Chapter 8

Swinging her briefcase strap over her shoulder, Justice cut across the Mantua Academy’s parking lot, her jaw tensing. Late again.

Sandesh was probably already at the airport. Thankfully, it wasn’t far from the school.

She grabbed the door handle of her black Rubicon, a.k.a. Gypsy. Her cell vibrated. She pulled the phone out and looked at the text. Gracie had finally gotten around to answering her text asking about Cee.

Gracie: The kid is scary.

What did she mean scary? For someone who ran the underground railroad, the family’s computer operations used to find and safely place abused women, Gracie could be so judgmental.

Justice: She’s had a rough road. Just process her.

Gracie: She’ll never pass a psych eval.

Justice: That makes two of us. Do your job. I’m off to a convention in Houston.

A.k.a. secretly going to kill the Brothers Grim. She shoved her phone in her pocket, grabbed the car handle. Her phone rang.

She lifted her eyes to the blue sky. Really, God? I’m one of the good guys. She answered. “Yep.”

“Ms. Parish. This is Guadalupe from external security. We need you at southie.”

“No can do. I’m late.”

He paused. “But your father’s here.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. “Don’t call him that.”

She hung up.

* * *

Justice exited the school’s main gate and drove to southie—a side lot at the head of the long, winding road that led to the school.

People who didn’t have clearance to get on campus waited here for approval or for someone inside the school to come out to them. Usually teen boys waiting on teen girls.

Justice parked in the open lot, got out of her car, nodded at Guadalupe, and walked past the flagpole, whose metal clip clang, clanged against it.

“Cooper.” Justice pushed up her sunglasses and examined the man wearing worn gray pants splattered with paint. He had shifty eyes, a shifty body, and a shifty smile.

His dull eyes blinked. His sleepy mouth rolled into a smile. “Hey, kiddo.”

Cooper Ramsey. A drug addict, narcissist with a poor work history. Hard to believe he was related to her. He was. Proved by paternity test two years ago.

Time to press his buttons and scare him away. Again. “Are you ever going to tell me who gave you the money to come here?”

He distributed his weight from side to side, rocking like a child. He shook his head. The line of his mouth tightened. Genuine fear blanketed his eyes.

Yep. It was always the same.

Two years ago, Cooper had been living in California. Out of the blue, he’d boarded a plane for Pennsylvania. He’d landed, gotten in a cab, and come straight here.

The day before he’d boarded that plane, he’d had fourteen dollars in his bank account. She’d checked. He had no credit cards. No credit.

Someone had bought him that ticket.

Momma swore that it hadn’t been her. And though Justice had investigated, she’d turned up nothing.

She waved him off like shooing a fly. “Go home, Coop. I have no idea why you keep coming here.”

He flinched as if her tone was as solid as a missile. His brown eyes carried their usual misty gleam. It reminded her of that old commercial with the American Indian sitting horseback over pollution.

Blinking his eyes, he pulled the Indian head nickel medallion from around his neck. He held it out to her.

She stared at it. No way was she touching that thing.

A runnel of confusion gathered the earthy skin of his broad brow. “Your birthday’s coming up.”

The hair on her neck stood on end. High alert sounded. Adrenaline flooded into her system. “My birthday isn’t for weeks.”

He frowned. “I wanted you to have it.” His voice was low. His slacker shoulders slumped. He opened the medallion. A locket?

He urged her to take it. Swallowing her irritation, she leaned forward. Inside were two small and faded photos.

One of her mother at twenty-five or so, right before she’d died. God, she’d been beautiful. A blue-eyed, blond-haired woman who looked nothing like Justice but everything like…Hope. The other photo was of Hope and her, arms over each other’s shoulders.

Justice reached out and took the locket.

She brought it closer, hunched over it. She fought the lump in her throat and the tears behind her eyes.

“Happy birthday, Justice. Love you.”

The muscles in Justice’s shoulder blades snapped to attention, unbending her posture. An image of her child self as she clung to Cooper’s long legs, begged him, “Please take us. Please. Daddy! Don’t leave us here. Please!” slammed through her.

He’d shaken her off the way you’d shake off dust.

Her heart stiffened to stone in her chest.

“Stop coming here.” Awash in memories, she turned and walked away.

If Mukta hadn’t saved her… A flash of that dark basement, being tied to the chair, the tape across her mouth, and the roiling hunger.

She held the locket to her chest, as if to defend her brittle heart from even the thought. Not everyone was lucky. Not everyone had such a savior.

No. Some got left behind. And that’s why she was about to board that plane to Jordan. She had to remember that. Remember that the men who’d killed Hope still needed to pay.