Chapter Seventeen: Collide

Chapter Seventeen

Lincoln

COLLIDE

Performed by Howie Day

I was trying hard to contain my rage, not only at whoever had left the note on Willow's door in blood red but at her being in witness protection to begin with. The fear in her voice when she'd talked about "them" finding her had sent waves of fury through me. The loss I'd heard in her voice at the idea of having to give up everything in her life to relocate again felt like a physical stab to my heart.

While I didn't normally consider myself a violent man, I'd felt this same way before. First, for the truck driver who'd killed Sienna, then the kid who'd shot Lyrica, and finally, at the woman who'd kidnapped Leya. Every time those horrible tragedies had occurred in my life, I'd felt this same helpless rage. This same desire to do damage to the person who'd hurt the ones I'd cared about.

Maybe a man could only take so much of living with those emotions before they burst free. I wanted to drive down to Flat Mike's bar, put my hands around Poco's throat, and squeeze until no breath was left in his body. But I'd promised Hardy I wouldn't do something stupid, and there wasn't anything stupider than thinking I'd get that close to Poco in a bar full of bikers and criminals. He may have been nothing more than a local thug, but that didn't mean he wouldn't have a gun. That all his pals and his boss wouldn't have a dozen between them.

What did I have? A pocket knife from my grandfather and a childhood spent learning martial arts. While I could defend myself in a physical fight, I wouldn't be able to ward off bullets. I wouldn't be able to stop an entire biker gang.

But I had something else that might help. I had people I could send to talk to Poco if Willow would let me. If not official Secret Service agents, I could ask Leya's husband to give me the name of the security team Leya's band used.

When I glanced up from my laptop, I noticed how pale Willow was, her naturally creamy skin taking on the same hue as the apparition who'd returned to haunting me. She kept tugging at her necklace as if it was a life preserver. She was terrified and trying to hold it together. The tears had stopped, but I could feel her uncertainty and sadness from across the room. My body practically vibrated with the intensity of the rage I felt for whoever had done this to her.

I relived our moments together over the last two days. She'd been courageous. Optimistic. She hadn't cried after Poco had tried to haul her away that night. And yet, she'd almost fallen apart on seeing that damn note pinned to her door.

The letter. It needed to be examined. I had to get it to someone—Hardy, the police, anyone with a lab at their disposal. Would she let me?

I reached her in two strides, pulling her close once more, trying to let the touch calm us both. Her fear. My fury. The complete and utter frustration I felt at being, once again, too late to stop something already heading toward another woman in my life.

But I swore it wouldn't reach her.

Whatever evil this was…Poco, whoever "they" were…they would not reach her.

I would stop this.

"We need a plan," I told her softly. "Let me make you a cup of tea, and we'll decide on a course of action."

I tucked her hand into mine, the fragility of those fine bones landing home, especially given what I'd learned about her. And yet, at the same time, they felt strong as her fingers squeezed me back. It was a dichotomy I'd sensed in Willow from the moment I'd sped across the cemetery and heard her demanding Poco let her go. Brave and delicate at the same time.

We made our way into the kitchen, and when I let go of her to fill the electric tea kettle, I felt the loss in every part of me. I gathered the mugs and went about pouring loose leaf into the strainers as I had the first time she'd been in my kitchen.

Sienna had said Willow was my person. The light guiding me home. I could easily believe it when she practically glowed. But Sienna had also said that while we needed each other, I'd have to convince Willow she needed me as much as the other way around.

How did I do that? How did I convince someone I'd known for mere days that I could be what they needed? That these intense feelings I had were much more than attraction? If Sienna was right, and my soul was whispering something I needed to pay attention to, then I needed to get my act together now before Willow slipped through my grasp—before some damn agency hid her away from me.

Reality hit me with the force of a dagger to my chest.

She was in witness protection. It was so much worse than just her hiding from some guy who'd been abusive. The skittishness about being seen together was more than justified. The idea of exploring these intense feelings and desires and connection was asinine. Because what would happen when she was photographed at my side? It was a foregone conclusion she would be if we continued to see each other.

A heaviness settled over my chest, sliding down into my gut.

While we waited for the kettle, I asked, "Can you tell me what happened? Why you're in the protection program?"

She ran a finger along the smooth granite island, rotating the barstool side to side as she swung her body back and forth. I tried not to take it personally when she didn't immediately launch into the story. She had to be fighting years of being told not to speak the truth. I knew what it felt like to hold back secrets. I'd spent a lifetime keeping mine.

