Page 74 of Sutton's Shadow

He smiled when a small hand slipped into his. He contemplated the woman by his side, amazed that she was here, that she was his. Or would be as soon as he found the time and courage to tell her how he felt about her.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

He brought their clasped hands to his lips, kissing hers. “I’m good.”

“Should we do this?”

“Yes, let’s go.” He tugged on her hand as he headed for the front door. Not wanting to let go of the hand giving him the strength to do this, he unlocked the door one-handed and pushed it open. The stale stench met them as they stepped over the threshold, and Wyatt wrinkled his nose. Sutton placed her free hand over her nose and mouth. He didn’t blame her for trying to block out the smell.

Leaving the door open, hoping the disgusting odor would dissipate, he entered the living room. The same old couch sat sagging in front of the same old scuffed up coffee table. To the left was a fireplace whose safety was questionable. Instead of family photographs, the mantel held bottles of liquor. If that didn’t tell where Ronnie’s priorities lay, he didn’t know what would.

To his right was the kitchen. The Formica was chipped even worse than when he’d lived there. It appeared she’d never replaced the stove, even though it had only one working burner. Who knew? After all this time, maybe that one burner didn’t work anymore either.

How many times had he stood at that decrepit stove, stirring the mac and cheese he’d been forced to make himself if he’d wanted to eat? He’d become an expert at the meal and could make one box of the orange noodles last for three days, at least. It had always been a good day when he could scrounge up enough cash to afford the little blue box of cheesy goodness.

But he wasn’t here for the trip down his hellish memory lane. He was here to get Bethany’s things. With Sutton’s hand still gripped in his, he led the way down the hall to the tiny bedroom that had once been his and then Bethany’s.

Hit with more unwanted memories the minute he walked into the room, he pushed them aside to get to work. Letting go of Sutton’s hand, he yanked open the closet door and began pulling the clothes off the rack, throwing them on the bed. Sutton worked at taking them off the hangers and folding them.

With the last garment out of the closet, the hole in the floor he’d created over two decades ago caught his attention. Kneeling beside it, he squinted down into it. The police had taken her journal and whatever other stuff she’d gathered on what she was living in, but something was wedged in deep under the floor. He reached in and pulled out the object, smiling when he recognized it.

He’d found the tiny stuffed heart, no bigger than his hand, in a market in Kabul and brought it home for Bethany, telling her that even though they couldn’t be together every day, she would always have his heart. She’d squealed with all the power her four-year-old lungs contained and hugged it to her. Handmade by an old Afghan woman who’d loved the idea of an American child playing with her creation, the dark red fabric had faded to a light brownish pink. Gold thread was embroidered in an intricate pattern across the heart and was fraying in several spots. He loved that his sister had kept it all these years and thought it to be so precious to her she’d hidden it in their shared hidey-hole.

His young sister still had his heart, even all these years later.

He sensed Sutton peeking over his shoulder but was too immersed in memories of a young Bethany playing with the toy to say anything. She let him have his moment, only asking for the keys to get the boxes they’d brought out of the car.

He didn’t know how long he’d sat there when the harsh shrill of a woman’s voice broke him out of his trance.

“Who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing in my house?” The soft snick he recognized instantly as the safety of a gun being disabled. He surged to his feet in a flash and ran down the hall.

The sight that met his eyes was his worst nightmare brought to life. His worthless mother held someone he cared about at gunpoint. Flattened boxes lay scattered around her feet as Sutton stood with her hands raised while Ronnie threatened her.

“Stop!” he yelled. Ronnie jumped and spun around; the gun still held straight out. It was a damn miracle she hadn’t fired when he’d startled her.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” It didn’t escape his notice that she still held the gun up, now pointed at him.

“I’m getting Bethany’s things.”

“Why bother? She’ll be home with me again soon.”

Over his dead body. If he could prevent it, Bethany would never step foot in this house again. “Not going to happen. How did you make bail?”

She scoffed, the gun lowering slightly as her arm tired. “I have friends.”

It was his turn to scoff. Her so-called friends were degenerates who dealt mostly in drugs and the occasional prostitute. He didn’t know for sure, but he figured Ronnie had sold her body on numerous occasions to feed her habit. He wondered what she had to do to get bail money out of one of the losers.

Wyatt took in the woman who’d given birth to him. For someone who’d recently been in jail, she appeared remarkably put together. In fact, she looked like she’d just stepped off the runway as a top fashion model. He could hardly fathom what he was seeing. She was a completely different woman from the last time he’d met her. Her hair had recently been colored a shiny blond and styled in a shoulder-length bob. Her makeup was flawless, if applied a little too generously. And her clothes were designer brands. The dark jeans and silk shirt were so tight he wondered if she could even breathe.

But the biggest change was her chest. The buttons of her shirt strained over her augmented form in a way that was almost obscene. In short, she looked like a well-kept woman. He wondered who’d footed the bill. Apparently, her “friends” had means.

“Friends, right,” he mocked. “Mind lowering that weapon?”

“When you get the fuck out of my house.”

“Not leaving until I pack up Bethany’s things.”

“Nuh-uh. You ain’t taking nothing from this house.” She may have looked refined, but her language was anything but.

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