Page 17 of Oliver

She was trying.

But something was still locked inside her.

“You remembered anything?” I asked gently.

She shook her head. “No. I’ve replayed every moment, every second. All I know is they seemed certain I had something. But I didn’t. I was just training. I didn’t see anything.”

“Sometimes the brain buries things,” I said. “To protect you.”

“My brain doesn’t feel protected.”

No, she looked like she was barely keeping it together.

I leaned back in my chair and stared out at the water.

“My son’s name is Olly,” I said.

Her head turned toward me, surprised.

“He’s six. Lives with me full time.”

Her face softened. “I didn’t know you had a child. You should go to him. Cyclone and Tag are here.”

“I don’t really talk about him to anyone but my friends,” I chuckled. “I’m sure they think I talk too much about him,” I said. “Dana—his mom—we were divorced. But when she got sick, she brought him to me. Cancer took her fast. I didn’t know about Olly until she brought him to me.”

Emery's voice dropped. “That must’ve been hard for Olly.”

“Yeah. Dana was so brave. She didn’t want to fight with me at the end. Just wanted Olly to have a parent who was present.” I paused. “I took care of her. I helped her leave this world with someone by her side.”

“That’s beautiful,” she said quietly.

“She was a good mom, she loved him more than anything. It was hard watching her fade away. She told me she wasn’t afraid of dying, she was just going to miss Olly so much. Olly’s the best thing I’ve ever done.”

Emery looked at me as if she were seeing something new. “You’re not what I expected, either.”

I shrugged. “Most people just see the tattoos and assume I’m the muscle. Not the dad.”

She smiled, but it faded fast.

“I hate this,” she said. “The not knowing. The waiting. The feeling that I’m broken somehow. You have to leave your son to protect me.”

“You’re not broken, Emery. I’ll see my son soon.”

She didn’t answer.

I leaned forward. “They kept you in a basement? Did you hear anything?”

“I heard voices upstairs. Maybe five, six men total.”

“Did they speak English?”

“Only when they brought me food. The rest of the time, it sounded… Russian. Or maybe Chechen?”

That narrowed things down. But not by much.

Too much, and not enough.

“You were training at a private gym, where not to many people went.” I asked. “Anyone new around? Photographers, reporters, fans?”

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