Well, shit

Wednesday

Marks

You got a minute?

Me

Yeah, what’s up?

Ihit send then check his location. He’s at LAX, which is not good.

My phone rings, and I hit accept.

“What’s going on?” I ask apprehensively.

“Haven’t had eyes on William Center since around midnight Pacific time. He hasn’t left the property, either.” He’s pissed. “I managed to bribe one of the maintenance workers to check the premises. The kid went above and beyond. He asked one of the staff members at Club Ped, who’s sweet on him. She told him that she hasn’t seen him since cleaning up after the little poker game ended at two a.m.”

That would have been five in the morning here. It’s now just after noon. Seven hours.

“Straight flight would have been just over five hours.”

“Did you have the moms check flights?”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “There is nothing under his name. There were no direct flights from LAX to Jersey or New York at that time.”

“Private flight or fake identification?”

“If he’s going either route, he’s jeopardizing parole, which means?—”

“He’s coming after one of them,” I finish his thought.

“Plan stays in play. Cali surveillance is continuing. I’m coming to you. I’ll be there for the game. I’m going to give Danny a call and give him a heads-up. You stay at Pope and Whit’s. Dig in deep, and follow those leads.”

“Chloe—”

“Gonna guess, with them doing their final round of fertility treatment Monday, he’s not going to want her stressed out any more than necessary,” he cuts me off. “Right now, we don’t know anything for sure. He misses his parole meeting tonight, Lawson will let us know.”

“We just keep doing what we do.”

The fact that Chloe was told this was her last viable egg and that she’s two years younger than me hit way harder than I’ll ever admit. For fifteen years, I’ve been adamant that I don’t want kids, but the in-your-face reminder that, at a certain age, that no longer becomes a choice … yeah, it hit.

“He staying on?” I ask.

“He’s considering the position.”

“He wants more money,” I say, knowing he does and wanting desperately to offer it. But those strings attached to my purse will no doubt be snipped soon.

I’ll be thirty-five in August, unmarried, childless, and not working for Cabot Financial. As the step-monster Nadine has more than once mentioned, I am unworthy of the Cabot name, let alone the money.

I was thirteen when I overheard that for the first time during one of my mandated once-a-month visits. I called my mom in tears, and she was rolling down the driveway with her beat-up Chevy truck in under thirty minutes. They got into an argument where Nadine refused to let me leave, even though my father had been “called away on business” and wasn’t there. Mom pushed past her, took my hand, and we left. Half an hour later, a cop friend of Mom’s was at our door and warned her that Nadine had filed a report. She had to go to court, and an order of protection was placed on her.

For two years, Mom spent every penny she made on lawyer fees, and I was forced to continue my visitations. She sold the house that she’d bought when it was in shambles and made it into a beautiful home for us when she was nineteen, to continue the fight. Mom finally won a small battle in court, a plea to move out of Dallas to a town where we could afford to live modestly. We moved to Walton that summer, where she worked part-time as a 911 operator and full-time as a dental hygienist.

For another year and a few months, I was still forced to adhere to the court-ordered custody arrangement. During that time, my father’s other children had decided it was acceptable to blatantly treat me like shit and passive-aggressively talk about my mother as if she—we—were beneath them. I overheard conversations between Nadine and their son, Ronald Jr., where she referred to me as my father’s bastard child of a whore. I’d lay in bed at night, counting down the hours before I could go home to Walton, to Mom, to softball and, yes, to Leland Locke.

The two worlds never collided since my father never made one of my school functions. So, at some point, I stopped asking. I also never talked about the time I spent there, or anything for that matter, but baseball and softball. I didn’t tell my mother either, primarily for selfish reasons—I didn’t want to have to move again. I loved Walton, playing sports, and had a giant crush on Leland Locke.

Then it got worse.

Once, Nadine pushed me. I didn’t tell Mom that she laid hands on me, but I was angry enough that I wanted something done. I told her what I had overheard her call me. That’s when I learned the truth about my mom’s past, one she said she never regretted. That was also the day she asked that I promise to let her know when I felt I needed to be put on birth control.

Leland and I hadn’t had sex, but we fooled around plenty. So, that same day, I asked if she could make me an appointment. A couple months later, I told Leland I wanted to have sex, so we did. After the first time, it was amazing, and life was even better because of … sex.

