Page 19 of Free to Judge (Amaryllis Heritage #2)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I hadn’t planned on joining the Brave Steps Forward running group tonight.

One minute, I was reading Declan’s text and the next, I had to leave.

Driven by a wild necessity—haunted by echoes of words, both verbal and written.

One pervasive thought is on repeat over and over as each footfall lands and my legs churn while I lead the pack of runners on a heavily wooded trail.

Declan.

Declan.

Declan

My lungs burn as my footfalls synchronize with those of the other runners who are seeking to find their new narrative amid the chaos of their former lives.

As powerful and hopeful as its name, it’s a way to combine my love of running plus my legal expertise in helping survivors of domestic abuse move forward with new lives.

Donating money is easy for people. But what I’ve learned through my work with the organization is people carry trauma differently.

Some get on with it, lying with every word that falls from their mouths.

Others fracture, unable to make space for the pain.

Our mission isn’t to typecast anyone. All we ask is you take a step forward to try to live in spite of it.

The steady pounding of feet against the ground gives me something to focus on instead of the way Declan consumes my senses more than my breath.

Even as sweat dampens my forehead and stings my eyes, I feel the tension I’ve endured since this morning slowly dissipate as I realize our nighttime running group that we’d been lucky to have half a dozen just a few years ago, is now more than forty strong tonight.

If it weren’t for two broken parents who realized they needed each other to heal, I’d never have thought to create an escape for others who just might need someone—even if it’s a stranger who will encourage them to go one more mile. Take one extra breath.

After all, the next thing could be the biggest challenge of your life.

Picking up my pace, I recall fondly how it was my mother who encouraged us to embrace running.

My earliest memories include when she bribed my father to join our first 5K, clad in a bright pink tutu.

Crazy as it was, that little bit of encouragement got my sisters and me away from screens and into a world of endorphin-fueled escapism.

That long ago race—an Amaryllis Event, naturally—ignited a passion that soon ruled every spare moment of my life.

Mama extolled the virtues of running, claiming it was her first love—well before my father. I remember, in my early teens, asking her how she got started. With a tender kiss on my forehead, she would murmur, “Someday, I’ll explain. Just know this.”

“What’s that, Mama?”

“True love is precious. It’s a gift beyond any other.

Like love, running isn’t solitary or cowardly.

Sometimes, it’s the only way to get clarity and perspective.

It allows you the time and grace to salvage parts of yourself that could be damaged otherwise.

Just don’t run without someone knowing where you’re going,” she advised me wisely.

Which is the exact reason I sent my cousin a voice text after I’d left the house to meet the running group.

Kalie:

Out for a run

Grace:

Building an eyeball. I’m thinking sushi for dinner.

I can’t help but snort as I recall her message while negotiating the incline. I lean into the pain, shortening my stride and balancing on the balls of my feet.

My mind wanders to Declan’s lean legs encased in his custom-made suits making me wonder if he’s a runner.

He has an incredible build—arms and legs are rippled with sinewy strength.

The memory of him towering over my not insubstantial height at Dad’s office threatens to overwhelm me even as I push forward.

Picking up the pace, my breaths increase, trying to drown out the relentlessly intrusive images of a man on a mission—one I’ve somehow managed to get myself entangled with.

With the burst of energy from the group pushing me, I surge ahead trying to outrace my inner demons.

I groan as I reach the dense pine cluster ahead—a sensory overload of Declan’s cologne I inhaled earlier when he stood so close to me.

It was warm pine and raw masculinity that enveloped me in a way I knew I’d be safe with him.

Damn him. Damn all of them for lying to me.

“Damn this secret they want me to keep,” I mutter under my breath, anger battling desperation. The men in our family claim they want to protect us, to shield us from the sordid parts of the lives they lead. But when will they accept that this darkness is as much a part of us all as anything else?

