Page 118 of Forgotten Sacrifice

“You didn’t become a showgirl?” Luna asks.

Her mom laughs bitterly. “Do I look like a showgirl?”

“What is it exactly that you want from Luna?” I interject.

Her mom’s eyes soften as she looks at her daughter. Give this woman a fucking Emmy. “To see my daughter. I thought we could get to know each other. What little time I have left. The cancer, it’s terminal…” She trails off.

“I’m so sorry,” Luna says. “Do you have other kids?”

Her mom shakes her head. “Only you.” Will you look at that? The woman can tell the truth.

“Do you have anyone to help you?” Luna wonders.

Her mom shakes her head, crocodile tears spilling from her bloodshot eyes. “I just need a little money to tide me over until next month’s government check comes through. I got these hospital bills piling up.”

“I’ll be happy to stop by the hospital and personally pay your bill,” I interject, calling her bluff. “Give me the name.”

“Oh, well,” she stumbles, dabbing her eyes. “I mean, I goto a bunch of different doctors offices, so it isn’t just the hospital.”

“Show me your bills. We’ll figure this out,” I say, undeterred.

“I get them all electronically now.”

“Pull them up on your phone,” I tell her.

“My phone’s battery isn’t working.”

I flash a friendly smile. “Hand it over. I’m sure I can fix it.”

“Before someone stole my phone on the bus,” she lies.

“What’s your email? I’ll pull it up onmyphone.”

“I don’t remember.”

Luna silently watches the back and forth.

“You won that fancy tournament,” Luna’s mom speaks directly to her daughter. “Said grand prize was $50,000. Can’t you help your dying mother out?”

“I’m ready to go,” Luna quietly tells me.

I take her hand, giving it a squeeze as I lead her to the door.

“That’s it?” her mother shouts at Luna’s back. “You become a bigshot and think you’re too good for me?”

I fucking know Luna’s too good for this woman, but I bite my tongue as we walk out.

Chapter

Forty-Four

Luna

“Come on.” Vince unbuckles my seatbelt, taking my hand and leading me back to the bedroom of his boss’s private jet. He closes the door and takes a seat at the foot of the bed. Patting the spot beside him, I sit.

“I’m sorry. I know that wasn’t the reunion you were hoping for,” he says gently.

“I don’t know what I was hoping for.” I fall backwards on the bed, looking at the ceiling. “That’s a lie. I was hoping…”