Page 30 of Breakdown
“It was your father, too. He’s... well, he threatened me. You know, all that scary stuff. I wasn’t in a position where I could fight him.” Cynthia let out a long, shaky breath, and Peter felt something crumble in his chest. She shot him a wobbly smile. “You really put the bastard in jail, huh? That’s not an easy feat. He’s slippery as fuck.”
“Well, it was me and Liv together.” He shrugged modestly, if only because he was thankful to be back on slightly more solid ground.
“I wouldn’t bet against you two,” Cynthia said with a short, knowing laugh. “You were always a hell of a team.”
They had been, and the loss of Olivia—not the woman she’d been today in the garage but the real one, his sister—felt especially cruel.
“I knew you were going to turn out okay, even without me. I’m proud of you, sweet-pea.”
“Thanks,” he said dully. His mother was starting the process of pardoning herself already, and Peter felt a bitter blaze of envy for the ease with which she did it. Cynthia had no idea how long it had taken him to even get in the ballpark of okay.
She gave his hair a quick ruffle as though that settled it—twenty years of absence and abandonment issues solved with a ten-minute talk—and Peter wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or cry.
Then Cynthia jerked her head to the top of the filing cabinet, where Peter had haphazardly tossed the photos and envelope Liv had given him. “So what’s the setup around here—standard boost-and-chop operation like your Dad used to run? Or only high-end stuff like the Ferrari? Sell the parts, clean the money through the garage?” she asked. “You know your dear old mother wouldn’t mind getting cut in on the action now that she’s back in town. If you don’t mind me horning in on the family business.”
The casual request stung almost as much as Liv’s slap in the face. He was beginning to think his family was incapable of having a conversation that wasn’t transactional. “Oh?” was all he managed in reply.
“You know, if you’re still in the game.”
Peter supposed he was, at least for now, and it was so fucking depressing to admit that he’d ended up right back where he started. He exhaled softly. “Stick with what you know, right? But you’re barking up the wrong tree; this is my last gig.”
Cynthia laughed like he’d told a particularly good joke. “If I had a dollar for every time I promised myself that... well, then I could afford to actually not run jobs anymore.”
“I mean it,” he said, unable to keep the bitterness and hurt out of his voice. She was right: how many last jobs had there been before this? “Olivia’s the one you want to talk to if you’re looking to do this long term. I’m done with this shit after tomorrow.”
His mother sobered instantly. “Sure, kiddo, of course. I respect that.” Her gaze lingered on the photo of Peter and Nik pinned to the corkboard above the filing cabinet. “I can see why you wouldn’t want to put this in jeopardy.”
It was Peter’s favorite picture of the two of them, grease stained and beaming in front of the Camaro, capturing a moment of pure uncomplicated joy. Those had been in short supply the last few months and it was all Peter’s fault. Again. “It’s in jeopardy already. The only reason I’m doing this is to get us out.”
“Fair enough.” She finished her coffee and set the cup down on the filing cabinet, her lips pursed. “Just thought I might be able to help with that.”
Automatically, Peter stood to gather her mug, the move to take it immediately to the kitchenette to rinse out hard to overcome. Like most of his father’s lessons, that one fucking stuck.
Cynthia must have noticed it, the subtle shift in his posture whenever he invoked the thought of Erik, because she put a tentative, unsure hand on his shoulder. It rooted him to the spot, unable to move as she flipped through Liv’s file with her long slender fingers.
“Think of it as an overdue favor. It’s the least I can do, right? Considering...” She let out a short, rueful laugh. “I may not be good at much else, but I’m good at this, Peter.”
But it wasn’t an apology and it wasn’t about helping him, was it? It was a means to an end so she could get the cut she wanted by getting back in Liv’s good graces.
He felt guilty and paranoid just thinking it. “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“Maybe it’s not, but do you think trying to crack a high-tech security system in a language you don’t know is? Or do you know someone else who can translate Russian for you at midnight on a Thursday?” She tapped one of the photos with a long, glossy fingernail. “From where I’m standing, it doesn’t seem like you’ve got a whole lot of options.”
Peter really looked at the aerial photograph of Volkov’s warehouse for the first time. The quality was shit, and the date stamp was from almost two years ago, but he figured it was the best Liv could find on short notice.
He didn’t like what he saw. There was only one entrance to the yard, a lift gate on the north side. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked like it was backed up by heavy chain-link swing doors. Which meant Peter was walking into a goddamn cage even before he tried to disarm Volkov’s security panel.
Peter bit his lip, dread mounting in his stomach. He could use all the help he could get if he was going to pull this off, but he still couldn’t shake the feeling he was going to regret it. “Alright, Mom. You’re in.”
She grinned at him. “That’s the spirit, sweet-pea.”