Maybe she simply needed proof I had as much to lose as her. Proof that I'd share my secrets as she shared hers.

After I poured the water over the strainers into the cups, I brought them to the island and sat next to her. "I was diagnosed with idiopathic insomnia when I was eight."

She looked up from her tea, surprise in her eyes.

"No one really knows that except my immediate family," and Felicity, but I didn't let that thought derail me. "They thought I had ADHD or some other disorder because I couldn't sleep. I went through a bunch of doctors and therapists before they realized it was child-onset insomnia. I was in my teens before they decided to try drugs."

"Why are you…?" she started and then settled her gaze on me. "Thank you for trusting me."

I ached to pull her to me again and made do with brushing a hand over her cheek before retreating and continuing my story. "Because of the drugs the doctors had me on, I wasn't allowed to drive. So, it was my girlfriend, Sienna, who was in the driver's seat on prom night. We'd left the limo and our friends behind at a party and headed to her grandparents' cabin. On our way, a night shift road worker crossed the double yellow and wiped out the driver's side of the car. My car. That she was driving because I was on too many drugs to get behind the wheel."

"Lincoln..." The empathy, the pure sadness in Willow's voice, didn't make me cringe as it normally did when talking about that night.

As if talking about her had beckoned her from the beyond, Sienna appeared on the far side of the kitchen with a raised brow. I heard her voice in my head all over again, telling me how she'd wanted to drive, how it wouldn't have mattered if I'd had the drugs in me or not.

I turned back to Willow, continuing the story I rarely discussed with anyone. "By that time, my dad had already made his fair share of enemies on the Hill, people who wanted to discredit him so he wouldn't get reelected as senator and definitely wouldn't make a run at the presidency, which everyone knew was his ultimate goal. So, someone dropped it to the press that I was drinking and driving and that my family was lying when they said I wasn't at the wheel. Even though every single police report showed I couldn't have survived if I'd been in the driver's seat. But it was where I should have been." I choked on the last couple of words. I shook my head, took a sip of tea, and tried to loosen the tightness in my shoulders that came whenever I talked about it.

I ignored Sienna as she shot me an annoyed glare.

Normally, the depth of the guilt eating at me when I thought or discussed that night would leave the taste of metal and blood in my mouth. But today, the scent of Willow, her sugary essence, was pushing it back. The load I carried seemed lighter, as if in unburdening it now so Willow would feel safe to share her own heavy weight made it less about me and more about the us I could almost visualize shimmering in our tomorrows.

I put my mug down, drew her hands into mine, and held tight. I met those gray eyes with honesty. "My point is, I know about secrets and keeping things hidden. I've lived my life as the son of a politician. We don't share our dirty laundry no matter how angry or ugly things get with someone. You can talk to me. I need you to talk to me so I can figure out a way to help you. And, for what it's worth, I think you need to talk about it. I think you need to give that secret to someone you can trust."

Her eyes scoured my face in silence, assessing and debating, but I never looked away, not even when I saw Sienna fading away out of the corner of my eye. I let Willow see whatever she needed to in my gaze. My honesty. My desperate hope she'd open up and share her story.

"It's not logical, but I do trust you," she finally whispered.

My lips curved upward just enough to be considered a grin. "Yeah?"

She leaned in, brushing at the damn lock of hair forever falling into my face. While I normally cussed out that wayward strand, her fingertips coasting along my forehead had me suddenly grateful for it, relishing the way her skin skimmed over mine. I ached to have her. Not just physically—although that need was coursing through me with such power it was almost embarrassing. I ached to have her soul tucked up against mine. All her secrets. All her dreams. All her laughter and delight. No one had made me want this badly. Not even Sienna.

Willow pulled back, and I snagged her hands again. She stared at our tangled fingers for a moment before finally giving me a piece of her story. "I recognized the insomnia in you. My dad…he had fatal familial insomnia. Do you know what it is?"

That was the last thing I'd expected her to start with. I nodded, knowing what it was from the tests done on me as a child. My mouth went dry, and the tightness in my chest grew. Did that mean Willow had it as well?

As if reading my thoughts, she said, "We don't know if I have it. My dad had barely been diagnosed with it, maybe eight months, before he was killed, and the only labs that can do the testing are in California. It was too expensive at first, and then, after everything went down, the Marshals said I couldn't be tested because the defense knew my dad had it. So, if I was positive for the mutated gene, they'd be able to find me just by searching for people being treated for it."

