Page 7 of Paths

My line pulls taut and I stand to give it a good yank to sink my hook. “I’m gonna throw this cell in the water if you don’t tell me something I care about real fucking quick.”

“Boss,” he starts and his voice dips, finally getting to it. “I found something you’ve been looking for.”

“It better be the holy grail, Jeff.” I wind my reel slowly as my rod arches.

“Sorry, Ronny, no. But maybe the next best thing. I found Weston’s woman.”

I stop reeling and grab the cell with my hand. “What the fuck?”

“Yeah. I’d love to say it’s because I tracked her down, but I didn’t. We all know she left no trail. It was pure luck I found her. She works at a retirement facility I was touring for my uncle. I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw her. Thought it couldn’t be, but they introduced her as Maya. Surprised she stuck with her real name. I have no doubt it’s her. She doesn’t know me—we don’t need to worry about her getting spooked.”

I thrust my rod at the recruit and turn, moving quickly from the dock. “I want all the details. Don’t leave anything out. You sure she didn’t recognize you?”

“I’m sure. I’ve only seen her from afar and in pictures since she vanished. Now she only knows me as someone’s nephew. I don’t think she’d have any reason to be suspicious.”

“Stay,” I order. “Watch her ‘til I send Byron to you, then you can come home. Keep this quiet for now. Weston’s gonna go crazy when he learns we found her. I need more information first. I’m not calling the Augustines, either. You handle Byron when he gets there. Make this your first priority, hear me?”

“Sure thing, boss.”

Jeff goes into detail about where he found her, what she said, and everything he knows. It isn’t fucking much, but it’s enough. She’s been gone for months. With what happened, I would’ve thought she’d gone farther. Maybe she went far enough. It’s not like we found her by our own talents—she fell into our laps.

As much as I hate to admit it, sometimes a bit of luck is all that’s needed. Or maybe it’s the million candles Nancy has lit since she left. Whatever it is, I’ll take it.

Weston will be another story.

My son—the longer she’s been gone, the more agitated he’s become. He knows he fucked up and caused this shit storm. But if Jeff’s right and this is really her, we can bring her home.

I’ve just gotta figure out how without causing too much angst with the Augustines. Once she’s back, we’ll deal with her.

One step at a time.

Chapter 3 – Cream Puff

Grady –

“You think yer tough, huh?” he slurs, his big body shifting to the side, catching his balance. I don’t know exactly what he does to get like this, but I don’t think it’s just from drinking. This seems different.

Without taking my eyes off him, I say to Peyton, “Go find the girls. You know what to do.”

“You little fucker.” The man sways before looking over my head. “Don’t you move, Peyton. You girls left a fuckin’ mess. ‘Spose to clean this shit up before I get home.”

“Get home from where?” I ask, taking a step closer, trying to get his attention back to me.

“Grady,” Peyton calls for me through her tears, not doing what I told her to. I feel her hand grab at my arm to keep me from moving closer to him, but I shrug her off.

“Go,” I stress. She needs to hide now before I can’t keep him from her. I’ve started to put on some weight, but he’s still got at least sixty pounds and five inches on me. No way can I protect her once he gets started.

“Little fucker,” he repeats, too few brain cells to come up with anything new. “Yer fuckin’ thirteen. You think you can stop me from teachin’ those girls not to make a mess in my house?”

I think I hear Peyton scurry off. I hope she does what I’ve told her to. If not, we’re all in for it, not just me. “Fourteen. I had a birthday six months ago, but you wouldn’t know. You’ve been drunk for years.”

And he has. He was always a drinker but it’s been worse since Mom’s been gone.

His arm comes up, but I’m quicker. I’ve learned to be out of self-preservation, but football taught me to be even faster. Most guys my age go out for football for the love of the sport. I doubt many pray they make the team so they can bulk up and learn to dodge an uppercut to better survive at home. Or to have another excuse for the bruises. And I need every excuse I can get.

He fumbles then trips. “Damn you!”

My newfound agility pisses him off and he really comes for me. I try to dodge him again, but no matter how quick I am or how off he is from whatever he’s high on, his sixty pounds and five extra inches win.

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