Page 16 of Redemption

I frown. “You aren’t going to tell me?”

“Do most people actually know the answer to why they are the way they are?”

“Some people do. I know a lot of it because I’ve done years of therapy where I talked it all out. Were you like this as a kid?”

He glances away from me for the first time. Something nameless twists on his face.

“What is it?” I lean forward, suddenly worried and deeply sympathetic. “Did you have a bad childhood?”

He gives another one of those shrugs. “It was okay. It was just me and Mom. She did her best to take care of me, but she never had much. I started working early so I could help out.”

“How early?” I ask in a hushed voice.

He glances away again.

I know—I know—he’s hesitating because I’m not going to like the answer. “Caleb, tell me. How early?”

“I started doing odd jobs when I was ten, and then at thirteen I got a better job at a local farm. Between that and what my mom earned, it was the first time we had anywhere close to enough.” He’s talking lightly, like it’s nothing.

It doesn’t feel like nothing to me. “You started working at ten?”

“Just odd jobs. Lawn mowing and washing cars and stuff like that. A lot of kids do that kind of thing.”

“Maybe. But they don’t get real jobs at farms when they’re thirteen. You did get to go to school, didn’t you?”

“Yeah. I finished high school.”

“Did you join the military after high school?” I don’t actually know this part of his background, but it makes sense in his situation.

“Yeah. I enlisted in the Army. I got out after ten years, and a buddy of mine hooked me up with a security job. That was how I started doing this.”

“How’s your mom doing now?”

His face softens palpably. “She’s in Florida now. She’s good. I bought her a condo. She’s so proud of it.”

Warm pleasure washes over me. “I bet she is. But it’s really you that she’s proud of.”

He looks almost sheepish for a moment before his normal composure regains control of his face. “Probably. But I haven’t done anything sacrificial. Your family has always paid me really well.”

“Well, that’s because you’ve earned it. Everyone always tells me you’re the best we have, and I have no reason not to believe it’s true.”

He clears his throat, obviously not sure what to say. “Well.”

I stifle a laugh and focus on my food again. He’s already almost done with his sandwich while I’ve barely started.

We’ve been eating in comfortable silence for a few minutes when he asks out of the blue, “Are you still in therapy?”

I’m surprised by the question, but not annoyed or offended. “Yeah. But I just go once a month now. I actually have an appointment next week.”

He nods to acknowledge my answer.

“Why?” I ask when he doesn’t follow up in any way.

“Just wondering. Did you go to meetings?”

“I did. A lot of them at first, after I got out of rehab, since they gave me accountability I needed. I didn’t have any real friends back then, and I needed something. I don’t go to them much anymore. If I’m struggling for some reason, I’ll just book extra appointments with my therapist.”

“That makes sense.” He takes a bite of pasta salad and finishes chewing. “You’ve done really well. You should be proud of yourself.”

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