1. This Will Not Break You

1 THIS WILL NOT brEAK YOU

Keaton

Jose Cuervo and I were old friends, but no matter how many splashes I managed to swallow down, nothing could have drowned out the images. Nothing ever did. Yet every year on the anniversary of the night my life imploded, I found myself imbibing in a shot or twelve, attempting to drink away the pain.

I was sitting on the couch with Jasper, giving my statement when I heard the front door open, slamming into the wall behind it from the force.

“Calvin,” he bellowed.

Two of the federal agents in the room quickly positioned themselves in front of me. Whether it was to intercept my father or protect me from the fallout, I had no clue. Honestly, I didn’t need them to do either. I wanted answers and there was only one person who had them.

Without another thought, I stood abruptly and stormed past the agents, ignoring their shouted demands to come back as well as Jasper’s pleas. When I rounded the corner to the foyer, my father was struggling with three other agents attempting to put him in cuffs. His head snapped in my direction, his eyes laser-focused and a look of fury like I’d never seen before was plastered across his bright red face.

“What the fuck did you do?” he screamed.

Stopping dead in my tracks, my blood began to boil.

“Me? What the fuck did you do, you sick son of a bitch?”

“You ungrateful little shit. After everything I’ve given you, this is how you repay me?”

I laughed, an eerie calm settling into my bones.

“Given me? You murdered my mother. Rot in hell, you twisted fuck.”

He started yelling again, but I was done listening to his bullshit. Turning on my heel, I practically smacked into Jasper, who apparently followed me. Putting his arm around my shoulder, he led me back to the sofa.

“What happens now?” I asked.

“You’ll come live with me and Heather. After that? We’ll figure it out one day at a time. You’re strong, kid. This will not break you.”

He was right, yet so very wrong. You’d have thought discovering the bastard had not only murdered my mom, but was a serial killer the FBI had been hunting for almost two years would have shattered my psyche. It almost did. Had it not been for Jasper and his wife, I probably would have curled up into a ball, content to watch time tick by from inside a padded room. They pushed hard when it was needed and held me close as I fell apart. Basically, they refused to give up on me.

My other saving grace was Agent Waverly Mitchell. She hadn't been at my house when the shit hit the fan, however, she showed up at Jasper’s the next day, and told me in no uncertain terms she was my new shadow. I threw every bit of attitude I could muster at her, except unlike most people who let me get away with it, she called me out on my bullshit; told me to refocus the rage bubbling inside into positive energy which could make a difference in the world.

That was the day I found my purpose in life, my calling. I knew without a shadow of a doubt, I wanted to join the FBI; to find justice for the victims of heinous crimes, like my mom. The huge chip on my shoulder didn’t miraculously disappear with my revelation, however, it didn’t seem quite as heavy.

After being ruthlessly hounded by the press for months, Jasper and Waverly suggested a transformation of sorts. So with their help, Keaton Clarke was born. I’d never liked the name Calvin anyway and using my mom’s maiden name—Clarke—meant I’d always have a piece of her with me.

I buckled down, studied my ass off, and started taking college courses while finishing my senior year in high school. I graduated from the University of Virginia with my bachelor’s degree in criminal justice by the time I was twenty, then applied to the academy at Quantico. It was a grueling process and there were times I wasn’t sure I’d make it—mostly due to the aforementioned chip—but sixteen long weeks later I was an FBI agent.

By that time, Waverly had moved up in the ranks, becoming the Resident Agent in Charge of a small satellite office in Huntington, West Virginia. Convincing the powers that be I’d be the perfect addition to her already established team took some finagling, but when I was finally given the green light, I hauled ass to the college town and never looked back.

“Need another one?” Camden, the owner of Sunset—the only decent bar and grill in town which wasn’t inundated with barely legal college students—tipped his head toward my empty glass.

“Nah. I’m gonna head out.”

Sometime over the past six years, I’d become a regular at Sunset and had gotten to know him fairly well. He’d bought the place fifteen years ago, converting it from a run-down bakery into an upscale pub. Not only was the atmosphere perfect, but considering I was a shit cook, the food was pretty great as well. The other upside…it was within walking distance to my apartment.

