Page 28

Past

D ays pass with no response from Marcy, but Truman makes sure I barely notice.

He holds my hand when we walk the property, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles against my skin like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

He picks wildflowers for me, tucking them behind my ear with this small, secret smile like he knows something I don’t.

He brings me treats—chocolate chip cookies, fresh peaches, little things he knows I love.

And he kisses me. God, does he kiss me.

Somewhere in the quiet of those days, I realize something: Truman isn’t just filling the time. He’s making it matter. He’s showing me—without words, without grand declarations—that he’s here. That he sees me. That I’m not just some orphaned soul flailing alone in the universe.

Marcy finally replies, setting a date and place to meet. Terror washes through me. Life crashing down on me, reality bisecting fantasy from real life.

“What if she goes to the police?” I ask. “What if she turns me in?”

Truman leans into me, kisses my forehead.

“Don’t freak out yet. This is just a meeting. You don’t have to tell her anything you don’t want too. Let’s just see what she’s like,” he says.

I nod.

Truman surprises me with a trip to the movies.

I’ve never been to a theater before, never sat in a seat that reclines or felt the rumble of sound vibrating through my chest. It’s overwhelming in the best way.

The lights dim, and Truman takes my hand, lacing our fingers together.

He doesn’t let go, not even when the screen flickers to life.

I steal glances at him in the glow of the film, memorizing the shape of his jaw, the way his lashes cast shadows on his cheek. I don’t know if the movie is any good because I’m too caught up in this—his warmth beside me, his thumb brushing over mine, the sheer wonder of being here with him.

Afterward, he takes me for ice cream.

“You have to get at least two flavors,” he insists, grinning as we scan the rows of options.

“I don’t know,” I say, overwhelmed by the choices. “Which ones are best?”

“Depends,” he says, pretending to study me. “You seem like a classic chocolate kind of girl.”

I elbow him lightly. “Is that an insult.”

He laughs, then orders for both of us—one scoop of honey lavender, one of chocolate chip cookie dough.

“You need a little bit of adventure and a little bit of comfort,” he tells me as we sit outside, the night air cool against my skin.

I take a bite of the lavender, surprised at the floral sweetness. “It tastes like sunshine.”

Truman watches me, his expression soft . “Yeah,” he murmurs, “it does.”

Truman folds me into his life, into his family over the next weeks. Easily as mixing chocolate chips into batter.

When I spend time with Truman’s family, his mom is kind, gentle in a way that makes my heart ache. His dad is often at work but the few times he’s been around he’s been warm, too.

Kenzie, his fifteen-year-old sister, chatters at me about school, about books she loves, about the bracelet she made. She makes me one, too. She asks me to go back to school shopping with her. I love her spirit. Her playfulness. I hope she never losses it.

Nate, the youngest, is a ruckus wild child. Always a joke or playful jab at his brother’s expense.

It feels strange, being here, surrounded by a family that isn’t mine. I miss Papa so much it hurts, but at the same time, I feel like I’m slowly finding my way.

That night, Truman and I sit on the porch, the stars stretching wide above us.

“We need a plan,” he says, his voice low and steady. “If you’re coming with me, we have to tell my parents something when they send me off. And see you on the same bus.”

I nod, curling my legs beneath me. “That I’m going to school too?” I suggest. “Not the same one, but the same area. I hate the idea of lying.”

His hand finds mine in the dark, his fingers intertwine with mine. “Are you scared?”

I glance at him, my chest tightening. “A little,” I admit. “But not as much as I would be if I had to stay here alone.”

His grip tightens. “You’re not alone.” His voice is rough with emotion. “You have me.”

The weight of those words settles deep inside me, warming the coldest parts of my heart.

I squeeze his hand back. “I know.”

The next day I use some of Papa’s money to buy a bus ticket.

The last week of August comes faster than I expect, and before I know it, we’re standing at the bus station with Truman’s family, their goodbyes clinging to the humid morning air like the scent of his mother’s lavender perfume.

They are emotional—bereft almost. I wonder if this would have happened between Papa and I if we were given the chance.

Kenzie hugs me so tight I can barely breathe. “Text me,” she demands. “Every day.”

“I don’t have a phone,” I remind her, laughing softly.

She pulls back, glaring at Truman. “Fix that.”

“I will,” he promises, then nudges her playfully. “Keep an eye on Nate for me, yeah?”