Not more than a month after that, I was at my mandated visitation and shit hit the fan. Ronald Jr. said those words about my mother to my face. During that particular verbal beatdown, I informed Ronald Jr. that she had never been a whore; she’d been stripping to pay her way through college. To that, he looked genuinely disgusted, which pissed me off even more. So, what did I do? I continued by telling him that our father had been in a relationship with my mother and that she hadn’t been made aware that he already had a girlfriend. Then I informed him that our father had made my mom an unknowing side piece because his debutwat college girlfriend was no doubt fugly and more than likely uptight and a lousy lay.

He ran to his mommy.

Nadine, said debutwat, burst into my room and slapped me across the face. I laughed in hers.

When I tried to call Mom, she stripped the phone from my hand and refused to let me leave. I told her to call my father, and she also denied that request, saying he was at an important meeting.

What did I do? I informed her, “The fact you buy that is hilarious.”

She slapped me again.

After everyone was in bed, I snuck out and made it all the way to Walton with no phone, lucky to be alive. Luck was also on my side as I still wore marks on my face from that bitch’s hand.

Mom called her lawyer and was immediately contacted by Sondra Cabot, my grandmother, from her home in France. An arrangement was made. She guaranteed that if Mom kept it out of court, I could choose where and when I visited my father and halfsiblings—as if—and she would set up a trust fund.

Mom immediately fired her lawyer, knowing she was in bed with the Cabot family.

Leland and I were sitting on the porch the following weekend when a little white Beamer pulled into the driveway. The driver’s side door opened, and my father stepped out. His words? “Been putting this off too long. Happy belated birthday.”

He met Leland and stayed for only ten minutes when his driver pulled up and took him to wherever he had to go—probably a hotel room.

Leland asked, “He knows your birthday was four months ago, right?”

I laughed and tossed him the keys. “Who cares? Let’s see how fast she goes.”

Leland named her Pearl, and we hit a hundred.

I’m guessing that was his way of apologizing since there was never a word said about his wife slapping me and never an apology from his demonic kids, either.

The day I rolled into his place to have lunch with my father, something my mother had insisted I do on occasion but only if he was truly home, Ronald Jr. asked me whose car it was. I told him mine.

His smug-ass look pissed me off, and then the bastard smiled. “How many lap dances did your mother have to give for that?”

Dad was pulling down the long tree-lined driveway, and I nodded to his Bentley. “Just one, bro.” Then I asked, “I wonder how many other halfsiblings we have out there or how many are to come. Do you think the debutwat knows she and her kids still aren’t enough?” I feigned sympathy when his face fell. “It’s gotta suck to find out your mom’s actually the whore, whereas mine was just a girl who was na?ve enough to fall in love with the idea of love.”

“He loves my mother,” he hissed.

“He loves the idea of having a wife who pretends to be a good Christian woman, staying home and raising his kids, playing stepmom to his bastard daughter of an ex-stripper while he’s playing the same game he has since he was in college. I wonder if he washes his dirty dick before your mom gives Daddy his obligatory blow job.” I shake my head. “Probably not.”

“You little bitch.”

“Call me that again, you ugly little fuck, and I’ll call our grandmother, and two more of these will probably end up in my driveway by month’s end.”

“And I’ll tell your boyfriend you’re nothing but a piece of white trash.”

I got nose-to-nose with him. “One word to him, and I’ll have your mother’s ass arrested for attacking me, with pictures to prove it. She may not do time, but he’ll divorce her to save his reputation and be married again within six months. Then you and your little bitch sisters will be the ones listening to people talk about your mother. Only what they say about her will be true.”

“No one would believe you.”

“Try me. I fucking dare you.”

I received a hundred thousand dollars after graduation. We sold our cute little house and used that money for a down payment on a bigger one, one with a pool. The rest was put in an account.

When I went away to college, I had tuition paid for and a monthly allowance. But when I decided to leave and change directions, I didn’t need to go away; I was close enough to drive to my classes and get my Bachelor’s in Criminal Justice while working part-time at Walton PD and coaching softball.

Ronald Cabot hates that a child of his is a public servant. Me? I kind of love that he knows I don’t feel the need to kiss his ass. We still talk once a month for five minutes. Those minutes are filled with him trying to get me to work for the family business or just sitting in awkward silence. This is only because Mom insisted, telling me that I would never regret making an attempt, but if I didn’t call, one day I may, and she didn’t want that for me.

As a small-town cop, having helped people in need for years, that was enough for me. I was happy.

Until I realized how politics play a role in law enforcement. The rich continue to get away with breaking laws, beating their kids, or literal murder, receiving not so much as a slap to their hand when most would be doing time. I was ready to quit; Marks was, too, and then I told him that I had an idea.

