Page 152 of Ransom

"And that's where you met Blair and her dad?" Evie asks, leaning forward on the bench.

"Yeah, it was." So much of my childhood is a blur, but that moment, right after Jerry drove off, is still crystal clear in my head. "My social worker dropped me off. He barely stayed long enough to introduce us, then he was gone.

This is a really bad idea. This guy's not like the other foster dads I've lived with. He's bigger. A hell of a lot bigger. And he's got this scary calm way of looking at me, like he sees everything going on inside my head.

I don't like it.

Jerry's car is getting smaller and smaller as it drives away, and I'm desperate to run after it. To climb back in and force him to take me back to the city. To everything familiar. Everything predictable.

The blood starts pumping in my legs, preparing to run, when a heavy hand lands on my shoulder. "Let's go, son. There's no point in running. He'll just bring you right back here."

I round on him, shrugging his hand off my shoulder. "I'm not your son. Don't fucking touch me, you fucking pervert."

His eyes don't light with anger. His hands don't clench into fists. He doesn't do anything but look at me calmly, slow blinking like he's listening to the weather report.

It's creepy as fuck.

"I've got a few more hours of work to do. We'll get you registered at school tomorrow. But for now, you can give me a hand."

"Work? That's why I'm here? So you can have some sort of slave labor in your shitty shop?"

He turns, looking back at his garage. To be fair, it ain't that shitty. Yeah, the sign's worn, and some of the paint's peeling, but he's got three bays, and the floors look pretty damn clean. Nothing like the greasy place in my neighborhood.

My old neighborhood.

"Son, my guess is you don't have a fucking clue about much of anything. If I were looking for free labor, you wouldn't have been my first choice." He strides into the garage, leaving me standing in the driveway, feeling lost.

There's nowhere to go. I scan the street, and there's really not much of anything going on. In front of a few stores, there are little benches, and more than one of them has old people sitting on them. They don't look like they're in much of a hurry to go anywhere. I guess when you're old, you don't have much to do.

Except watch me. They might not be staring, but they sure as hell are paying attention to me. I'm the new freak on the block, I guess.

My options at the moment seem to be go inside and fucking 'work' or stay out here and let the granny hotline gossip about me.

I head inside.

The dude's not even waiting for me. He's already under a car that's hoisted up in the air, fiddling with something.

And he's whistling like everything is fine, and he didn't just get a twelve-year-old kid dropped on his doorstep. If he can act like this is no big deal, so can I. Dropping down onto a lowstool, I prop my elbow on my knee and drop my chin into my hand. How am I going to get myself out of here?

I don't know how much time passes as I sit there thinking up ways to blow up my life, but eventually, Mckenna's voice rings out. "Can you hand me that wrench next to you, son?"

I pick up the wrench, my hand tightening on the handle. "I'm not your fucking son. I never will be. And if you call me that one more time, I'm going to beat you to death with this fucking wrench."

He steps out from under the car and comes forward until the toes of his big boots touch the tips of my scuffed white sneakers. My heart is racing in my chest, but I don't let on how fucking scared I am. Maybe this is it. This is the moment when it all ends. Maybe this is the guy to set me free.

I want to be free. I want to see my family again. I want to hug my sisters.

Forcing myself to meet his eyes, I stand, our chests almost touching. His face is unreadable. There's nothing there. It's just blank, which is so much worse than obvious anger. He makes a low rumbling noise in the back of his throat, and I clench all the muscles in my thighs. I don't know why I'm bracing. If he's planning to smack the fuck out of me, there's not much I'll be able to do about it, even with a weapon.

But he doesn't hit me. Instead, he opens his mouth and breaks me. "You must have had a really good dad."

The wrench falls from my hand as memories of my dad play through my mind. Playing catch in the backyard. The way he made a game of sneaking food off my plate, laughing when I'd slap at his hands. The way he'd hug me so tight I almost couldn't breathe.

I'm too broken to fight when he wraps one hand around my neck and pulls me into his chest. He doesn't wrap his arms around me. If he had, I would have lost it. He just keeps a tightgrip on my neck and presses my forehead against his chest while I shake.

I won't fucking cry. I don't deserve to. I'm the reason all of this is happening.

But I can't make the shaking and stupid crazy breathing stop. The only thing I can do is stand there and ride it out. This isn't me. I don't fall apart, and I sure as hell don't do it in front of strangers. This shit is usually something I only let myself do in bed at night when no one else can see.

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