“Duh.” She rolls her eyes but wipes at them when she thinks no one’s looking.

Truman’s mom embraces him next, whispering something only he can hear. His jaw tightens, but when he pulls away, he presses a kiss to her cheek. A promise in its own way. Nate—who’s been quiet this whole time—shuffles up to me last. He kicks at the concrete, scuffing his sneakers.

“Don’t let him be too bossy,” he mutters.

I grin. “Oh, I won’t.”

Truman snorts. “Like I’ve ever bossed you around.”

Nate hugs me quickly before darting back to his mom’s side. And then it’s time.

We step onto the bus, and as I settle into my seat beside Truman, I turn and press my hand to the window. I watch as his family waves, getting smaller and smaller as the bus pulls away. My heart squeezes.

And then—just like that—we’re gone. Leaving Moffitt. The only place I’ve ever lived. The only people I’ve ever known.

The only home I’ve ever had.

The world stretches wide outside the window, more than I ever imagined. I press my forehead to the glass, watching fields and forests blur past. Every town, every city, every flickering neon sign is a new story I’ve never read.

Truman shifts beside me. “You good?”

I nod. “I’ve just never been anywhere.”

He drapes an arm over the back of my seat, close but not caging. Protective, but gentle. “You’re not scared?”

I think about it. “No.” I glance at him. “Are you?”

His lips twitch. “Of course not.”

I hum, unconvinced. “You sure? You’re awfully quiet.”

“I’m thinking.”

I grin at him. “Dangerous.”

His fingers find my braid, tugging lightly. “Smart ass.” His face dips down, his lips finding mine. A ghost of a kiss. “It’s a new adventure.”

The bus rumbles on. I keep watching, memorizing, cataloging. The colors of the buildings, the curve of the hills, the way the light shifts as the sun rises higher. At one point, we pass a massive bridge, and I grab Truman’s arm without thinking.

“Holy hell,” I breathe. “That’s a big river.”

His chest rumbles with laughter. He tucks a piece of hair behind my ear, his touch lingering. “You’re cute when you’re amazed.”

I huff, crossing my arms. “It seems I’m always amazed.”

“That’s what I mean.”

I shake my head, but there’s warmth in my chest.

For hours, I lose myself in the movement, the miles, the newness of it all. But somewhere in the quiet lull of the ride, when Truman dozes off beside me, my mind drifts back home. To Papa.

He should’ve been here.

He should’ve been the one to send me off, to hug me and tell me to be safe, to remind me I could always come back. Instead, all I have is the ghost of his voice in my head, the aching emptiness where he used to be. Be safe and stay alert.

I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my knuckles hard against my mouth, fighting the sob that wants to rise.

Then Truman shifts, waking, and without a word, he reaches for my hand. Laces our fingers together like he already knew.

I grip him like a lifeline.

We don’t speak. We don’t have to.

I just hold on.

By the time we reach North Carolina, the sky is a warm orange. Truman and I step off the bus with our bags, stretching our legs. His parents gave him money to purchase necessities when he arrives so that he wouldn’t have to haul a boat load of belongings with him on the bus.

“She said she’d meet us at a café near the station,” he says, scanning his phone.

We walk a few blocks, the city humming with life. I stare at everything—the people, the traffic lights, the way the streets seem to breathe with movement. It’s overwhelming, but Truman stays close, his palm resting against my lower back like an anchor.

We spot Marcy before she spots us. She looks younger than I expected, with sharp eyes and a leather notebook clutched in her hand. She’s tapping furiously at her phone when we approach.

Truman clears his throat. “Marcy?”

She looks up, assessing us in a blink. “Truman and Kid, I presume.”

I nod. “That’s us.”

She waves us inside, gesturing toward a booth in the corner. “Come on. Let’s talk.”

Truman slides in beside me, close but relaxed. I know better, though—he’s watching, assessing, making sure she’s trustworthy.

She folds her arms, leaning in. “So. What made you reach out?”

I glance at Truman, and he nods.

“I think you have an idea.”

Her lips curve slightly. “Maybe. But I want to hear it from you.”

I meet her gaze, steady. “I want to know the truth.”

Marcy studies me for a long moment, then exhales. “Alright, then,” she says, flipping open her notebook. “Let’s see what we can do.”

Truman’s hand tightens around mine beneath the table. I squeeze back and take a breath.

