’ll be fine. Melissa will be here soon, and the minister is scheduled to visit.”

  I nod my head, tears that never seem too far off these days threatening.

  “I’ll be home around seven. I told Alex to take the bus straight home after school. Let me know if he doesn’t get here by four-thirty.”

  She assures me she will as I grab my purse and keys. I say a prayer that my car starts without trouble this morning as I pull open the front door, but a man standing there makes me yelp.

  For a split second I think I’m going to be robbed—something not completely unheard of in this town—although most criminals around here know the people i
n this neighborhood don’t have a single item of value in their homes. Our dollar store plates and Goodwill furniture aren’t worth the jail time if they get caught. It provides a shaky barrier of protection that is usually only breeched when someone is so baked out of their head, they aren’t using reason.

  However, the man standing in front of me isn’t a crackhead. This guy is much more dangerous, and on instinct, I take a step back and try to slam the door shut.

  His booted foot stops it, forcing it to bounce back and nearly hit me in the face. From the angry glint in his eyes, I don’t know that he’d be remorseful if it did smack me upside the head. There’s possibly a hint of regret that it didn’t when I glare at him.

  “Would you have really kept him a secret his entire life?” he snaps. I knew if I ever saw him again, this would be the reason why.

  “I-I don’t know what you’re talking a-about,” I stammer, my cheeks heating with the lie as a bone-deep tremble begins inside of me.

  My worst nightmare is playing out right this very second, and shamefully, murder is the first thing on my brain. If I kill him, he won’t be able to take my son from me.

  But that’s foolish. I’m not a violent person, and even though he ripped my heart out of my chest and stomped on it that night in his granddad’s truck, I know he’d never take a child from his mother.

  At least, I hope he wouldn’t.

  I could be wrong. The scowl on his face isn’t one I’ve ever seen directed at me before, although I’m familiar with the sight of it. It’s the look he gives to people he hates—the guy who smacked my butt that night at the football game, the girls who picked on me in gym class because my breasts were smaller than theirs, the teacher who warned me against dating a piece of trash like Ignacio Torres.

  “My son,” he hisses.

  “Y-your son?”

  “Alex!” he roars, making me jump and take another step back.

  “Is not your son,” I lie again.

  “The fuck he isn’t.” His words come out on a low growl. “You named him Alejandro.”