The darkness in our family began long ago, long before my parents ever met. It started because my father grew up with the kind of wealth most people only dream of. Yet, when it counted, money couldn’t save his family from true heartache—not after his sister was kidnapped.

For twenty-five agonizing years, his family didn’t just fracture—it imploded.

That was until Aunt Cassidy rediscovered her past after blocking it out due to traumatic selective amnesia long after she built a found family from those whose experiences were just like hers. One of whom included my mother.

After I turned eighteen, I learned Mama was the victim of human traffickers, sold by her own father. She was rescued alongside two of my aunts.

Fate, or some cosmic unholiness, placed my mother and father in each other’s paths.

But it wasn’t until he was reunited with his missing sister that the stars somehow realigned their destinies, allowing my mother to come back into his orbit.

Even then, my father—always a sanctimonious ball of snark—expected her to capitulate to his will.

My mother, fiercely independent, never did.

I can’t help but smile at the memory, recalling Uncle Phil’s playful recounting of their legendary bickering during my childhood. “Your mama and father used to have epic battles.” He’d crow about how Daddy’s attitude would always spark conflict.

I always endured his overbearing tendencies since I knew them to be a coping mechanism—a way to shield us from the ugliness he’d endured all those horrible years. My smile fades when I realize he hasn’t changed. Is he still driven by those same protective instincts or by something else?

Something less altruistic?

I don’t realize I’m so lost in my thoughts until a hand grabs my arm, steadying me. Layla Wheeling—a friend from law school—asks, “Are you okay, Kalie?”

I exhale sharply, fighting to steady my voice. “Just lost in thought.”

She juts a finger toward the precipitous drop in the trail. “Bad idea so close to the edge,” she warns, a teasing smile tugging at her lips. “Besides, that’s not why we’re here.”

I push aside the churning of my gut as memories of storming out of my father’s office at Hudson Investigations makes my stomach roil. Instead, I challenge Layla over my shoulder, “Race you,” and feel a spark of defiance amid the inner turmoil.

Her eyes narrow, and with a burst, she sprints ahead, shouting over her shoulder, “You’re on!”

Slowing my pace, I give her a head start—fully aware I can overtake her in seconds. But my soul needs a race, the fiery burst of adrenaline, to eclipse the tangled feelings coursing through me momentarily.

Surging forward, weaving between trees as the path narrows, I surrender to the familiar burn in my legs and the dull throb in my heart. Spotting Layla ahead, I can’t help but call out, “You’d better run, my friend!” Her laugh, honest and unburdened, momentarily eases the ache within me.

Running, after all, is a choice—a raw act of participation in life, untainted by manipulation, much like the love I long to understand.

Just like love should be. Just like family should.

I push harder, taking a less traveled parallel path until I pull ahead of Layla. My focus narrows to each controlled, instinctive stride, every footfall a small reclamation of control amid chaos.

Neck and neck with Layla, sweat dripping as I pour every ounce of determination into the run, I finally burst into the parking lot—barely ahead despite her head start.

I slow, linking my fingers behind my head, elbows flung wide as if to physically open my lungs to the night’s cool air.

Even as everything around me seems to be spinning out of control, this moment is mine.

Even if the rest of my life is out of control, I still have this, I think to myself.

Layla and I exchange a sweaty high-five, our eyes locking in a silent understanding.

I’ve known her—and her secrets—since law school, and while the world has devoured almost all of mine thanks to the paparazzi that persist in following my family around, this latest revelation remains hidden—at least for now.

“You okay, Kalie?” she asks with a squeeze of her hand before letting mine go.

Forcing a smile, I reply, “Yeah. I just didn’t realize how much I needed this.” Then, as if my very thoughts conjured his appearance, I spot the man who has been consuming my thoughts leaning against a sleek black Maserati farther back in the lot.

What is Declan doing here? How did he find me? And how much can I lie to myself that the pounding of my heart against my ribs has everything to do with my last burst of speed and not the man giving me the once over like he’s a hungry panther?

And I’m his prey.