Page 29 of Eight Years Gone

The children followed Jagger’s lead as he showed them different striking motions at a super slow speed. Occasionally, Jagger reached over to correct one of the children’s forms.

Abruptly, Jagger and the kids stood, then dropped down into push-ups. Sweet little faces beamed as Jagger clearly made it into some sort of game as he effortlessly pushed himself up and down five times.

Within seconds, both groups of children stood in rows, taking the same stance Jagger did. He moved them into the next exercise, kicking his leg high, then balancing with one leg in the air.

Grace chuckled when several little ones did their best to follow along but lost their balance and fell. She full-out laughed when Jagger showed them a spin kick in slow motion. This time, all the children ended up on the floor when they tried to copy.

He clapped for all of them as they gained their feet before they imitated his bow—the ending of the class.

“Look how much they love you,” she whispered as she smiled sadly when the kids crowded around him for high fives. This was what he’d always wanted—his own dojang where he could teach and share his passion for the martial arts.

Jagger’s endless talents had always boggled her mind. There wasn’t much he couldn’t do.

Taekwondo and the Olympics hadn’t been out of the question. Neither had football nor the NFL. And Colonel Hinders had always talked up the military due to Jagger’s remarkable marksmanship skills and excellent brain.

But Jagger hadn’t been interested in any of that. He’d always shaken his head at the offers from interested parties, forever reminding everyone that he planned to travel the world with his girl.

She sighed, resting her head against the seat because that had never happened.

Grace barely paid attention as she drove closer to the mansion in the dark. It was well after two a.m. as she blew through one of the stoplights close to Sheraton Height’s grand stone entrance.

She’d been on the road for hours. For almost two days, she’d mostly been awake, fueling herself with coffee and a desperate sense of hope.

But that was gone now.

Blinking dry eyes as she traveled through the neighborhood she’d lived in for years, she forced herself to navigate the sharp curve in the road when it was tempting to accelerate, take her hands off the wheel, and see what fate had in store as she careened off the hill that overlooked downtown.

A keening moan escaped her throat when she held the wheel tighter, knowing that ending her life wasn’t the answer. She’d already come to understand what death felt like—an empty abyss of nothingness where time stood still.

She took a right on the next road, needing to cry—to scream away the overwhelming, desperate grief—but there were no more tears left to fall.

It was still sinking in that she’d lost Logan. Now, Jagger was gone, too.

Finally, she slowed, pulling around the mansion’s circular driveway, wanting nothing more than to ram the front end of her car into her father’s precious Jaguar.

She hated that she was here at the house—that she’d had to return to Wakeview at all. This wasn’t her home without her brother and her boyfriend.

She noted the lights on inside—the homey warmth—as she shivered, finding that she’d been cold ever since the police officers showed up at the door many long hours ago.

The front door opened, and Dad rushed outside as Grace got out of the Audi she no longer wanted.

“My God, Grace,” Dad said, wearing jeans and a wrinkled button-down. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen his handsome face unshaven. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried sick.”

Brushing past him, moving up the walkway into the massive entryway, Grace ignored her stepmother as she hurried upstairs.

Dad grabbed hold of her arm as she reached the bedroom doorway. “Grace—”

She yanked away as she turned, realizing that there were indeed more tears she had yet to cry as they flowed down her cheeks. “Get him back! Make him come back!”

He dropped his hand, shaking his head. “I can’t. The colonel said he signed a contract. He’s gone.”

The rush of pain from hearing the truth of her new reality nearly brought her to her knees. “Go away!”

But Dad stayed put.

Rushing around her room, she shoved her clothes and camera equipment into whatever bags she could find in her closet.

For a moment, she paused when she caught sight of herself in her dresser mirror: wrinkled clothes—the same outfit she’d been wearing since last night; pale, drawn skin; haunted, red-rimmed eyes she barely recognized as her own, and messy, tangled hair mostly falling from her ponytail.

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