“Holy shit. You’re really her? Little Evany Testa?” Marcy leans back in her seat stunned at all the information I just dumped on her.

Marcy is sharp. Too sharp. The kind of person who sees everything at once and decides which piece of information to sink her teeth into first. She hasn’t stopped watching me since we sat down, her pen tapping rhythmically against her notebook. I don’t think she even realizes she’s doing it.

Truman doesn’t look away either. But his attention is on her, his posture tight, his jaw locked.

“I’ll get straight to it,” he says, his voice low but firm. “Would going to the FBI do any good? Would they help her?”

Marcy exhales through her nose, flicking a glance at me before leaning back in the booth. “Maybe,” she says. “But the key word there is maybe .”

Truman’s frown deepens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The Testas have people in a lot of places,” she explains, propping her chin on her hand.

“And while the FBI isn’t known for being corruptible, I wouldn’t bet my life on every agent being clean.

The wrong one catches wind of Evany, and suddenly, they know exactly where to find her. You willing to take that risk?”

Truman tenses beside me, his hand tightening into a fist against his thigh.

I don’t blame him. My options seem rather limited. Maybe Papa was right, maybe I should disappear into the wind and live a quiet life forever.

I can feel the weight of her words in my bones. The cold, creeping knowledge that no matter how far I run, how many miles stretch between me and these people, I am still tangled up in their world.

“So what?” Truman challenges. “You’re saying we do nothing ?”

Marcy studies him, then me. Her eyes are calculating, like she’s measuring us up for something. And then she says it.

“No,” she murmurs. “I’m saying she should go back.”

The world stops. My ears ring and I feel dizzy.

Truman goes deathly still beside me, but me? I just blink at her, the words slow to sink in.

“Excuse me?” Truman’s voice is dangerously calm.

Marcy doesn’t flinch. “I’ve been covering the four families for decades.

I know the way they move, the way they operate.

I also know the Testa family lost something valuable—you.

” She tilts her head at me. “If you went back, Evany, if you earned their trust again, you could take them down from the inside. Feed me information. Give me an exclusive.”

It’s an out-of-body experience, hearing her say it. Like the world is moving without me, and I’m just watching it happen. Papa said I could go back, but he also said that’s not what he wanted for me. But I could right wrongs if I did, couldn’t I?

Truman is not watching. He’s moving.

“Are you out of your mind?” His voice is sharp enough to cut steel.

Marcy sighs, setting her pen down. “Truman—”

“No. No Truman. You’re seriously sitting here, asking her to walk into that kind of family just so you can write a story?”

“It’s more than a story.”

“The hell it is.”

I stay quiet, staring at the table, at the rings left by our water glasses.

It’s not that I want to do it.

I don’t.

But she’s right.

I am valuable to them.

Truman turns to me, his voice gentler now, but no less firm. “You’re not doing that.”

I meet his eyes. “I haven’t said anything.”

His throat works, frustration simmering just beneath his concern. “Then say it. Say you won’t.”

I don’t.

Not because I want to say yes. But because I don’t know what the right answer is yet.

Marcy exhales, then slides a small white card across the table. “Think it over,” she says. “And if you want to talk, call me.”

Truman doesn’t touch the card.

I do.

I tuck it into my pocket, standing when Truman does. He’s fuming, holding it together by a thread as we step out of the café, the warm summer air pressing in on us.

We walk in silence a few blocks before he stops abruptly, turning to me. “Kid.”

I lift my chin. “Truman.”

His jaw flexes. “You can’t actually be considering this.”

“I don’t know what I’m considering,” I admit. “But I do know she’s not wrong.”

His nostrils flare. “I don’t give a shit if she’s right. I will not let you go to them so they can finish what they started.”

The finality in his voice is solid, unwavering. I should be annoyed at how quick he is to try and decide for me. I should fight back, argue that it’s my choice. Because it is. It’s my life. My family.

But instead, I just feel… tired.

So I step closer, pressing my forehead to his chest. His arms come around me instantly, his grip strong, steady.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I murmur.

His breath shudders against the top of my head. “Promise me.”

I close my eyes. The spark inside me from home—the cabin—the angry, vengeful spark, grows in the pit of my stomach. I could go. I could make them pay for killing my biological family, for executing Papa. For making me an orphan.

I could right all the wrongs.

Couldn’t I?