Page 57 of The Locksmith's Promise

Six thousand dollars.

Maggie’s wish list.

And a picture of us laughing together at a bonfire.

I hung my head and blew out the breath I’d been holding. There was nothing else of value in this place. Anything else he’d destroyed, or I’d left with Maggie. And Maggie had it all in the back of Cor’s baby book.

Rolling to my feet, I took one last look around.

I heard a whimper from the past.

Not mine.

Run.

The command became urgent.

Eyes squeezed shut, pulse jackhammering in my veins, I stepped back. Spinning on my heel, I jogged back through the house without looking toward the couch.

I slammed the front door shut but didn’t bother to lock it. The whole house could burn down for all I cared.

Once I hit the driveway, I didn’t stop until I reached my apartment. Tossing the envelope on the counter, I took the photo out and propped it up where I could see it.

Tomorrow I’d find a frame.

The urge to run that hit me in my childhood bedroom had not abated. I paced back and forth, running my fingers through my hair, sucking in air and breathing it out hard until I was light-headed.

My back hit the wall, and I slid down to the floor.

Stretching my legs out in front of me with my ankles crossed, I leaned my head against the wall and considered the case of beer chilling in the fridge.

Five minutes would take the edge off. Ten? Smooth sailing. Fifteen? Twenty?

No.

I knew where that road led, and I wasn’t going back there.

But I couldn’t sit here in the dark, either.

Asking for help was not in my usual repertoire, but tracking down a distraction was second nature. I slid my cell phone from my back pocket and called Miller to see if he wanted to grab a beer at The Loose Moose.

It was probably wrong to take him away from his family.

He picked up almost immediately. “Did you know these two turds have started a band?”

I choked. “What?”

“A band, fucker,” Miller growled.

“How?” I laughed. “Does Mikey play guitar?”

“No,” Miller griped. “Maxine took him into the city and bought him a drum set to go along with Cor’s guitar. He says he’s going to teach himself.”

I snorted. “And they’re playing together?”

He groaned. “It’s every fucking flavour of awful you can imagine. I’m too fucking old for this,” he grumbled.

The longer I talked to Miller, the more the stench of stale cigar smoke faded. I inhaled deeply. “Does that mean you lost your touch, old man?”

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