Page 31 of Unmade

Did he really care?

“Um…if my guesses are correct, my dad was the eldest in an army of seven kids.”

Beckett let out a low whistle.

“I know, right? I couldn’t even get my mom to give meonebrother,” I went on. “But yeah, so five brothers and two sisters. They’re from Washington state. One of the sisters runs a pastry shop, and one of the brothers has a seafood restaurant. Most of them are private on social—which is another reason I don’t wanna contact them. I don’t think they’d be happy to learn that someone’s been stalking them every couple of months for the past few years.”

In my weak defense, I’d sat on the information from my dad’s records for a long time before I’d mustered the courage to Google his parents.

“See, from my perspective, I’d definitely wanna know if my brother had another kid out there somewhere,” Beckett pointed out. “You’re not a stranger, Leighton. Hell, maybe the mom would be thrilled to see her eldest live on in the next generation?”

Ugh, he sounded like Aunt Laura now.

Beckett sat forward a bit and clasped his hands loosely on the table. “You want my two cents?”

Not really.

“Shoot.”

“When we met, you thanked me for just talking to you,” he murmured. “You’d recently lost your ma, and you were pretty much on your own. I’m thinking the real reason you haven’t made contact with them is because you’re afraid to get rejected. Because when you’re already alone, rejection—particularly from potential family—is essentially death by a thousand cuts. It was much easier to stay in the Army where social interaction and being part of a squad is forced upon you.”

What time was it? Class was about to start, wasn’t it? I wanted to leave. Maybe do some pull-ups before my next deprogramming.

Fuck, he made me uncomfortable. Eye contact wasn’t happening anytime soon, so I had to force myself to eat and focus on my coffee.

“Good job. You know how to profile,” I said stiffly.

He leaned back again. “That one didn’t require any skills in profiling. I’m more interested in finding out why you let Operator Rose believe you don’t know how to use a handgun. Unlike him, I remember your application. You have plenty of experience.”

What? I set down my apple again.

“A buddy of mine was in the gym and overheard Rose’s speech to you about military programming the other day,” he said. “Most of us have been the recipient of a Rose Rambling over the years, especially when it comes to replacing the soldier with the gray man who becomes an operator here. He takes notes on everything—and Coach and I are privy to them.”

What, so Operator Rose had written an assessment based on that brief talk? “He couldn’t have learned that much. He did most of the talking.”

Beckett shrugged. “We gotta start somewhere, and he shares the responsibility for the deprogramming class with Operator Riggs. By the end of your first year, you’ll have your own binder with notes.”

How fun.

Christ.

I took another bite of my apple, and it was my turn to shrug. “A lieutenant once caught me trying to convince a buddy not to get a tattoo, and the old man just walked by and said, ‘Don’t advertise all there is to know about you.’ I guess it stuck. I didn’tlieto Operator Rose…”

That made Beckett smile. “You just didn’t advertise it. Gray-man thinking. That’s good. You sure as hell won’t find anyone encouraging you to get tattoos at Hillcroft.”

But they weren’t exactly prohibited either, according to the operator regs. They just couldn’t include personal information or leads that could identify you. Therefore, it was best to keep them hidden and cryptic.

“I saw an operator the other day who had a visible tattoo,” I mentioned.

“They exist,” he conceded. “Depending on when they joined, the regulations have changed several times. In the beginning, there were hardly any regs at all. When I joined, they were banned altogether. Now it’s more relaxed again.”

That made sense. “I’ve actually wanted to get one myself,” I admitted. “I’m not gonna, but…” I lifted a shoulder.

“Something in particular?”

I chewed on my lip and shifted in my seat. He asked questions, and I immediately knew I was going to answer, whether I wanted to or not. The thought of deflecting or declaring something too personal didn’t exist in my mind. It was a little unnerving.

“When I was a kid, my mom would make up stories for me about my dad,” I said. “Apparently, he’d once told her he couldn’t wait to have kids, and he wanted a little wingman. So, in the stories, I was his wingman.” I swallowed. “I walked past a tattoo place one time, and I saw a photo of a woman who had a pair of wings on her back, and it made me want something similar, except…I’d want them wrapped around me from the front.”

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