Page 110 of Brazen Criminals

Or is blackmailing my pedophile, stalker, sex-tape-distributing ex justified in some twisted way?

I need to figure out what to tell Emma. I need to figure out where I stand. I need to wipe the memory of Bryce from my mind, to excise that cancer and leave space for something new to blossom.

I’m working on it.

Walker is next, holding a poster board painted with a gorgeous baroque angel flying over a crowd of modern runners. Scrawled under the beautiful picture he wrote: “Bet you wish you had wings too.”

I flip him off and he flashes me a grin. My pounding heart stutters, and I float for the next half mile. Is it really okay to start a relationship with more than one guy?

Jansen is just past the first water station, still half asleep, but holding out a hand—he’s giving high fives to everyone who passes him. A flutter starts in my belly as I toss my cup and cross to him. He swoops me into a hug, swinging me back and forth. “Ew! I’m so sweaty!” I cry.

He laughs, tugs my ponytail, and pushes me back onto the course. “You’re killing it!” he yells, holding his hand out for the next person coming up behind me. I giggle as I shuffle back into the thinning crowd.

The next mile I spy my dad perched on a folding chair under a golden-leafed oak, clapping for everyone who passes. I cut over to him—he doesn’t see me until I’m a step away.

“Dad! You made it!”

“Of course, Clara-girl. Can’t miss your big day. I’ll catch you again at the end.” He waves me away, not wanting me to break my stride for a hug. I’m glad he came, even if my mom didn’t.

Trips stands on the other side of the street, fifteen feet farther down. His hands are in his pockets, his eyes cutting from my dad to me.

I smile and wave. I get nothing back.

He’s been furious at me for the risks I took, so I’m sadly unsurprised. I chose to be in the same room as Bryce, knowing how dangerous that could be. I broke so many laws to get him released—he thinks I just should have pestered his dad again for help.

He’s angry with all of us for doing what we did. He might be right.

The rest of the guys loved the work we did. But Trips has a point—the plan was full of unnecessary risks.

The rest of the race flies by. RJ runs more miles beside me, Walker and Jansen are full of smiles and encouragement. My friends start grouping together closer to the end, Emma joining Walker, RJ with Jansen, and oddly, my dad with Trips. I book it across the finish line, glancing at the official clock, and I can’t suppress my squeal. I just got a personal best.

I’m pulled into congratulatory hugs, my shoulder sore from pushing it for this long. There’s no way that ache is going to compare to how my legs will feel tomorrow. My grin hurts, it’s stretched so wide. The pale gold of the fall sun peeks through the clouds, lighting up my little collection of love and joy. Even Trips lets a tiny grin pull up one side of his mouth.

While the guys argue about where we should go for brunch, my dad pulls me aside.

“Good job, Clara-girl. I’m proud of you.” He kisses my forehead, his eyes creased, his hair grayer than I remember.

“Thanks, Dad.” I squeeze him tight, happy he made it, glad he chose me over my mom this one time. “Do you want to come out for brunch?”

He shakes his head. “Inventory today—I’ve got to make sure those idiots know where to find all the Glenfiddich.” He kisses my sweaty head one last time. “You done good, mija.”

“Thanks.”

He nods toward the guys and Emma. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I like these folks a lot better than Bryce.”

I laugh. “Me too, Dad.”

One last hug and he leaves to say his goodbyes. Trips gives my dad a genuine smile, a foundation of respect built this morning, before my dad disappears into the milling spectators.

After brunch, we head back to the house, the sun warm enough to announce this might be the last nice day for a while. Red and gold leaves drift from the trees as we spread out on the porch. The couch in the yard next door has vanished, and the street’s still quiet this early in the day.

Fresh from the shower, I’m the last one on the porch. In my absence, the pillows from Jansen’s meditation room have been scattered outside, a little Bohemian sitting room in the faded sun. Walker pats the cushion next to him, and I flop down, sprawling out with my head in his lap, my legs demanding more space than they should. Jansen scoots closer and takes my feet into his lap, using slow, steady strokes to massage my calves while I try not to whimper.

Emma is chatting with RJ, or at least chatting at RJ. Luckily, he doesn’t seem to mind. Trips pulled his chair to the porch, too uptight to sprawl on the floor with the rest of us.

The surveillance van is gone, at least for now. We had a “city utility” guy come to check our kitchen sink, and Jansen had to sneak the bug out of my bathroom and back to the kitchen so the poor guy could find it and remove it.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Trips tense, while folding his ankle over his knee and faking nonchalance. Someone clears their throat, and I force myself to sit up so I can see who’s crashing my afterparty.

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