Page 160 of Shadowed Sins: Nitro

Mom's whole face transforms. "Promise?"

I look at Mira, who's studying the wall of certifications and family photos with that intense focus she brings to everything.

"I'll make sure he's here," she says without looking away from a picture of Tommy and me covered in grease, grinning like idiots.

She's claiming responsibility for me. In front of my parents.

Dad turns to her with genuine curiosity. "You keep him grounded?"

Her mouth quirks in that dangerous way. "I'm definitely keeping him. As for grounded..." She glances at me. "I try. He makes it difficult."

Dad actually laughs—a real laugh that makes his whole belly shake. "That's my boy."

That's my boy. Twice in five minutes. Maybe I haven't lost them completely.

We talk about safe things. The mechanics he's hired. Mom's book club. The neighbor's kid who wants to learn about cars. They don't ask about the scars they can see on my hands or why Mira checks the exits every few minutes or what kind of driving instruction requires the kind of hypervigilance we both radiate.

They know something's off. They're choosing not to ask.

"Remember when you and Tommy tried to rebuild that Camaro engine in the back bay?" Dad gestures toward the service area with his coffee mug.

"Took us three weeks to figure out why it wouldn't turn over." The memory hits with surprising warmth instead of the usual stab of grief.

"Because you set the timing marks wrong." Dad shakes his head, smiling. "Cams were completely out of sync."

Mira raises an eyebrow. "He let teenagers rebuild engines?"

"Supervised," Mom clarifies. "Mostly. When they weren't sneaking in after hours."

Tommy picking the lock. Us working by flashlight. Getting caught at 3 AM.

"We were fifteen and thought we knew everything." I can smile about it now, here, with them.

"Some things don't change." Mom's teasing tone makes something loosen in my chest.

Twenty minutes later, we're walking toward the car. The afternoon sun stretches our shadows long across the parking lot, and I'm emotionally wrung out in the best possible way.

Quick hugs at the door, promises to call more than once every three years. Mom squeezes extra tight, lips against my ear forming the words "I love you" while her hand rubs circles on my back like when nightmares woke me at six years old.

Thirteen years of ice melting in three words.

Dad shakes Mira's hand with both of his, oil-stained fingers gentle. "Take care of each other."

"We will," she says, and means it.

She means it. This woman who trusts no one just promised my father she'd take care of me.

Outside, before either of us gets in the car, I hold out my hand. "Keys."

She studies my face, reading whatever's written there in the exhaustion and relief. "You sure?"

No. But if I don't do this now, today, while I'm already cracked open...

"Please. One more stop."

thirty-seven

Jax