Page 198 of The Trouble With Bad Boys

She spins around to face me, wiping beneath her eyes. “Elizabeth is thirty-five today.”

I nod and cross the threshold as I shove my feelings aside to comfort her, as I’ve always done. Wrapping my arm around her shoulder, I tug her close. “Yeah, Mom. That’s why I brought cake.”

Her lips rise shakily and she looks up at me with glassy eyes. “Okay.”

Leaning her weight into me, I guide her to the kitchen so she can sit. I quickly collect the cake I left at the front door and grab two cups and plates down from the cupboard, then make our drinks as I ruminate over what to say. Mom’s always struggled on Beth’s birthday and the day she went missing.

The day our world fell apart.

The day someone stole my baby sister from us.

An event that was entirely my fault.

My heart falters and my gut churns, but I force the discomfort away—I don’t deserve comfort for my pain, so I ignore it—and support Mom in her grief. Her watery gaze follows me as I prepare two slices of cake and two cups of coffee.

“How are you doing, Linc?”

I carry everything to the table and take a seat as I shrug. “Same old. Nothing much changes … work, Monday night soccer, gym, home.” I make the mistake of looking at her instead of concentrating on my piece of cake as planned. Her dull blue eyes study me like she can uncover all of my secrets.

“You know what I’m asking. Don’t avoid the question,” she pushes. Instead of answering, I shove a forkful of cake into my mouth to bide my time. She sighs loudly. “I wish you’d talk to me.”

I chew and swallow. “There’s nothing to talk about, Mom. I promise I’m doing okay.” I take a drink. “It’s been a long time.”

“I know … Lord, I know. But pain is pain. It may ease a little, but it never goes away. We just learn to live around it.” Oof. I feel that on so many levels. We’re both quiet, lost in our thoughts for a few minutes, and I cherish the silence. “I thought I saw her the other day,” Mom murmurs.

I snap my head toward her. In my mind’s eye, Beth’s still three and even though we don’t know if she’s still alive, I struggle to picture what she might look like as a grown woman. “What?”

She shakes her head, and a tear drops from her lashes. “It was probably my imagination. But the woman had our blue eyes, and she looked about the right age.”

Hope rises swiftly, but I force it away. There have been so many false alarms over the years. “Mom, you know that if she is still alive—and that’s a huge if—someone would have taken her far away from here.”

She nods, but I see the hope in her eyes and it kills me. “I know. But what if …”

“Mom,” I chastise. Her lips tremble and I climb to my feet to pull her into my embrace, where she buries her face in my chest. “Don’t keep doing this. It’s too painful.”

She nods. “I know. I just … I just can’t help it. I want her to be alive and happy. Healthy and settled with her own family. I want a beautiful life for my baby girl.”

I stroke her back. “I know, Mom. I want those things for her, too.” It’s better for both of us if we believe she’s alive and doing well somewhere out there in the world instead of thinking about the alternative.

She pulls her head back and looks up at me. “Do you think I’m a grandma?”

I smile the best I can. “I’m sure you are. If anyone deserves to be blessed with grandkids, it’s you.”

She pushes away from me and returns to her seat. “You could give me some.”

“Mom. Really? That’s low.” She may as well have plunged a butcher’s knife through the muscle in my chest.

She drops her gaze to the table and shrugs. “You can’t blame me for trying. I’m not getting any younger, Lincoln.”

“You know how I feel about kids. It’s too damn hard to keep them safe. I can’t take that sort of risk.” I won’t. It would literally kill me if something happened to them.

Her eyes glisten and we fall quiet again. If only I’d brought Beth inside with me when she grazed her knee instead of racing inside to get a Band-Aid. She would still be here to celebrate her birthday with us.

* * *

I lay into the bag with several punches and finish with a kick to the imaginary obliques. Sweat coats my skin and my muscles ache, but I needed to fucking punch something this afternoon. I drove straight here from Mom’s and was grateful the space I needed was vacant. My lungs heave, filling with oxygen, but I raise my hands and start the routine over. Maybe if I tire myself out enough, I’ll be able to sleep tonight.

“Looking good up there, Linc!” Mike shouts. I drop my hands and rest them on my hips as I turn toward him.

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