At twenty-eight, I received two hundred fifty thousand dollars, which I used to pay off our Walton house, buy Mom an RV so she could travel, take her dogs since she couldn’t watch them anymore, and start a business.

With what was left over from that money, and our combined savings, we realized there was a way to continue to help people, and the income from that is far more than we made being told to fight crime, risk our lives, and then see criminals walk away. We no longer wear the binds of a badge.

When I turn thirty-five, I’m promised five million, but it’s conditional on my being married.

I always knew I’d never see that money, but I never cared. Just like I didn’t give a shit that I wasn’t given the same luxuries as his other “legitimate” kids.

Now, seeing how badly the justice system failed Chloe and CeCe, that dangling carrot looks tastier every damn day, even knowing I could end up choking on it. Hell, even before that, I had convinced myself that I could do a loveless marriage, knowing that it was bullshit, and be able to scale up our company.

Seeing Frankie act out the way he did, I’m not sure even an open marriage would work. Fucking men.

“York,” Marks sighs. “You still there?”

“Of course I am. Where else would I be?” I snap unnecessarily.

“I get this isn’t the direction we went in when we started this. We’re not simply setting up systems, catching cheating spouses, providing personal security for the wealthy, and then doing some pro-bono good shit in-between. This is fucking with me, too. It hard, it’s?—”

“It’s Chloe.”

“It’s Chloe,” he agrees.

I grab my iPad and hit the app for CeCe’s house, seeing both vehicles in the driveway, which means she didn’t stick around after they closed.

“CeCe’s pulling out now. Fly safe, Marks.”

“Gonna fly much safer when I get my pilot’s license.”

“You’ll be bringing in the big bucks then.”

“Fuck the money. I just hate trusting these fucks with our lives.”

I force out a laugh. “One hard landing, and you?—”

“Hard, my ass! We almost died,” he grumbles.

Deciding not to rile him up too much before he boards the plan, I simply say, “Chat soon.”

“Chat soon.” He ends the call.

I stand up from the desk in the guest/pool house where I’ve been all morning and stretch.

Seconds later, my phone rings, and I hit accept. “Hey, Moms.”

“Zane, get in touch?” Annie asks.

“Yeah, he was at LAX.”

“This, we know. We get zapped with notifications whenever you are on the move,” Mom says.

“I’m sorry,” I say honestly.

“Don’t be sorry, honey girl. We’re just happy to know where the two of you are. We just wish they had this when you were in your teens,” Mom says, as if she were joking.

“Oh, please. You knew where we were then, too.” I laugh. “School, church, or the ballfield.”

The brief silence is the reminder that I put my foot in it.

“Shit.”

Clearly, Annie catches on. “Sweetheart, Zane has forgiven me.”

I wouldn’t say I like this awkwardness, but I hate that she still feels like he blamed her even for a minute.

“It was never about him forgiving you.”

“She knows that,” Mom says, in a way I can imagine is comforting to Annie, who left Marks’ father then couldn’t get custody of him and had to move to Kansas with her family to start over. Marks was ten. She put herself through nursing school and moved back less than three years later. He had little to do with her because his father had convinced him that she’d left them. It took two years before he would stay the night at her place, and he resented her for disrupting his life. Two years later, he realized she never wanted to leave him.

I change the subject. “If you haven’t, check out CeCe’s house. Look it up on Google Maps; it’s a gorgeous Victorian.”

“Oh, we know.” Annie laughs. “Your mother is obsessed with it.”

“Gilmore vibes,” I state.

“Totally,” Mom agrees. “Love you. Be safe, okay?”

“I’m perfectly safe, and so is Zane. We’ll be back to chasing cheaters in no time,” I assure them before ending the call.

* * *

When the security app alerts me of movement outside, I see Danny walking into the carriage house, used as a garage. Just by the way he’s moving, I know he’s pissed.

I tap his name on my screen and hit call.

He answers, “York.”

That’s it, just York.

“From the sound of your voice, I won’t ask if you’ve talked to Marks.”

“I have,” he states.

Danny is not a man of few words; he’s the opposite—he never shuts up—so when he says nothing more, I know he’s struggling.

I dig deep to say something that will inspire him to … talk. “Danny, I?—”

“Chloe doesn’t want me in jail, but I lay in bed night after fucking night, damn close to praying for the opportunity to kill that sick son of a bitch with my fucking bare hands, York.”

You and me both, I think, but that’s not how this has to be handled. We all need each other in a weird but fantastic way.