Rising from the stool, I grabbed the wallet from my back pocket, tossing a couple twenties on the bar to cover my tab plus a hefty tip.

“I haven’t seen the rest of your crew in here for a while,” he remarked.

“Cut the bullshit, man. Just ask her out already.”

He’d been drooling over one of my teammates, Alaina “Lanie” Biggs, since the first time I’d brought them to Sunset to decompress after a particularly nasty case.

“Can’t do that when I haven’t seen her, K.”

“Fair point. I’ll rally the troops, just don’t puss out this time.”

“Whatever, asshole.” He flipped me off.

Chuckling, I returned his one-finger wave, pushing through the thick wooden door and stepping onto the sidewalk, breathing in the crisp cool air. Temperatures in Huntington were what I considered heavenly, except during the summer months when it was so hot and humid you needed two showers a day to keep up with the excess perspiration.

I hadn’t taken two steps when my cell rang, the expected call coming much later than I’d anticipated.

“Everything is copesetic, Jas,” I answered .

“Right, and I’ve got prime ocean-front property for sale in Arizona,” he deadpanned.

“Well, you should get a whack if you’ve hired the right realtor.”

Switching the phone to my other ear, I began walking down the mostly deserted sidewalk.

“Cut the shit, kid, or I’ll put Heather on the phone. She’s itching to discuss when you’re gonna settle down with a good woman.”

“This is why you shouldn’t let her read all those romance books. She’s got fairy tales and happily-ever-afters floating through her head.

“First of all, I don’t let my wife do anything. She’s a strong, independent woman.”

“Damn straight,” she said in the background.

I should have known Heather was hovering within earshot of our conversation. The woman had no qualms about butting into my life. She’d earned the right years ago when they’d taken me into their home.

“Second, what’s wrong with finding the right person and living your best life?”

“You know I’m not built that way, Jas.”

“You aren’t him, Keaton.”

Every year we had the same conversation, and quite frankly, I was over it. Did I envy his and Heather’s relationship? Absolutely. It just wasn’t in the cards for me. With my father’s DNA coursing through my veins, I couldn’t—wouldn’t—take the chance. Something snapped inside of him, and I’d live my life without the other half of my soul if that’s what it took to keep me from turning into the same monster he became.

“And I never will be, so let’s move on, shall we? How are things? ”

After the lengthy trial and my father’s subsequent conviction for eight counts of first-degree murder, we discovered he’d listed me as the co-owner of Renshaw International. The minute I turned eighteen, I appointed Jasper as the new CEO and except for the hefty deposit into my checking account every month, I kept my distance.

We spent the next fifteen minutes shooting the shit, talking about different cases we were working on. I wasn’t paying attention because as I rounded the corner which led to my house, my feet hit something, causing me to trip.

“Motherfucker,” I snarled.

My knees throbbed where they’d smacked into the pavement. I could hear the alarm in Jasper’s voice, even from ten feet away where my cell had landed when it flew from my hand. Standing, I gingerly took a few steps to retrieve the phone, bending to pick it up off the sidewalk. I’d never been more grateful for the smooth-talking salesman at the Verizon store who convinced me to pay the ridiculous fee for the thin plastic protector as I noted there wasn’t a single crack on the screen.

“Answer me, Keaton. What’s going?—”

“I’m fine,” I huffed, cutting off his tirade. “Just tripped over something.”

Spinning around to get a look at what had taken me down, I was stunned to see a body crumpled on the ground.

“Ah, shit. I gotta go.”

Without giving him a chance to respond, I ended the call while moving cautiously toward the figure. A woman—probably around twenty-two or twenty-three—was lying with her back against the side of the building, her legs outstretched in front of her. The lamppost on the corner shed enough light I could tell the medium-length hair, which framed her face like a curtain, was a lighter brown .

“Miss? Can you hear me?”

No response.

Crouching down, I used two fingers to check for a pulse on her neck, breathing a sigh of relief when I felt the fast steady beats. A fine sheen of sweat covered her skin, which considering it was probably close to fifty degrees outside and given the fact she still hadn’t woken up, led me to one conclusion.

“Overdose,” I muttered to myself as I dialed 911 and gave them our location.