Dozens of questions popped into my mind about her, about FFI, and about her family, but the one I got out was the one that had the threat showing up on her doorstep. "You're in witness protection because of something that happened to your dad?"

She nodded, pulling away, grabbing the mug, and sipping. "The disease had progressed far enough that he'd lost his job at the 9-1-1 center. He kept forgetting things mid-call, and he'd lost his cool a few times with callers. He was becoming angrier every day, but he was also terrified he might have passed the FFI to me. When the nights got too long, and the emotions heavy, he'd go for a walk.

"Mom worked nights as a neonatal nurse at the hospital. So, often, it was just Dad and me at home in the evenings. With the speed at which he was losing his memory, I was uncomfortable letting him go out alone, but Mom said to leave him be. It was one thing he still had a choice about when so many of his choices had been taken away. We always made sure he took his phone, and he had a cane we'd had our address engraved into, so if he couldn't find his way on his own, someone could help him.

"One night, while out, he passed an alley where a woman was being attacked. Two men, both in ski masks…"

Willow swallowed, fear trembling through her as she looked in the direction of her house. I imagined her mind had gone right to where mine had when she'd mentioned the masks—to the man at her door in the video.

Damn.

"They had her on the ground… They'd…you know." She blew out a breath. "From what we could tell, they didn't hear Dad coming. Didn't even know he was there until he'd smacked one of them on the head with his cane. Even with all he was going through, my dad was a big, strong guy, so the first one went down. But the second one pulled his gun before my dad could get close enough. First, he shot the woman…Mary. Her name was Mary."

I squeezed her knee while she got ahold of herself.

"Dad ran. We don't know if he forgot he had his phone or just didn't remember he could call 9-1-1. The only thing we know for certain is that he ran home. He must have thought he'd lost them when he got to our street and they weren't behind him. But he'd also dropped the cane back in the alley with our address carved right into it."

Willow shook her head, pressed her hand to her chest, and then got up. She put her cup in the sink and stared out at the cemetery. I wasn't sure what to do. Go to her. Stay. Let her finish. Make her stop.

"The sad thing is," she said as she turned, leaning on the counter with a look of true grief in her eyes, "if they'd waited a few days, Dad likely wouldn't have remembered what had happened. And he could never have testified. The defense would have made mincemeat out of his disease and his bad memory."

Tears flooded her eyes, and I couldn't stop myself any longer. I went to her, pulling her into me, trying to give whatever comfort I could.

"He came into the house, screaming for me. I was in bed, but I was awake because it was hard for me to sleep until he got home. When I hit the hallway, he was frantic, eyes wild. I could barely understand what he was saying. Babbling about the attack and them chasing him, screaming at me to hide. At first, I thought it was just him losing it a bit more. There'd been a couple of incidents when he'd been violent without understanding it. So, when he shoved me into the coat closet near the door, my first instincts were to calm him down and call Mom. I'd just started to push the closet door open to try and talk him down when the first bullet hit. They shot out the lock and then slammed into the house."

She took a deep breath, arms reaching around me, fisting my sweater at the back. Her forehead rested against my chest.

"Danny Vitale emptied a clip in him. Through the crack in the closet door, I saw every single one of the bullets hit him. Saw…"

She didn't sob. She didn't cry, but I could feel the tension in her body as she relived it. I understood and wished I could take away the pain. But it was impossible. The moment I'd come to after the crash and seen the gaping hole in the back of Sienna's head had never gone away. It would never go away.

Willow trembled but kept going with the story. "They must have thought Dad was alone, because they weren't wearing their masks anymore, and when Danny turned to talk to his brother, I saw his face—the scar on his cheek and the terrifying satisfaction in his brown eyes. He was high on drugs for sure, but I think he was higher on what he'd done… I was petrified he'd see me peeking out. I didn't breathe. I didn't move."

She paused to collect herself, but I felt the tremor that went through her as she held on.

"I thought for sure I'd be next. Then, as if he'd heard or seen something, he took a step toward the closet just as his brother stepped farther into the room where I could see him too. I knew Roci from high school. He was in my PE class."

She squeezed me tighter again and then looked up. "My phone started vibrating in my pocket. I didn't know it, but Dad had called Mom as he'd run home, and she was trying to get ahold of one of us. The noise…" She shook her head. "They both turned toward me just as the first sirens could be heard. I dropped to the ground seconds before Roci emptied his clip into the closet door. The only thing that saved my life was this set of old speakers my dad had been meaning to take to the recycling center."

