Page 93 of Truck Stop Tempest

MY REFLECTION TAUNTED ME.I pursed my lips, turning my face this way then that, checking my teeth, the blade of my nose, the slant of my forehead. There was no denying I shared DNA with the woman who called herself Ingrid Holt. Same eyes. Same platinum hair. Same pert nose. Pouty lips. Porcelain skin. Petite frame.

I was the woman’s daughter, without a doubt. But who was Ingrid? Who was Eileen Grady?

What about my real father? Did he even know I existed? Would he have liked me? Hugged me? Driven me to school?

Slumping against the wall, I lowered my butt to the linoleum, the truths of my life settling into place with palpable click, click, clicks—Jeremy Carver was not my father. I was not the offspring of a hateful, abusive, child rapist. My whole existence, every vile detail, was a lie.

A soft rap hit the door. “Bunny. You in there?”

Wasn’t fair, really, how the warm, worried tone of Tito’s voice melted the icy wall I’d spent all night constructing. “How did you get in?”

“I still have my key. You didn’t answer when I rang the doorbell.”

I hadn’t heard the doorbell through the buzzing in my head, lost in my bubble of self-reflection.

“Can I come in?”

My insides vibrated, warming in anticipation. “I s’pose.”

The door swung open. Dark, scary, hooded Tito stepped across the threshold, eyes softening when they landed on me. “You haven’t returned my calls.”

“Haven’t felt like talking.” I forced spite into my words, though they sounded anything but mean. I tried to be angry, had every right to be livid, yet an air of liberation surrounded me, leaving me in an obnoxious state of bliss.

“Fair enough.” He joined me on the floor, shoulder to shoulder.

Fighting the urge to snuggle against him, I hugged my legs and rested my pounding head on my knees. “Where’s Miguel?”

“On his way home,” Tito said, voice laden with worry, and maybe regret.

“You didn’t hurt him again, did you?”

“No. Hell, no.” He inspected the bandage on his right hand, stretching then fisting his fingers, swelling evident even under the white gauze.

“You do that often? Beat up strangers for no good reason?”

“He grabbed you.” His offending hand landed on my knee. “I confronted him outside. He swung first. We talked it out after you left. There isn’t much more to explain.”

Men. Neanderthals. All of them.

“Did you check out the files?”

“Yeah.” His breaths quickened, his hand leaving my knee to scratch his jaw.

“And?”

A low groan rose from his throat. “Your brother collected enough evidence to put Jeremy Carver away for life.”

“Evidence?”

“Videos. Some of them dated ten years back.”

The temperature dropped twenty degrees, forcing a shiver. “The boys.”

“Yes. Boys.” Tito choked on his words, blanching.

“Oh, God.” I laced my fingers between his, my gut churning like a simmering pot of mud. “Please, tell me you didn’t watch.”

He didn’t answer, not verbally, but his whole body stiffened, shifting the air around us. “That’s not all.”

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