My feet tingle as Jackson and I take the stairs up to the third floor of the apartment complex, and twice I stop, Jackson waiting patiently for me to find the guts to continue. I didn't think it would be this hard.

Never in my entire decade since seeing them supposedly blown up have I felt as much fear as I feel right now. I've spent nearly ten years training, focused with burning intensity on one goal, and until Jackson came back into my life, I thought that focus, that intensity, would never waver. Now I'm seeing that my blind devotion has left me weak, at least in some areas, and I'm glad that Jackson is here with me.

We reach the third floor and we walk to our left, following the unit numbers as they drop from 310 toward 302. We get to the door, and Jackson takes my hand again. “Remember... live in the moment, focus on the goal. All that stuff you've been reading and training for, it applies here, too. Okay, Kat?”

At my assumed name, Jackson's words jolt me into place, and I nod, determined. I turn back to the door and knock three times, pleased that I don't sound weak at all. I'm ready to take this on, and as I hear footsteps approach the door, I'm strong, ready, and actually a little bit pissed off. These people left me behind.

The door opens, and I see, for the first time in ten years, my mother. She may be nearly forty-five now, and the years have added some stoop to her shoulders and some gray to her hair, the exact color as mine, but it's Theresa Grammercy. “Hello?”

“Mom... it's me,” I say, probably the stupidest reply in the history of the world, but I haven't exactly had a chance to practice this before, you know?

“Theresa Grammercy?” Jackson interjects, and Mom's eyes flitter to him, and before she can even start to protest, I see the truth. She knows who we are. “My name is Jackson DeLaCoeur.”

Mom's eyes come back to me, and there's guilt there, at least a little bit, but she doesn't move. “You shouldn't be here.”

“And you shouldn't have left me in New Orleans to live in foster care for six years,” I shoot back, keeping my voice low. “Now do you let me in, or do I have Jackson call the cops now? I know for sure that Michael and Theresa Ball are not legal identities.”

Jackson plays along, taking out his phone, even though there's no way in hell I'd call the cops. That would bring attention to me, and I don't have a legal identity right now.

Mom doesn't know that though, and backs up, letting us in. “The Lord teaches us to submit to the will of those in authority above us,” she mutters, and I see just how sad Mom looks. She'd always been pretty conservative, foregoing makeup most of the time, but she looks positively mousy now, her hair grown out, but hanging in two thick and limp braids that stretch halfway down her back. She's in a dress that I think might have started its life as a very ugly couch. Pale blue and pink rose patterns dominate the shapeless bag of a dress, and she's wearing house slippers. “You're breaking the Lord's will.”

“And I'm pretty sure if I dig in the Bible long enough, I'll find something that says that faking your own death and abandoning your daughter is also against the Lord's will, too,” Jackson replies, thankfully. Listening to her speak, I'm too angry and sad at the same time to form words. I want to scream and cry, but I'm paralyzed, not saying much at all. “Where's Samuel?”

“He don't live by that name no more,” Theresa says, but points anyway. “His name's Michael now. Like the archangel.”

“Theresa?” a harsh voice booms from the living room. “What the fuck are you babbling in there? We got visitors?”

The way Theresa flinches motivates me to speak, and I step forward, going toward the living room of the apartment. “Yeah, some ghosts from the past,” I say, walking into the living room. Samuel is sitting in a cheap recliner, his eyes going wide as I walk in. “Hello... Daddy.”

“Katrina...” Samuel whispers, then plasters a big, fake smile on his face. “Oh honey, it's so good to see you!”

Theresa and Jackson are right behind me, and I restrain myself carefully as Samuel gets to his feet and holds his arms out, coming over to give me a hug. I hold my hand up, and he stops a few feet away, realization dawning on his face that I'm not here for a happy family reunion. “I guess I should have expected that,” he says, dropping his hands and sighing. “Well, will you have a seat at least? We've got a lot to talk about.”

I look at Jackson, who arranges his body in the short connecting hallway, blocking most of it with his bulk while Theresa sits down in a wooden rocking chair, her hands folded in her lap and her legs jammed together. Her head is hanging slightly, but whether it's in shame or if she's praying, I can't tell. Jackson gives me a nod, and I grab an ottoman from the couch area and squat down on it. I don't want to be backed up against anything. “All right... talk. Start with why the fuck you faked your deaths and left me in New Orleans to go through six years of hell in foster care.”

“You will not use foul language in this house, young lady,” Theresa interjects, a hint of hysteria in her voice. “The Lord despises a foul mouth.”

“And a liar?” I ask. “Besides, after what I've been through, if there is a God up there, I owe him an ass kicking.”

“Katrina, your mother has... she's become very involved in the church,” Samuel says, trying to explain. “We've been through a lot of stress the past ten years, honey. Theresa has found that it comforts her. After the mob came after me, I knew I couldn't stay in New Orleans, and the only way to do it was to leave you behind. I thought that they'd ignore you if they thought I was dead.”

“Oh, bullshit. You left me behind. Why?” I look at Theresa, ignoring Samuel for a while. “Huh, Mom? Him, I can understand, what with what I've learned... but you? Why did you go along with it?”

“Wives, submit to your husbands as you do to the Lord,” Theresa shoots back. “My husband's will as head of this household is the final say. He said that this was the plan, and I obeyed him.”

“The very next paragraph though says that husbands should love their wives as Christ loved the church, and that they should ensure that their wives are pure and blameless, to love them as their own bodies. I don't think faking your death and abandoning your daughter follows that particular teaching,” Jackson says quietly. When I look at him in surprise, he shrugs. “I've been to my fair share of church in my time, too.”

“Regardless, you're still lying to me,” I add, looking back at Samuel. “Why?”

“You need to go, Katrina. It's not safe,” Theresa says, her control wavering. “You can't be here. You need to go.”

“I'm not going anywhere. Not until I have answers,” I say, my own calm evaporating. “For Christ's sake, you two left me! Why?”

Theresa starts crying, sobs shaking her shoulders, but I feel no guilt, no pity for her as she trembles and shakes. She's muttering to herself, and as I catch words of it, she's praying or quoting the Bible or something like that, which just infuriates me more. I jump to my feet, having had enough. “Shut up!”

“That's enough!” Samuel half-screams, getting to his feet as Theresa sobs harder. “We did it to protect you, Katrina! The mob was after me, and I couldn't think of any other way to protect myself and my family!”

Protect his family. His words are yelled with such vehemence, with so much passion that for a moment, I want to believe him. But then I remember what Jackson told me Nathan Black said, and what I went through going through foster care. Virginia may have trained me, but it was tough love from the beginning, and there was nobody there to protect me for the six years I lived under her roof. The pain of the past ten years protects me from being swayed by his lies, and I square up, looking at Samuel, who I realize I am now actually taller than in my boots.

“You lie, Samuel. You were a corrupt cop, and if you were running from the mob, why'd you go to Peter DeLaCoeur for help? Why'd you get Nathan Black to rig the whole thing? Peter's as much in the mob as anyone else.”

Samuel stops, then starts to go red, his anger at being called a liar turning him the color of old brick. “Fine. If that's the way you want it, you miserable little whelp, then I guess I'm going to have to throw your ungrateful ass out of my house.”

Jackson goes to move, but I hold up my hand. No, this is my battle. I tilt my chin, cracking my neck, and nod. “Then come on. Maybe while I'm kicking your ass you can finally tell me the truth.”