Page 91 of Truck Stop Tempest

My heart jumped to my throat, and I looked outside. Miguel lay on the ground, his face bloody. Tito crouched over him, fist raised to strike. Tango dove, hooking an arm around Tito’s chest, tackling him backward to the ground.

The kid at table three yelled, “Cool,” his face pressed to the glass while his mother watched in horror.

Tito wrestled Tango, eyes dark like death, a beast, but not my beast.

I wanted to vomit.

Refusing to watch, I made my way toward the kitchen, then down the back hall where it was quiet and there was zero testosterone. I slid down, down, down, landing hard on my ass, then turned the envelope over and over, contemplating its contents.

“What did he want?” A large, bloodied hand ripped the envelope from my grasp. “What is this?”

I followed the fingers, the hand, and then the arm that led to a thick neck, and a red, angry face.

“Tito, don’t.”

Ignoring me, he ripped the top of the envelope. Vile anger heated my insides, forcing me to my feet. “What are you doing?” I yelled, snatching the paper and clutching it to my chest. “That’s mine.”

Heavy breaths hit my face. His chest rose and fell in large sweeps. Fingers curled around my arm, and despite my protests, he pulled me down the hall.

“Ouch. Stop.”

His fingers loosened, but his gait didn’t falter until he pulled me into Slade’s office and kicked the door shut behind us.

Miguel sat on the couch. Andrew towered over him, gun at the ready. Tango stood in the corner, phone to his ear.

“You know this guy?” Tito asked, pointing toward the man on the couch, all heavy breaths and haunted eyes.

“He said he knew my brother. Jonas wanted me to have this.” I shoved the envelope against his chest, harder than necessary.

His hand slapped over mine. “You don’t know him?”

“No.”

He slipped the package from under my hand and dropped the contents onto Slade’s desk. A pile of paper. Two crisp, clean stacks of hundred-dollar bills. A small, clear plastic box containing memory cards and flash drives.

I scooted closer, pushed Tito out of my way, and rifled through the papers, landing on a newspaper clipping. The headline read: Eileen Grady’s Disappearance Remains a Mystery. Family Distraught. Pregnant Teen Believed Dead.

The article was torn from a Chicago newspaper dated twenty-one years earlier. The face in the photo could’ve been mine. The girl was clearly pregnant. But the scowl she wore? I knew that grimace well. My mother.

“Tito?” I handed him the clipping, my icy fingers trembling. “What is this?”

I picked up the next paper in the stack. A birth certificate. Mine. The one beneath it belonged to Jonas. Another. Eileen Grady. And another. Ingrid Holt.

Tito scooted around the desk and sunk into Slade’s chair. His fingers floated across the keyboard, brows drawn tight, jaw set tighter.

I picked up another clipping. “Suspect in Eileen Grady Kidnapping Found Dead.”

Tito cleared his throat. “Shit.”

“Tito?” My hands trembled. Mind reeled.

“He’s not your father. That’s why there are no records. That’s why your mother doesn’t share his name. It’s all a fuckin’ ruse.” His eyes found mine, then bounced back to the screen. “Jeremy Carver was incarcerated in Missouri when Eileen Grady, who is clearly your mother, disappeared from her after-school job in Chicago. She was four months pregnant.”

“No. That’s ridiculous.” The room blurred, my bones turning liquid.

In a blink, Tango was at my side, holding me steady.

“Carver likes boys, Tuuli. Think about it. You ever see your parents together? They ever share a bedroom? Kiss? Touch? Hell, have you ever seen them fuckin’ smile at each other?”

---