Drug use was running rampant all over the country and with how close we were to the campus of Marshall University; it shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Yet, it did. Maybe I was also a tad disappointed because the woman lying on the sidewalk—albeit unconscious—was gorgeous from what I could tell.

Jesus, Keaton. Way to be a perv.

Sirens sounded in the distance and within a few minutes an ambulance pulled up to the curb. Two people—a heavy-set man and a petite female—exited the vehicle, both carrying blue bags over their shoulders and moving rapidly to the young woman’s side.

“What do we have?” the male EMT asked.

“Agent Clarke. FBI. I’m assuming overdose. I tripped over her legs when I came around the corner.”

“Narcan is in,” the other EMT stated as she tossed the white plastic nasal inhaler—used to administer the lifesaving drug—to the ground and began to cut the sleeves of the woman’s shirt. “Shit. Not an overdose, she’s diabetic. Bob, check her finger stick while I start a line.”

“Wait,” I interjected. “How do you know?”

She pointed to the silver chain situated on the girl's left wrist. “Medical alert bracelet. Make yourself useful, FBI, and go through her purse. See if she’s got any identification on her.”

Purse?

Backing up a few steps to get out of their way, I spotted a small pink crossbody which had definitely seen better days.

Phenomenal observation skills, Agent. First the mistaken overdose, then you miss a purse lying right next to her?

Reaching down, I snagged the bag and began rifling through the contents. Car keys, a tube of Chapstick, one of those cheap pay-as-you-go phones, then finally a small black wallet at the bottom.

“Her name is Henley Graves,” I announced, pulling her license from behind the plastic covering before placing the wallet back in the bag.

“I’m getting a critical low reading here, Amber. We need to get moving.”

“Grab the stretcher and some D50 from the rig while I finish getting her hooked up.”

“D50?” My heart rate ticked up a few notches. I didn’t know this woman from Adam, yet somehow, I felt responsible for her. No, not responsible…guilty was a more accurate term. I’d made assumptions—inaccurate assumptions—and it may cost this young woman her life.

“Fifty-percent dextrose. Basically, high concentrations of sugar water,” the medic, Amber, spoke while she placed white square sticky pads on Henley’s now-bare chest.

The threadbare off-white bra she wore barely concealed her breasts and when Bob returned with their equipment, the overwhelming desire to protect this woman almost had me removing my own shirt to cover her up.

Fuck. I was an asshole.

They worked as a team to lift her onto the stretcher, then took off toward the ambulance without another word. I followed, but as soon as I tossed her purse inside, the doors slammed shut and I was left standing on the sidewalk with her license held firmly in my grasp.

Henley

I felt like shit.

Correction. I’m fairly certain shit would be an upgrade to my current situation. Everything hurt. I didn’t have to open my eyes to know I’d somehow ended up in the hospital. Even without the constant beeping of the heart monitor and the sting of the IV in my hand, the harsh chemical smell from the cleaners they used were a dead giveaway. I’d spent enough time in them over the years, between my diabetes and mom’s “accidents,” to know the sounds and scents by heart. The question was, how the hell did I get here?

Blinking my eyelids open, I took in the stark white walls of the dimly lit room, willing my fuzzy brain to recall the details of the night before—at least I hoped it had only been one night.

I knew I should have called out sick, but that was a luxury I quite literally couldn’t afford. All morning, I’d been nauseated and when I walked into Over Easy , the diner where I waitressed part time, the urge to lose my lunch hit full force. Luckily the owner, Shirley, kept a virtual pharmacy of over-the-counter medications in the break room, so after popping a couple Pepto, I pulled up my big-girl panties and went to work.

The nausea never went away, despite the meds. In fact, it got worse. I grabbed a bite of something here or there throughout the day, knowing how dangerous it was if I didn’t eat, but unfortunately, even the half a slice of dry toast made a reappearance twenty minutes later.

By the time I clocked out and left, I knew I was in trouble. There were glucagon tablets in my car, which would help get my sugar levels up, so If I could make it there, I’d be okay. That was the mantra I repeated over and over in my head when I stepped out into the cool evening air.

My legs felt like rubber, still I put one foot in front of the other, praying to a God I stopped believing in years ago to keep me vertical for the next two blocks.

Just a few more steps.

As I rounded the last corner, which led to the lot where I parked my car, the world tilted sharply. My vision, which was already blurry, completely blanked out and everything went dark.