“That’s too easy an out for him. When we get him, we ensure he goes to jail where his connections have no pull.”

“So she, CeCe, whoever the hell baby doll is, and Aggie have to look over their shoulders when he gets out again?”

“He won’t get out again. And if by some tiny chance he does, we revisit killing him with bare hands.”

He huffs, “I’m not fucking around right now.”

“Neither am I.” And then I chuckle. “I am wondering if we could get him charged in Texas and ask Pastor B to get a prayer group together to better the chances of him being put in the same prison as Spud, then leak it to him that William tried to go after Chloe.”

On the screen, I watch him mouth, “What the fuck?” and realize that this is the one time humor is not the road to take with him right now.

“I get that Spud is a piece of shit. He hurt her and tried to kill you. He should have gotten the chair. But I can’t help but feel a man like William deserves worse.”

“They both need to die,” he sneers.

“Agree. But the law doesn’t allow that.”

Which is wrong on so many levels!

Spud tried to kill Danny and shot him, and when Chloe tried to help him, he beat her with obvious intent to kill. The fact he was stopped doesn’t make him any better than someone who finished the job they started. In fact, they should put those types in a chair and flip the switch twice just because they’re fucking stupid.

Rapists and sex offenders are all violent criminals, with a forty percent recidivism rate. Their victims have had a part of them massacred, their innocence lost, and their trust in others always questioned, if not completely gone. A victim’s fear is now ever-present, their self-worth shattered, and unless you’ve been a victim or have had someone you love victimized, you don’t understand that, even if you think you do. To me, that makes them just as bad, if not worse, than a serial killer.

One day, I’ll tell Danny all of that. One day, we’ll fight that fight together. But, right now, he’s spiraling, and I’m just hanging on, so I have to find a way to help slow the spin.

“Which is why the two of you left the force,” he reminds me.

“This is you and me right here and right now. I promise he will be dealt with by whatever force necessary and brought to justice. But Danny, you can’t say that to Marks. Promise me?—”

“I’m not asking you or him to step any further outside the law than you would for anyone else. But I need a promise from you, York.”

I say nothing, letting him continue.

“Promise me that you’ll always be there for her and Aggie if I can’t be.”

“We’re going to get him, Danny. I promise.”

* * *

Ispent the afternoon on my iPad, reviewing known associates and private flights leaving any airfield in California after two a.m. Pacific time.

Three of Center’s known associates and former clients stood out. Studio mogul Maxwell Cromwell was arrested for embezzlement, siphoning millions of dollars from the studio’s funds into his personal accounts, but Center represented him, and he was found not guilty. Dexter Woodson, film distributor, several DUIs and an SA charge, all charges dealt with by Center. And Reginald Smythe, entertainment producer, with countless charges from drugs, underage girls, and even an attempted murder charge, all of which were pleaded down. All three men still hold their power and positions and own private jets; all three left California between those hours; and all three had landed at their destination—Vegas. Only one of the Hollywood scums, Dexter Woodsmen’s jet, then left Vegas and landed twenty minutes ago at Farmingdale Airfield, making it highly possible that he could be here, in Trenton, in an hour and thirty minutes.

I sent the information to the moms and to Marks. Both replied, telling me to take a nap.

After letting Danny know what I’d found out, it was decided that Danny, Chloe, and Aggie would leave tomorrow. It is most likely that he’ll go after Chloe or the adoptive family of her little girl since they played the most critical roles in him being behind bars. Two of us, two of them, and Danny can take Aggie and Chloe to the lake and hunker down with his hunting buddies, most ex-military.

We agree that none of this gets discussed with Chloe and CeCe now, and that, as planned, we’ll all be meeting at Revolutionary Field to watch Pope play tonight.

I sent a few messages to the East Coast men and women whom Marks and I had put on our “dream roster” of PIs and personal security men and women we used in Walton PD’s system to dig deep into before we resigned our positions there—five from each state. Over the years, we’ve met and worked with many of them, but we have our favorites. Ex-cops, men and women who have left the military, and plenty of not-so-upstanding citizens who are able to get street information we can’t, but at a hefty price. Although the moms kick ass at gathering information through social media and public records and are at our beck and call—mostly because they’re our moms—we have two preferred hackers we use when absolutely necessary to do the not-so-legal digging. Right now, EchoFury, who we have met in person and whose real name is Alice, is checking out the passenger logs of all three private jets. Both my mom and I are entirely fascinated by this skill. For a criminal, she’s incredibly trustworthy.