Absolute fury rolled through me, mixing with her fear. It bled from her to me until I could almost imagine being there, huddled on the floor of a closet as bullets rained around me. Fuck . "As the sirens got closer, they ran, jumping into their truck and roaring off. As soon as they were gone, I flew out of the closet and tried to save Dad." Willow let go of me and looked down at her hands as if they were covered with his blood. "But I couldn't save him. There were too many holes."

I brushed a long strand of moonlight behind her ear, and she looked up at me with eyes that were seeing the past rather than my sunny kitchen. I wanted her here, in the present, where nothing could touch her, but instead, I let her finish. I let her purge it from her soul so it wouldn't continue to fester.

"The first day I went back to school, I was beat up by one of the Viceroys' girlfriends. I was told if I testified, I'd be as dead as my dad. We got death threats every day. In the mail. On our computers. Even text messages on our phones after we changed our numbers. They seemed to find us everywhere we stayed, even when we were at our friends' and coworkers' houses. They even found us when we stayed in hotels. That was when the Marshals got involved. For the first year or so, the Viceroys didn't give up, trying everything they could to find me. The Marshals kept us abreast of each effort. The Viceroys hurt people we knew, people Mom worked with.

"They were only kids, seventeen and nineteen years old, but the Viceroys have serious clout amongst the gangs in Chicago. They'd moved up the criminal food chain, bordering on mafia status, while not a single charge had stuck to any member of the group before then. Their brother, Aaron, was a criminal defense attorney, so everyone assumed they had police officers, administrators, and judges in their pockets. But because of me, because I saw them, the authorities got a warrant that allowed them not only to bring Danny and Roci in but also gave them access to locations the police had never entered before. They collected evidence on a host of other illegal activities that they used to make even more arrests and put additional Viceroys in jail.

"Everything hinged on Dad's case. If the prosecution couldn't get the murder charges to stick, or if the original warrant was thrown out, everything they'd found when they'd taken Danny and Roci into custody would be inadmissible. I became the cornerstone of not just the murder case but all those other cases."

My stomach bottomed out.

"When did this all happen?" I asked. "You said you were in high school?"

"Six years ago. I'd just turned seventeen."

"They're behind bars now, right? It's over?" I asked.

She nodded. "It took four years to bring them to trial."

"Four years!" Disgust wound through me. "You've got to be kidding!"

"Chicago has the worst arrest-to-trial rate in the United States, and Aaron made appeal after appeal, trying to get my statement, the warrant, and any evidence thrown out. The prosecutor told us they suspected Aaron was actually the head of the Viceroys, but no one could prove it. His role in the case and the people he bribed were how they got so much information about me. About us.

"For the first two years, I was terrified I'd walk out the door to find a gun in my face. But slowly, after we were here a while and nothing came for us, I started to breathe easier. The Marshals have never lost anyone in active protection. Not a single person in their custody who followed the protocols has been hurt, and that helped. Still helps. When I finally got to testify, when the jury came back with the guilty verdict, the relief I felt…" She paused, head tilted, brows burrowed. "I thought maybe it was over. But Aaron turned and looked at me that day, and there was so much hatred in his eyes. I knew he still wanted me dead."

"You're afraid this is him? Out for revenge?" I asked, acid burning through my insides at the mere idea. Willow moved restlessly through my kitchen, touching things, righting things, running a finger over the ivy I'd painted along the cabinets.

"No... Maybe. We got news this week that Roci was stabbed in prison. He died. So maybe Aaron blames me for that too. But I keep reminding myself that we've done nothing to blow our cover. The Marshals won't let the Vitales find us. That's why the note has to have been from Poco. No one else can find me."

She was trying to convince herself as much as me that it was true. The protective instincts that had flared to life from the moment I'd met her raged even stronger until they were a burning inferno.

My dad had plenty of hate groups who'd like to see him dead, but I'd never had one personally hunting me down. Who'd be happy to see my blood splattered. I just knew what it was like to want to switch places with the ones who'd died.

The fact Willow had built a life for herself here, the fact she could smile and create food and art and laugh and joke, was nothing short of a miracle. It made her courageous in ways I couldn't begin to name.

It made me want to give her a host of new memories so they would bury the dark, ugly ones under an avalanche of beautiful, happy ones.