Page 16 of Blue-Eyed Jacks (Destroyers MC: Skilletsville PA #1)

That would be never . “It’s not safe.” And she might not like him. I had no illusions that he was rough around the edges. For four days, I found that charming. My poor, abused heart wanted to love him so badly that I ignored all the warning signs.

“You’re always saying that. This isn’t safe , that isn’t safe . Mom, live a little.”

I perused her from head to toe. “That’s how I got you.”

She fired back, “Low blow, Mom.”

“The best thing I ever did was live just enough to have you. But I’m scared to death of losing you.

” Despite all my good intentions, I was trying too hard to keep her in a bubble where she could never ever be hurt.

And even knowing that, I had an overwhelming urge to pack everything up and flee.

Sixteen years of safety, and it wasn’t enough.

Nothing would ever be enough as long as Shock Weaver was still alive and kicking.

Unfortunately, he was. I subscribed to online Pittsburgh news outlets to watch for his obituary or news on the Destroyers.

He’d been arrested for battery a year ago and was released without charges.

It made headlines because while the police did their jobs, so did my father. Shock got off on a technicality.

She shifted subjects. “You’re a sap. Weekdays, huh? That means I can use the car tonight to go down there for orientation, right?”

I bit my tongue. “No,” was right there. Instead, I capitulated. “Be home before nine-thirty.”

“Mom.”

Oh God, that tone. “Zoe, it’s a weeknight and—”

“And school’s out. I can drive until midnight, you know.”

“Not with my car.”

She made a face and muttered something that sounded like, “Fine” but I wouldn’t put it past her to change up the words to fit her agenda. “What was that?”

“I said, fine. Nine-thirty.”

Thank goodness. “I love you. And I’m proud of you. But I’m still scared.”

She shot me an odd look as she grabbed the keys from the hook. “I love you, too.”

A quiet house was something I wasn’t used to.

School days, I’d drop Zoe off and go to work.

Or if she was with friends, I’d start another renovation project.

But this silence was different. Almost taunting.

I puttered around, picking up and deciding what needed the most urgent fixing.

But I’d managed to fix almost everything I could in sixteen years.

The place wasn’t the same. And my baby wasn’t the same either.

She was almost an adult. I marveled a bit at the things I’d managed.

One of Zoe’s socks was under the coffee table. I grabbed it and went upstairs to get a load of laundry from the rooms. Zoe’s room was in the front of the house. As I collected more strays from under her bed and straightened, I looked outside. John stood in front of my house, staring at the road.

That was odd.

I went downstairs and dumped the armload of clothes into the basket in the laundry room and went outside to check on him.

“Hey, John. Is everything okay?”

“I don’t know.” He stared both directions at the road.

My pulse sped up. There was something prickling at the back of my mind, nudging my instinct to run. “That’s a first. You usually know everything.” I tried to keep my voice light.

He held out the large envelope in his hands. “This was on my front step, but there’s no postage or barcodes.”

Oh, that was odd. “Maybe one of the neighbors dropped it off.”

“It’s addressed to you. But not Kate Brown. Kate Weaver.”

John held the envelope out, but we were too far apart for me to take it. In bold Sharpie, my name was scrawled across the tan paper. I took a step back toward the safety of my house.

As I did, John said something about going to grab gloves before we opened it together.

My whole body felt numb, and I moved on autopilot to enter the house, grab my suitcase and the three duffle bags I’d squirreled away in the hall closet.

I filled the bags methodically. One with toiletries, towels, and the first aid kit.

The second with three sets of clothes, a sweater, and a hoodie for me.

I went to Zoe’s room, furiously trying to scan it for anything valuable and memorable and stuffing it into the third small duffle while filling her suitcase with clothes and shoes and whatnots she’d need.

“Kate, where are you?” John’s voice echoed in the house.

I gave up on the suitcase and started down the stairs.

There were two photos of Zoe hung on the stairs.

The rest depicted places we’d been without any images of her in them.

I began to take them down and rearrange the pictures to cover the blank spaces, so Shock wouldn’t find them.

“What are you doing?”

“He can’t find out about her.”

“Kate, we don’t even know it’s from him until we open it.”

John was right. I was being paranoid and overreacting. “Okay, open it.” My knee bounced as I tried to project calmness.

He sent me a look that was one part speculation and the other part admonishment for jumping to conclusions. Then he donned plastic gloves and set out a series of large bags. “If it’s from him, everything goes in a bag first, then you can look at it.”

I nodded, squeezing my hands together so I wouldn’t touch something.

He cut open the top of the envelope. Very carefully, he used the knife tip to prop open the edges and peek inside. “Newspaper clippings.”

That wasn’t awful, was it?

He pulled out the stack and slipped them one by one into the plastic bags, taking care to label each one in the order they were piled.

In between them was a hand-written note.

John took his time reading it before placing it in a bag of its own.

I picked up the first clipping. It was the trial I’d read about online.

My father’s face was prominent on the page.

Since I’d already seen it, I scanned for any notations or indications of why it was important.

But there was nothing new. The second one was a clipping from a week ago.

A major drug bust in a neighboring town.

Several arrested. Good. Again, no notations or commentary.

The third was the handwritten note. John took that from me before I could read it. I only caught the stationary heading, recognizing the familiar logo and address of my father’s law firm. John handed me the third clipping.

It was an obituary.

I read it twice before the words sank in. My brain tripped up when I read the phrase, “loving father.” He was anything but. Dad was a piece of shit. A dead piece of shit.

“This is a homicide report.” John stared at the stack of papers accompanying the clippings. He handed me the top page and pointed to a couple of salient facts. “He was shot in a parking lot.”

The address matched his work. “That’s outside my father’s law office. The victim was my father.” I showed John the obituary.

“I figured as much.” He scanned a few more pages. “This shouldn’t be anywhere outside the investigator’s office. I’ll take these in and make sure they get back to where they need to be.” He shuffled the bags into order and placed the note underneath the stack.

“Stop trying to hide that from me.” I pulled it out and read the sloppy printing. Shock never could write worth a damn.

I read his words out loud. “‘Dear Kate, I want you to know what a piece of shit your father was.’— No , really?” I scoffed at my editorial comment and read on.

“‘He got me off a charge two weeks ago, but thanks to him and his fucking habit, he cost me a million-five. But I’ll forgive him for that because he left me two great things. First, you. My fucking wife. Second? An address in Maine. That motherfucker knew where you were and didn’t tell me. I’m glad he’s dead. You’re next.’”

My dad handed me to Shock gift-wrapped. Again .