When the door against the far wall swung open, letting in a tremendous amount of light from the hallway, the dull ache at my temples grew in intensity—like I was being stabbed by a thousand needles behind my eyes—and a new pain at the back of my head, I hadn’t noticed before, throbbed with each beat of my heart. Slamming my lids closed against the onslaught of agony, I took in several slow, deep breaths until it subsided.

“Good morning, Miss Graves,” a woman’s voice called out. “My name is Lucy and I’ll be your nurse today.”

“Where am I?” I tried to say, though it sounded more like “worm I” considering my mouth was so dry, my tongue stuck to the roof of it.

“Cabell Huntington Hospital. You were brought in last night.”

Soft footfalls sounded against a hard floor as she moved to my side. Something smooth pressed against my lips.

“Here, sweetheart. Small sips. ”

The cool water tasted heavenly as I swallowed a few mouthfuls, grateful for the instant relief to my scratchy throat. All too soon, she pulled the straw away.

“That’s enough for now. We don’t want to upset your stomach.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome. The doctor is doing his rounds right now and will be in shortly. Let’s go ahead and check your vital signs and blood sugar, then I’ll help you order some breakfast. I’ve also got some Tylenol here for the goose egg on the back of your head.” She held up a small plastic cup with two white pills inside.

I reached without thinking, wincing when I felt the knot beneath my hair. It wasn’t the first time I’d passed out when my blood sugar got too low, and I’m sure it wouldn’t be the last. Especially given my current circumstances.

A few minutes and a poke to the finger later, Lucy declared, “One hundred thirty-three. Much better.”

“How bad was it last night?”

Slowly, I opened my eyes again, relieved when there was only a twinge of discomfort. Lucy wore a kind smile on her face as she began to tidy up the already immaculate room. She looked exactly like her voice sounded; young and chipper. She was maybe a smidge younger than my twenty-three and her long blond hair was held back in a high ponytail, which cascaded down past her shoulders. It swayed side to side with every step she took.

Turning back to me while folding a stray blanket, her jovial mask slipped slightly when she finally answered my question.

“Thirty-two, so pretty darn bad.”

After placing my order for scrambled eggs and toast, she left the room but not before giving me orders to use the call button if I needed to get out of bed for any reason.

I must have drifted off because the next thing I knew, my name was being called by a voice, which was not nearly as friendly as Lucy’s.

“Miss Graves?”

“Yeah?” I peeked through slits in the bottom of my eyelids, only to be assaulted by the bright lights again. Thankfully the Tylenol had worked; turning the roaring lion in my head into a more manageable meowing kitten.

“I’m Dr. Stallworth. I’ve been in charge of your care during your stay.”

Blinking, I took in the man standing at my bedside. He may have been good-looking to some, but to me he looked a bit too stuffy, dressed in a crisp white lab coat covering an even crisper light blue button-down shirt with a matching paisley tie. Even his navy dress pants looked like they’d just come directly off an ironing board. His entire outfit screamed money, probably costing more than my piece-of-shit car. If the annoyed expression on his face while he looked through my chart was anything to go by, he knew I was a charity case and he wasn’t happy about it.

He stood at the foot of the bed, droning on about the hazards of diabetes with almost as much care and concern as I’d expect to receive from the clipboard he held in his hands. It made me feel like I was a duty, an unwanted burden who couldn’t pay for his expertise, so he was simply checking off the boxes of his obligation, rather than trying to prevent further hospitalizations by educating his patient. Not that I needed to know all the ins and outs of a disease I’d been saddled with since I was eight, but still, he didn’t know that.

Pretentious asshole .

I’d dealt with guys like him before. Men who thought the number of zeros in their bank account gave them the green light to act however they wanted and to destroy lives when they didn’t get their way. It was utter bullshit. They weren’t above the law, yet in a way…they were. Money could grease a lot of pockets. I’d found out the hard way.

“Now that your blood glucose levels have stabilized, you’ll be discharged posthaste.”

Posthaste? See? Asshole!

“A social worker will be in shortly to give you a list of free clinics in the area and someone from the accounting department will stop by to discuss a payment plan. Do you have any questions?”

