Page 11 of Vision of Justice

She shook her head and moved back. She didn’t want to be touched, to find solace in his arms. “Do you want coffee? I need to do something.”

His footsteps sounded behind her as she fled for the kitchen, not bothering to wait for a response. Her heart was a hummingbird, its sprinting wings beating, racing. The last thing she needed was caffeine, but what the heck. She should’ve anticipated Gus looking into her background, unburying the coffins of her past and making her relive each excruciating moment. This was why she was reclusive. The only person she could stand to be around was Ted because he knew. He didn’t ask questions about her family or dredge up her tragedy.

“It would be bad policing if I didn’t research a witness. Two crimes have occurred feet from your home.” He spoke slowly, lowering his voice as if to counter her rapid movements, her fast speech.

She dug the measuring scoop into the jar of coffee grounds and lobbed it into a filter. With the pot switched on, she whirled around. He was standing at a professional distance, but it was still too close. “So you’ve Googled my story. What makes you think I bear any responsibility for what happened?”

“Because I recognize it. I live it.” His mouth was unsmiling, features expressionless, like he’d battened down the hatches against a hurricane of emotion.

Her windpipe seemed to shrink by half, choking her. She wanted to know his story, maybe too much. And wasn’t that the exact opposite of keeping to herself, of keeping relationships at bay?

“I shouldn’t have said that back there. It was tactless.” He rubbed the back of his neck, and for the first time, she noticed the purple half-moons beneath his eyes, the pinched expression. He’d dedicated his day off to keeping her safe, then jumped right into a murder investigation. The only indication that he might’ve gone home was his change in clothing.

She released a long breath and turned to open the cabinet for coffee mugs. “I don’t like talking about it. I guess that makes me a hypocrite for wanting to know your story.” The cups clinked together as she set them down on the countertop.

“I tell it more than you’d think. If I can help one person be more cautious in difficult domestic situations, it’s worth it.” He pulled out a chair and sat at the kitchen table. “My parents divorced—affairs on both sides. It sucked having two homes, constantly ping-ponging between their bickering, but my sister and I are close, so we dealt with it all right. Then my mother remarried the man she had the affair with, and our father just snapped. We never knew what we were walking into after school on his custody days. He started lashing out, drinking, beating on us. I felt responsible for every hit my sister took, because I wasn’t big enough, strong enough to defend her.” A pained look flashed over his face, and she instantly regretted prompting him to relive his experience.

“Why you became a protector,” she whispered.

“I wanted to become the person we needed all those years ago. We got off the bus one day to find our father standing over our mother with a knife. She was dead, and he was waiting for us. He went after me first.” He unconsciously rubbed the side of his neck where his scar resided. “But didn’t finish the job. Then he went after Jules. I understand the guilt, of wishing you could’ve done more. I understand wanting to hide away from everyone and everything.”

“Is your sister—is she?” She couldn’t bring herself to ask the question burning on the tip of her tongue.

“Alive? Yes. I had to make a split-second decision. It was my sister or my father.” His voice was detached like he was telling someone else’s story.

“How old were you?” She wanted to reach out and touch him, offer some sort of comfort.

“Fifteen. For a long time, I thought something was wrong with me. I killed my father with his own gun. To this day, I don’t understand why he didn’t have it in his hands. Maybe it was too impersonal of a weapon. He left it carelessly on the television stand like he always did. His mistake.”

“What happened to you and your sister? Where did you go?” He was a miracle. Instead of letting his past rule his future in a negative way, he’d become someone others could call for help. A servant to the public. She admired him more now, and she was impressed with him to start.

“Foster care. We were lucky enough to be taken as a pair, but the family wasn’t what you’d call nurturing. They had two other boys my age, biological brothers, and we became close. I consider them siblings to me and Jules. Once I turned eighteen, we started fresh on our own.”

So, he had been a father to his sister as well. Where did this man find his hope and courage? “What happened to the other children? Do you stay in touch?” She watched as his face softened, a real bond born out of a terrible situation.

“Isaac enlisted. Survived BUD/S and is a badass SEAL. Easton is the computer whiz. He works intelligence with the FBI—same building as Agent Nilsson. We see a lot of him on weekends. Isaac comes home when he can.”

“You love them. I can hear it in your voice.” And thinking of her own brother, she had trouble catching her breath.

Chin high, shoulders wide, he nodded. “I do. We both do. I’m proud of what they’ve done with their lives.”

“I’m sorry. I am. For everything that happened to you and your sister. Your parents.” She couldn’t stop herself from reaching across the table and sandwiching one of his hands between her own. Drew in a few silent breaths. Gus had trusted her with his story, and even if he did tell it often, it gave her a sense of comradery. It was real and raw. Painful and heartbreaking. It made her want to empty her soul at his feet.

“I was sixteen. I begged to sleep over at my friend’s house the night of the fire. A bitch-fest for the ages. I got the slumber party, and lost everything that really mattered by sunrise.”

He slid his left hand across the table, rested it against the back of her hand that was still pressed against his.

“My mom, dad, and brother all gone. Only identifiable by dental records. The fire alarm system had malfunctioned.” A silent tear slid down her cheek. That day still held the power to slice her through at the knees.

“Sasha.” The way he drew out her name, squeezed her hand like he was trying to sponge up all her pain, shifted something inside her. For so long, she was alone in her grief. No one who could really relate. Hearing Gus’s story, seeing his strength, his goodness took away a bit of the guilt. They both had survived. Both tried to give something back to the world, to make sense of their lives in their own way.

Her stomach flip-flopped. “I tried to end it. I can’t even say I’m ashamed. Physical pain can’t possibly be as excruciating as emotional.” And the desperation, the anger burning through her when she woke up in the hospital room to realize she’d failed in her attempt and had to continue on shrouded in the horror story that was her life.

“You were just a child.” He moved his hands, so they were palm-to-palm, fingers linked.

She nodded, squeezing his hands like they were the only thing separating her from certain death. “After a few months in the hospital with counselors and therapists, I was released into my aunt and uncle’s care. Art gave me a purpose. Something I could share with others while maintaining a safe distance.”

“I can understand that. Needing a purpose.” He rubbed his thumbs up and down hers. “What you share with the world is nothing short of incredible. I understand it now. The aura of peace you infuse into your paintings. It’s a place where others can escape.” He stared at her for a long pause, then pulled away from her grasp and stood. “A place you wished you had.”

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