I spent the rest of the day hunched over my screens, narrowing down the list of twenty girls in the Jersey area who share the same birthday as the child Chloe gave birth to. I’ve narrowed it down to three who I will contact when Marks is here to cover CeCe when Danny, Chloe, and Aggie are back in Walton, safe.

I look up when I get a FaceTime request and hit accept.

“You sleepy, Gwenie?” Aggie asks from inside the vehicle they rented.

“I am, just a little bit. Are you?”

“Nuh-uh, I taked a nap. You should have taken one, too.” She looks to her left. “Did you take a nap?”

“I did,” CeCe says.

“You’re a good girl, Aunt CeCe.”

“And what does that make me? Bad?” I giggle. Yep, Texas Aggie makes me giggle.

She shakes her head. “Not bad, but you gotta make better choices.”

“I wish my mom had taught me that.”

“I teached you, so you’ll be all better.”

“Perfect.” I wink, and she blinks back at me before turning back to CeCe.

“Did your mom teach you that, too?” she asks.

Ouch. From what I understand, CeCe doesn’t remember her mom.

“She didn’t, but your mom did. You have the most amazing mom, Aggie.”

Aggie grins. “Daddy and I are lucky girls.”

Danny barks out a laugh and says, “We sure are.”

“Hand Mommy the phone,” Chloe says, and Aggie blows me a kiss, which I catch.

Chloe’s head jerks back when she sees me. “You better fix your face and get Whit and those kids in the vehicle and on the road—it’s dang near game time.”

“Will do.”

* * *

Walking into the stadium, I feel some sort of way. Nostalgic? Numb? Am I lost somewhere in-between?

For the past several years, since Whit and Pope got together, I have felt like a teen again, all wide-eyed and excited about watching a game I have always loved.

Passing through the gates, an invisible energy always sweeps over me like a wave of anticipation. Cresting the stairs to our seats and seeing the stadium stretch out before me, and then the perfectly manicured diamond at its center, a thing of beauty. Then there’s the crack of the bat as the teams warm up—you can’t help but feed off of that.

It’s different now, and not because Whit and Chloe have kids here. I love their energy, love getting them riled up, screaming for Pope, waving foam fingers, and having them on my lap and in my space. Now, I’m just nervous. The buzz of excitement in the air now is more of an annoyance. The smell of hot dogs, popcorn, and freshly cut grass makes my stomach turn, and the mingled sound of vendors yelling, “Cold beer here!” and the roar of the crowd are really fucking annoying.

“Are you okay?” Whit whispers as we make our way to the stairs.

I shake my head then smile at Chase, who is on my hip. “But I will be.”

“Marks is here?”

“He is.” I look around for him.

“Good, because you need some sleep.”

“I’ll sleep when that f-u-c-k-e-r is back behind bars.” I continue looking for him.

Marks messaged that he was here, that he’d be in the stands, and what Marks says, he does, but he didn’t.

“Danny also told Pope he said something that clearly upset you. He feels bad. He knows you’re?—”

“It’s all good.” I feel a hand grip my shoulder from behind and look back.

“Jesus, York, you look like hell. You need some sleep.”

“I need new friends. You’re all S-H-I-T for my confidence,” I jab back.

Marks nods once. “You ride my ass about sleep, I’m giving it back to you. You’re sleeping tonight.”

“You need it just as?—”

“I just had six hours solid,” he cuts me off. “I’m good to go.” He holds out his hands for Chase, who dives for him.

I glance back at the twins. “One of you on each arm. I can’t walk in there alone.”

Gregory takes my left, and Grant takes my right.

“See, Nora, I told you Aunt Gwen likes the boys better than us.” Bianca fake-pouts. “Toxic masculinity,” she mutters under her breath, undoubtedly something she picked up from her Mom– or her Dad.

“She painted baseballs on yours and Nora’s nails,” Grant reminds her in his pissy little way that is so freaking adorable.

“She’d have done yours, too,” Bianca tosses back at him.

“All right, team, leave your bad vibes at the gate and pull it together. The Jags need a W.”

Gregory looks up at me. “Dad and Locke said they’re not retiring and moving back to Walton until they have rings on their fingers.”

“Oh yeah?”

Grant pipes in, “I told him they both better pray they get traded to the Rangers, or they’d be using their canes as bats.”

“Now that’s a craptastic attitude.” I laugh.

“I’m a realist,” he deadpans.

I glance at Whitley, and she makes the choice to ignore him, giving nothing more than a slight roll of her eyes as evidence she heard the little turd.