Only one. Does the stick up your ass stay there all the time or does some lucky person get to reinsert it on a daily basis?

Biting my tongue to keep from saying something I’d regret; I shook my head. When he spun on his fine Italian leather heels to leave the room, I lost the self-control battle I’d been waging; both my middle fingers flying into the air to wave at his back. Childish? Yes, but it felt damn good.

Three hours later, wearing a pale blue scrub top Lucy had been kind enough to find for me since my shirt had been ruined, and the same pair of jeans I wore to work the day before, I walked out of the hospital doors, dreading the long trek up Hal Greer Boulevard to where it intersected with 3rd Avenue beyond the train tracks. There were several townhouse and apartment communities nestled along the Ohio River, which had open parking for their residents. Thankfully, no one seemed to bat an eyelash at a girl sleeping in her car. Nevertheless, I alternated between a few of them for the last six weeks, only staying a couple of days before moving on to the next .

Life was a never-ending series of ups and downs, from as far back as I could remember. Mom and I changed addresses more than some people changed the sheets on their beds, which was ironic since she ended up selling her body on that very bed to put food on our table. I didn’t begrudge her for the choices she had to make in order to provide for us, just the opposite in fact.

My mom came from a wealthy family who didn’t appreciate it when their nineteen year old daughter returned home on winter break from college three months pregnant. When they found out the pregnancy had been the result of a drunken night at a frat party, they tried to force her to have an abortion. She refused, so they had the housekeeper pack up her belongings, wrote a check for twenty-thousand dollars––the going rate to make your child disappear––and told her not to contact them again unless she got rid of me.

Needless to say, I never met my grandparents.

It was unseasonably warm and after three blocks in the blaring sun, rivulets of sweat began dripping down my back, so I decided to splurge on a bus ticket rather than tempt fate with another trip to the emergency room. Since I couldn’t actually afford the payment plan I’d agreed upon with the elderly gentleman from the billing department, the idea of a second sent a shiver down my spine.

Spying a covered bus stop ahead, I veered to the right, taking a seat on the bench without bothering to check the posted schedule. I didn’t mind waiting. It’s not like I had to rush to get to class or anything. Not anymore.

Those thoughts caused equal amounts of grief and anger to surge within me. I’d been so close, so goddamn close to making my dreams come true, only to have them ripped out from under me. All because I said no—repeatedly—to a date with Chase McArthur. I had no proof, unfortunately, only his threats of “you’ll regret this” after that night. Well, and the fact his last name was plastered across the front of my dormitory in big bold letters. McArthur Hall.

I didn’t have the time, nor the inclination, to date anyone, let alone someone as pompous as him . I’d chosen Marshall University for one reason only. It was the same university my mom attended when she got pregnant, and I was determined to finish what she’d sacrificed in order to have me.

Shannon Graves may not have been in the running for any Mother of the Year awards, but she did the best she could with what little resources were available to her. She worked three part-time jobs throughout her pregnancy, earning enough money to rent a tiny studio apartment in downtown Baltimore.

The twenty grand payoff from her parents sat in a savings account, collecting dust, until after I was born. Even being frugal, caring for a child was expensive; a lesson Mom learned pretty quickly. The cost of daycare alone ate up half the money within the first couple of months.

By the time I was seven, we’d been kicked out of four different apartments for not paying rent. The trend continued until we met Miss Rita when I was around ten years old. We’d been in our newest place for less than a week when she knocked on our door; storming her way into our lives, offering to watch me while Mom worked and refusing to take a dime.

She was older—in her sixties—with caramel skin, deep chocolate eyes, and a laugh which shook the walls when she let it fly, which she did often.

Miss Rita, or Nana Rita as I’d come to call her over the years, was a force to be reckoned with. The woman had no filter. There wasn’t a time I could remember when she didn’t speak her mind, regardless of whether her advice was solicited. I loved her dearly. We both did.

The first time Mom came home from work with a busted lip and a black eye, I had just turned eleven. She brushed off Nana’s barrage of questions, saying it was an accident. Two years and several “accidents” later, we had to pick her up from the hospital and the hot pink cast on her arm couldn’t be explained away as easily.

