Ryan
Hallowell, Maine
Present Day
It takes a lot to scare the shit out of me, but the black sedan makes the hairs on my neck stand at attention, and I notice it in my driveway before I notice the light on in the kitchen. Could be Eli, but I don’t see his truck.
The light’s on so clearly, so whoever’s in there isn’t trying to be sneaky. I do, however, turn the Track My iPhone switch on just in case the person inside drags my body somewhere.
I reach under my seat and pull out my handgun. I load it and crack the windows for Hero, who’s passed out in the front seat of my truck.
I move quickly as I get out of the truck, knowing what Eli and I have done lately, working with shady people to get some answers. I send a short text to Eli.
Me: You and the girls all right?
He texts back.
Eli: Eating dinner together. Yeah, what’s up?
I push my phone back into my vest and make my way to the front door. Quietly opening the door to my house, I say, “Hello?”
“In the kitchen,” says a woman’s voice. A voice that reflects a lifetime of cigarette smoke, a life vested in hard knocks. It can be only one person. She knows where I live. Maine is a small place.
Somewhat relieved, I shove the gun back in my holster and come around the corner to see my mother sitting at the dining room table.
Her face is bruised, cut, her hand bandaged.
No matter if she raised me or not, disappeared and left, leaving me with a man who sided with the switch, his fist and feet to carry out discipline, no woman should ever look like this.
“Hi.” Her voice is more hoarse than it was seconds ago.
I walk to the counter. “What are you doing here, Mona?”
Her eyes fill with tears as she bites her bottom lip, staring at her fingernail paint that’s chipped away like splattered paint. Her hair is wiry and two-toned, dark roots and blonde ends.
Four times, I received calls from my mother.
One: on my sixth birthday when she came back and wanted to be a mom again, and then she left a week later.
Two: she tried again when I was ten and left two days later.
Three: at sixteen when she needed money.
Four: and the last time she called me was when I was twenty-eight. She’d landed in jail for the hundredth time.
It wasn’t a secret to me or to Granite Harbor that my mom couldn’t lay off the powder.
“Spare me the shit and the sob story, Mona. Why are you here?” I set my phone down on the counter with my keys.
“It’s bad, Ryan, real bad.” She picks at her nails. “You need to get out of here. He’s after you.”
“Who’s after me?”
“Ronan. He wants you dead.”
“Why?” My heart picks up pace, but as I breathe, my anger grows.
She chokes out a sob. “Look, Ryan, you need to get out of here.”
“No.” Confidence refines my tone. No man will ever intimidate me. I decided that at sixteen years old when Dubbs took his last swing at me. “Why would he care, Mona?”
“I knew you’d be here, slut, once again trying to prove you’re the mom you never were.” An unfamiliar voice sounds from behind me.
Mona starts to cry.
“You stupid bitch,” he says to her as he comes into view.
Ronan Fields is tall with dark brown hair that’s slicked back like a dated car salesman. Dresses like he’s a few minutes late to the party. Dresses like he doesn’t have a few minions working under him. Dresses like people would underestimate him. Chalk him up to a man who takes orders, not gives them. And maybe that’s what he wants. White polo that’s a size too small. Dark jeans.
“Please don’t touch him. Just take me,” Mona says.
I slowly edge my hand back to grab my gun.
Ronan laughs as he walks through the dining room, opposite side of the table from Mona, his gun in his hand like it’s an added appendage. He looks at me. “Take your gun from your holster, unload it, and give it to me.”
My skin begins to crawl.
Don’t let him get to you. He wants to see you get pissed off. That’s what cowardly criminals do.
“What do you want, Ronan?” I ask. “What is it that you want from me so badly?”
Mona sits, chewing her thumbnail, tears still streaming down her face. She doesn’t look at either of us.
“You don’t know?” He smirks. “You didn’t tell him?” Ronan looks at Mona again.
“Let Mona go,” I say—not because she’s my mother, but because I’m a warden. My job is to get everyone out alive, including the bastard with the gun.
He laughs. “So she can run to the police and have them surround the fucking house before I kill you? No fucking way, not a chance.”
“She wouldn’t do that. You’ve kept her doped up for years. Brainwashed her. Come on. She wouldn’t betray you.”
He mulls this over for a minute. “You know, I’ve tried over and over to figure this out. Played scenarios in my head. How the timing would have been just absolutely totally fucked up thirty-three years ago.”
My phone rings, and it interrupts Ronan. It’s Eli. After two more rings, Ronan gets impatient.
“Shut that fucking thing off when I’m talking to you.” Ronan grows furious and then fires a shot into the ceiling.
My heart begins to pound as my eyes slowly meet his.
You will not intimidate me, fucker.
Mona begins to whimper. “Just let him go, Ronan. Please.” Her fingertips are white from her own pressure as she balls her hands into fists.
I silence the phone.
A text message shows up on my screen, but I don’t break eye contact with Ronan. I don’t want him to know I’ve received one. But, when Ronan’s own phone begins to ring and he looks down, I look at my phone. It’s from my lieutenant, not the chief.
Shreeves: Do not go home. Ronan will be there, waiting for you. We are on our way.
Too late.
Ronan shoves his phone in his pocket. Taps the gun to his head, another intimidation ploy. “Where was I at?”
“You started with thirty-three years ago,” I offer him.
“Don’t contradict me.”
I put my hands up in surrender even though I want to fucking kill this guy.
“Mona, why don’t you tell Ryan why we’re here?” He carelessly handles the gun.
Her face is full of pain—not just for this moment, but also for my entire life. Regret, I see it. Demons she couldn’t quiet long enough to raise a son. Demons so loud that they kept her in dark rooms with unsavory people.
Ronan takes the gun and aims it directly at her. “Tell him, Mona. Now!”
She whimpers more, putting her shaking hands up to defend her face, something I’m sure she’s had to do often.
“I-I took you to Dubbs’s house. He-he was the only person I could think of.” She wipes her nose with her sleeve. “I wanted to keep you safe, Ryan. I did.”
“Maybe, if you had kept him with the people who gave him life, we wouldn’t be in this predicament now, stupid bitch. Go on. Tell him.”
“Dubbs isn’t your father, Ryan. Ronan is.”
“And can you believe the dismay I felt when I found out my own flesh and blood was a game warden? A fucking law enforcement officer. Can you believe what will happen when the guys start to find out who my fucking son is? It’s over. It’s over for me. I need to pledge my commitment to my people.”
I fucking explode. “You’re nothing but a fucking coward, Ronan. You’ve been running your entire life. Drugs. The law. It doesn’t fucking matter. Hitting, beating on women to make yourself feel like you’re some sort of god. Let’s get one thing fucking straight. Killing me? That doesn’t make you a man at all. You’re just a coward, running from the truth. Go ahead and fucking shoot me.”
I see the anger start in Ronan’s face because he’s turning a bright shade of red. His eyes are wide, and his lips are curved in a smile. It’s an agreement he’s made with himself that he’ll always be on the other side of the law. He’ll defend himself to his guys and do what he needs to show the right image. He was probably a kid who was never accepted by his peers. Spent his formative and high school years searching for acceptance. The bullied kid.
One thing Ronan and I have in common is, I searched for acceptance, too. But being raised with a man who beat my ass is the sole reason I’m in this position right now. I will always stand up for what is right.
“Shoot me, Ronan,” I whisper. “Kill me.”
A gun fires.
Smoke dances.
I feel my body give way.
I see Ronan.
I see blood.
I see black.