Page 62 of Faron (The Golden Team #8)

Aponi

Something was off.

I couldn’t explain it, not in a way that made sense. But I’d been a cop long enough to trust my instincts—and today, they were screaming.

It started during lunch. Same sidewalk. Same food cart. Same blinking security camera. But when I turned, I could’ve sworn someone was watching me.

Gone now. Just traffic. Pigeons. L.A. chaos.

Still, I felt it crawling down my spine.

“You good?” Alvarez asked, handing me coffee.

“Yeah,” I lied. “Just tired.”

He didn’t press. That’s why I liked him—he knew when to shut up and let me think.

The rest of the day blurred. Paperwork. Interrogations. Angry suspects. But the unease never left.

That night, I went home—a two-bedroom apartment, one room used for storage. The walls were mostly bare except for one framed photo: me, Mom, and a boy with storm-colored eyes and dark hair. I was maybe six.

I didn’t remember much about my childhood. Just bits—dusty wind, horses, my brother reading stories during thunderstorms. My mother told me he died. She said my father died too. She told me the reservation didn’t want us anymore.

She was white. Bitter. And she hated where we came from.

But sometimes—like tonight—I wondered if she lied.

I sat on the edge of my bed and stared at the photo.

“You’re not dead,” I whispered.

A tear slipped down my cheek.

I opened the drawer I never touched. Pulled out the one thing I’d kept hidden—my original birth certificate.

Aponi Lightfoot.

No middle name. No father listed. No hospital. Just a place: Red Stone Reservation, Texas.

My hands shook.

I didn’t know what I was looking for.

But I needed to find it.

I needed to remember who I was— before I became Hartman.