Page 11 of Truck Stop Titan

Matthew checked his watch, the gold catching in the rays pouring through the high, stained-glass windows. He sighed, then dropped a chaste kiss on my head. “I’ll be in the car.”

I sat in the pew, wadded tissues in hand, and stared at the photo of Mom. Her golden hair, the freckles dotting her nose and cheeks. Her crooked tooth that suited her quirky smile. God, I missed that smile. And her laugh. Nobody laughed harder than Elizabeth Peterson.

The church was mostly empty, save a couple of flower arrangements. That crushing weight barreled down on my chest again, overwhelming me from the outside, suffocating me from the inside. What came next? Mom was gone. Mickey was nowhere. My father had passed when I was sixteen. I was utterly alone. Drowning in grief, and I’d never been more ready to throw in the towel.

A throat cleared behind me. Matthew, rushing me along, most likely.

“I said I need a minute.”

“Moriah Peterson?”

I turned in my seat to address the deep voice behind me. “Yes?”

A tall, mountain of a man with piercing blue eyes and a kind smile stood behind me in a green dress shirt and dark jeans. A woman stood next to him, barely reaching his chest, her gray hair pulled into a neat bun, dressed for a day at the office.

I stood, used tissues rolling off my lap and landing at my feet.

The woman extended her hand first. “Hi, Moriah, I’m Dr. Leticia Slade. This is my son, Tucker.”

Tucker offered his hand, and I gave him a firm shake.

“Did you know my mom?”

Dr. Slade looked over my shoulder, studying the portrait of my mother, her eyes glossy. “I’m sorry for your loss.” She cleared her throat. “And we’re sorry for coming to you today, but what we need to discuss with you is time-sensitive.”

My hands trembled. Mickey. Their untimely visit had to be about Mickey.

“Is she alive?”

The doctor raised her face to meets her son’s worried expression. “You know about her?”

The knocking in my chest grew painful. “My sister, Mickey. This is about her, right?” I clutched my chest, tears welling. “Is she in trouble?”

The sadness in the woman’s eyes told me all I needed to know. I fell into the chair behind me, curling into myself, the truth turning me inside out. I’d known deep down that she was gone. I’d known, but I’d clung to faith, the pathetic hope that someday I’d get my sister back.

The man coiled his arms around me—strong, warm, comforting. He held me while I cried silent, painful sobs. He held me against a solid chest while I bled, the grief pouring out of me, the pressure releasing, finally releasing.

When I was coherent enough to speak again, I pushed out of his arms. He held tissues at the ready.

“Thank you.” I wiped my eyes, blew my nose. “How did it happen?”

The man, Tucker, cleared his throat, scratched the back of his head. “Drug overdose. But that’s not why we’re here.”

“Why then?”

“Her daughter.”

My heart stopped beating. The world stopped spinning. “What do you mean, her daughter?”

“You don’t know about your niece?”

“I haven’t seen or heard from my sister in over seven years.”

“Moriah.” Dr. Slade sat next to me, pulling my hand into her own and settling it on her lap. “Your niece was found a few days ago. She’s in bad shape.”

“Where’s her father?”

“We don’t know.” Tucker growled.

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