Page 97 of Hunter

She laughed. “God, no.”

“Psychic?”

“Look,” she said, turning in her seat. “Let’s just say I’m a good judge of character.”

“So, what? You take one look at me and think you know my story?” I snapped.

She didn’t look fazed by my reaction. Instead, she capped her Jack and set it on the floor before turning to face me.

“To know a person’s story, it first must be told. I can’t know it by glancing at you. What I can know, though, is that whatever reason you used to justify whatever you’re running away from … you don’t believe it. You didn’t run for that little boy; you ran for yourself. You may think you’re justified by the underlying reason, but I think that, if you were, you wouldn’t need to come up with excuses to protect it. Whatever that real reason is, it shouldn’t have to be justified by other excuses.”

“You’re right,” I said, sinking back into my chair. “I said this was for Adair, but it’s not. It’s for me. Because I can’t deal with it. I love him, but I can’t forgive him. I don’t know how. I want to say it’s fine, that it’ll be okay, that we can be happy together, but I can’t say the words. I know they’ll be a lie. After everything I did to him for all those years, he forgave me and fell in love with me, and he loves my boy more than anything. He did that for me of all people.” I shook my head. “But when I see his face, when he looks at me like I’m the world and he’s scared he’ll break me, I can’t say it. And that’s killing him. It’s killing me. I can’t take it anymore.”

Silence passed as the girl looked down at her bottle of Jack. She lifted it from the floor and took a small mouthful, her posture relaxing as she put the lid back on. She swirled the liquid, and with wisdom too old for her, she said, “For everything, there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven.”

I looked up at her with a flicker of surprise. She was quoting the Bible. “Ecclesiastes 3:1.”

“Most people think of the Bible as the ramblings of some naive people, deluded into thinking a higher divinity exists to secure humanity’s need to have a purpose. They need to know they’re wanted. Personally, I think there’s a reason that those ramblings have survived for so long. Maybe they traveled all this way to be told to you now, to help you when you need them the most. But then the question becomes: do you believe in fate? Or is it a meaningless coincidence?” She stood, slipped the whiskey bottle into her backpack, and pulled it over one shoulder.

“Wait,” I called out. “You’re leaving?”

She looked up at the flat screen that showed the list of flights before looking back at me. “Not my flight.” She shrugged, a small smile pulling at her lips as she began to walk away. Then she paused, and as I looked at her, confused and utterly mystified, she said, “It may not be now, it may not be tomorrow, but forgiveness can come at any time for the simplest reason. You’ve got to be willing to have faith.”

“That’s not in the Bible.”

She smiled. “It is in mine.”

She then walked down the hall, leaving me wondering who she was. More importantly, leaving me with a different perspective.

I sat, looking down the corridor, hoping she was right, and hoping I could decide what I truly believed in.

It was because of that that I hadn’t even noticed the airport security until they were practically standing on top of me.

“Mallory Ward?”

“Yes,” I answered, looking up at the three officers squaring off in front me. My eyes went straight to the officer with handcuffs. “What’s going on?”

Adair stirred awake on my lap, at first drowsy, but then concerned as he eyed the officers. One stepped forward and reached for Adair, instantly making me jump to my feet and placing myself between them.

“Ma’am, please hand over the child,” the man in front said, reaching for Adair again.

“No, I will not hand you my son!” I snapped, my mother instincts flaring with defensive aggression. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Ma’am, you will hand over the child, or I’ll be forced to take action,” the one with the cuffs warned.

“I. Said. No.”

The officer moved, grabbing my arm and forcing me aside, giving the other officer enough time to snatch Adair up.

He screamed, and I lunged at the officer holding me, digging my nails into his face and forcing him to release me as I bolted to grab Adair.

A second officer stepped in, catching my arm and twisting it behind my back before I was even close. He shoved me against a wall as I kicked and bucked against him. Then he dragged my other arm back until he fitted two metal handcuffs around my wrists. I screamed and kicked when he began to speak. Then, as he listed my charge, I froze with shock.

“Mallory May Ward, you are under arrest for the kidnapping of Adair Michael Ward.”

He then proceeded to read my rights through the shouting of blasphemies from the officer I had scratched and Adair’s cries.

The sounds faded away, and only one thing filled my mind.

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