I was supposed to be getting ready for bed, but I could hear them arguing in the kitchen. Slipping quietly down the hallway, I plastered my back against the wall as I crept closer to their voices.

“What are you doing, Shannon?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Mom replied.

“You can lie to yourself all you want, child, but don’t lie to me. Why are you risking your life by selling that beautiful body?”

The sound of chairs scraping against the floor alerted me that they’d moved to the small table beneath the only window in our apartment. I shifted back a few steps to stay out of view as I continued to eavesdrop.

“Insulin is expensive,” Mom said with a sigh, “and we don’t have insurance.”

Oh man. This was my fault. I ended up in the hospital a few years before and was diagnosed with Type 2 diabetes. I had to take medicine and sometimes shots a couple of times a day so I didn’t get sick again.

“What about one of those state programs? Surely, you’d qualify for assistance,” Nana Rita questioned.

“They said I made too much money. Can you believe that?” Mom huffed out a laugh, except it sounded more like a cry. “I worked three jobs and could barely afford to keep the lights on plus put food on the table. Now I have one job, as miserable as it is, but I don’t have to choose which of our bills gets paid each month.”

“I can give you a little money; help with whatever you need.”

“Rita, you already do. Knowing Henley is loved and cared for is the only thing that matters.”

“I love you both, Shannon. I can’t imagine the struggles you’ve been through, but I thank God every day for bringing the two of you into my life. We don't judge in my family and that’s what you are…family. Promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I swear it.”

It was a bullshit promise, one I never let on I’d heard until the day she was found beaten and bloodied in a motel room. Nana and I sat at her bedside for three days, staring at the ugly bruises around her neck, praying for her to regain consciousness. It was then I told the woman who’d become my surrogate grandmother about the conversation I’d overheard; that I knew precisely what it was my mother did for a living.

She held me up when all I wanted to do was rail against a system that had forced my mom to sell her body to keep a roof over our heads. Then she held me tighter when we buried Mom less than a week later, six months before my eighteenth birthday.

The rumble of the approaching bus brought me back to the here and now. Reaching into my purse, I grabbed my wallet, thankful no one had robbed me while I’d been unconscious, and pulled out five one dollar bills for the fare. As I went to shut the clasp, the empty slot in the front drew my attention. My license wasn’t there.

A loud hissing filled the air when the bus came to a stop a few feet in front of me. Scrambling off the bench, I rushed up the steps, handed the driver my money, then made my way through the crowd to a seat in the back.

Panic began to set in as I searched inside my bag. I always kept it in the same spot, but hoped in all the confusion of the last twenty-four hours, it had merely fallen out. However, luck was not on my side. It was gone.

Blowing out a breath, I closed my eyes, letting the hum of the engine and the chatter of the other passengers calm my racing heart. The noise grounded me, reminded me that even in the midst of chaos…I would survive. There was no other choice.

The skies had darkened when I reached my destination a little over an hour later. I sighed in relief at the sight of my crappy blue Ford Taurus in the same spot where I’d left it the day before. It wasn’t much, but it was home…literally.

If Nana Rita had any idea I’d been living out of my car for almost two months, she’d blow a gasket. I hated lying to her—abhorred it, really—but telling her the truth wouldn’t make any difference in the end. What was done was done and there wasn’t anything either of us could do to change it.

He’d won. Plain and simple.

Crawling into the back seat, I pulled a bottle of water, along with a small jar of peanut butter and a loaf of bread from the cardboard box I kept on the floor. The protein would help to slowly increase my blood sugar levels without the risk of it crashing back down too quickly.

When I was a student, I had access to the school's health clinic and could get my medication at a discounted cost. Since that was no longer an option, I had to get creative when managing my diabetes. “A well balanced diet is the key to glycemic control,” my doctors used to say, however when your funds were limited, peanut butter was the next best option .

Once my sandwich was finished, I turned on my side and stretched my legs across the seat, covering my body with the plush throw blanket I’d bought at Goodwill. The nights weren’t horrendously cold yet, since we’d just entered the fall season. Hopefully I'd be able to save enough money before winter commenced to rent a small apartment. Hell, at this point I’d settle for renting a room. I might be strong, but there’s no way I’d last the winter in West Virginia living out of my car.

With those depressing thoughts in my head, I fell into a fitful sleep.