Page 3 of Trapper Road

“Good as new,” I say. It isn’t even that much of a lie. “I’m going to get me one of those.”

“A paper?”

“Coffee, you dope. You want anything?”

“I could split a scone. Blueberry.”

That’s perfectly acceptable to me, and I go in and place the order, then come back with the bounty. He carefully divides the scone and takes half before pushing the plate toward me.

I take a bite and nod toward the table. “What’s with the newspaper?”

“I was reading up on the Juliette Larson case. You know, the girl down in Gardenia, North Carolina. Seems interesting.” He offers the paper.

I take it and read while I sip my coffee, which glides down like dark sunlight. Sam has been trying to encourage me to get back into the swing of work, and this is another one of his forays.

My boss, J.B., has been generous with my schedule, giving me paid leave after the accident and allowing me to take the time I’ve needed to recover. She’s been happy to send me as much or as little work as I can handle. The downside, however, is that because I haven’t been physically cleared by my doctor, I’ve been relegated to desk work. Mostly that means background checks, which can get a little mind-numbing after a while.

I appreciate that Sam is so supportive of me taking on more complex cases like I used to handle, but I’m not sure I’m quite ready. I fold the paper and hand it back without reading the full article.

“I’ve got a half a page of background checks to do,” I tell him. “Speaking of which, I should probably get back to it. Eat that scone, buddy. Time’s wasting. I could be missing a hedge fund manager who cheats on his mistress.”

“God forbid,” he says, and crams the last of the scone into his mouth. I finish mine in two bites, wash it down with the dregs of my coffee, and Sam tosses our garbage on the way to the truck.Histruck. My SUV has been commandeered by my daughter to take to school, which took a lot of getting used to.

It hasn’t been easy giving Lanny more free rein. If I had my way, I’d keep her in my sight line 24/7, ready to jump to her aid at a second’s notice. But I know I can’t always be there and I’m not doing her any favors by wanting to keep her under lock and key. I just have to trust that I’ve taught her well.

To her credit, Lanny’s been careful, and as far as I know, hasn’t made too many terrible decisions while I’ve been focused on my own problems. She’s seventeen now, headstrong as befits a kid of mine, and she has a very good heart. Her head is still growing into it, but I’m proud of her. Always.

My son Connor is a little less stable, a little more volatile. Since hitting fifteen he’s turned into a different person, which ... really isn’t that surprising, but in his grumpy silences and occasional outbursts I still read the kid I remember. Like Lanny, he has a good heart. Unlike Lanny, he still struggles with his past and our shared dark history.

His birth father. Melvin Royal, one of the most infamous serial killers of the past twenty or thirty years. A man I thought I knew, all those years I lived side by side with him. A man I’d feared on some level, but never for the reasons I should have. There are no words for the kind of betrayal that I suffered, that the kids suffered. No way to explain the horror and pain and terror that comes with it.

Sam and I drive home, and while I’m not hypervigilant—something of a miracle—I am watchful. I look for cars trailing too closely. Habit more than instinct, at this point. If Sam notices, he doesn’t say anything; he accepts that constant awareness is part of who I am, which is a gift I don’t deserve.

“When’s your next flight?” I ask him. Sam is a cargo pilot, making regular runs to various spots; he loves flying, it makes him happy, and even though it takes him away for days at a time, I love that he’s doing what he cherishes. It makes us both better.

“Not until the end of the week. Short hop to Atlanta Friday, then on to Dallas, so I’ll be gone through the weekend,” he says. He glances my way. “You going to be okay?”

He always asks, and I say what I always do. “Of course. You know me.”

“I would never bet against you,” he says, and it makes me laugh because I know he means it. I steal a kiss at a stop light, and he makes that low humming noise in the back of his throat that lets me know how much he liked it. Which raises all sorts of possibilities.

Unfortunately, all that goes out the window when we pull into our driveway and find Lanny sitting on the porch in my rocking chair, wrapped in a blanket and crying her eyes out.

“Lanny?” I rush to her, heart in my throat; I don’t know what’s happened but nightmares open up before me, leading me to far too many dark places. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

She wipes her tears and raises her head. She’s not injured, thank God, no cuts or bruises, but her eyes are swollen and her makeup has run like watercolors in the rain. She almost looks surrealistic, with her carefully dyed pink-and-purple hair and the mess of mascara and glitter eye shadow melting on her face. I resist the mom-urge to take out a tissue and clean her up.

She catches her breath and says, “Connor and I had a fight.”

Though I’m relieved it’s not something more serious, my heart sinks. This isn’t the first fight they’ve had recently. The two of them have always been close and incredibly protective of each other, but the last few months have been difficult for them in an unexpected way.

They’ve been so used to running, so used to threats around every corner, that they’ve never actually experienced anything approaching normal. In the past, it’s always been us against the world. But with the world at bay, for now, the usual sorts of sibling squabbles have set in. They’ve started acting like typical teenagers, complete with hormone-fueled rivalries and petty grievances. There have even been tears in the past, but not quite like this.

I pull her into a hug and catch Sam’s eyes over her head. He asks me silently if I’ve got this or if I want his help. This seems like the type of situation that would best be served one on one, so I give a small shake of my head to let him know I can handle it.

He lifts his eyebrows. Am I sure?

I nod. He always has my back.

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