46. Ransom
46
RANSOM
I can't lift my eyes from the ground. I don’t want to see the judgment on their faces. The weight of my confession sits heavy in the air, crushing me with each passing second. The track's rubber surface swims before my vision, memories of that night flooding back—the smoke, the sirens, those black bags.
"Jesus. Fuck." Colton's voice comes out low, almost a whisper.
Someone clears their throat, and I force myself to look up. John's intense blue eyes lock onto mine, his face set in that prison-yard stillness that makes most people nervous. But I know him now. Know there's so much going on behind that stare.
"You're a fucking idiot," John says, crossing his massive arms over his chest.
It's not what I expected. Not even close. My mouth opens, but no words come out.
Nick leans forward, his hands clasped between his knees. "What did the report say? Because I know you read it."
The official fire report. I've memorized every word, every detail. "The stove wasn't turned off completely." My voice cracks. "And the towel... it didn't land on the counter like I thought. It was on the burner."
Becca's face goes stark white. "What about the smoke alarms?"
I’m going to puke. Right here, in front of everyone. "No batteries. Dad took them out weeks before at supper—they kept going off when Mom cooked. She burned things, a lot. He was gonna replace them, but..." I swallow hard. "He was working double shifts that week. He forgot."
Jonas rocks back and forth in that way he does when he's processing something difficult. Micah's jaw clenches and unclenches, while Holly tucks herself further under Micah's arm.
"I killed them," I whisper. "If I hadn't snuck out?—"
"Stop." John's voice cuts through the air like a knife. His scar stands out stark against his pale skin. "You were eleven fucking years old."
But I'm back there again, smelling the smoke, seeing those body bags. The weight of twenty-eight years of guilt presses down on my chest until I can barely breathe.
"I was old enough to be more careful," I say, my voice raw. "Old enough to know better than to leave a towel near the stove. But I made a stupid fucking mistake, and I lost everyone that mattered to me."
Every muscle in my body feels like it’s turned to stone, like I’ll just shatter if I try to move. "I've tried to make up for it since then. Building this family. Helping people. I don't think of myself as a murderer anymore, but the truth is the truth. I'm responsible."
Nick shakes his head, leaning forward. "If those smoke alarms had batteries, they would have woken up. Would have gotten out. Your dad took them down—how's that all on you?"
"I get what you're saying." Blair’s said something similar to me. She said it enough that I started to believe it. But it still doesn’t excuse what I did. "But I'm the one who turned on that stove that night. I'm the one who left that towel. I've accepted that I made a horrible, horrible mistake." I meet each of their eyes in turn. "One I have to live with. And for the most part, I have."
The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken words and shared pain. These people—my chosen family—they see me. Really see me. And I’m so grateful they’re still here.
Janey leans against Jonas, her eyes soft with concern. "What happened next?"
My throat tightens. The memories of that year rush back—different houses, different faces, all blending together in a haze of anger and pain.
"I got bounced around the system for a while. Six homes in twelve months." I rub my jaw, the memory of those places sharp and hazy at the same time. "I was... difficult. Angry. Started fights. Broke things. Nobody wanted to deal with the kid who killed his family."
John's jaw clenches, but he stays quiet. Nick shifts on the floor, and I can feel their collective tension.
"Most of the homes, I don't even remember anymore. Just a blur of faces and places I didn't belong." I draw in a deep breath. "Then one day, about a year after the fire, my caseworker called me into his office."
Holly's hand finds Micah's, squeezing tight. The weight of their attention presses against me, waiting for what comes next. They’ve already heard the worst, and they’re still here. They’re not going to run if they hear the rest of it.
"I figured it was just another home, another family that would give up on me in a few weeks." I close my eyes, remembering that small office, the stack of files on the desk. "I had no idea that meeting would change everything."
I slump in the hard plastic chair, my eyes fixed on a crack in the linoleum floor. Jerry's office feels smaller than ever, the walls closing in on me. I've been here so many times I could draw every detail with my eyes closed—the faded motivational posters, the dusty fake plant in the corner, the stack of folders threatening to topple off his desk. There's always a stack. The colors are different, the number of files change, but it's always there.
My file is one of the biggest, but it's not on that pile. It's on his desk right in the middle.
Jerry looks like shit. Dark circles under his eyes, his shirt wrinkled like he slept in it. Part of me wants to ask if he's okay, but I squash that feeling quick. It's none of my fucking business. I don't care.
He drops his elbows on the desk, rubbing his temples. "What do you want, Ranny? I'm running out of options here. Every time I think you're going to settle in, you pull another fucking stunt and end up right back here."
I shrug, picking at a loose thread on my jeans. What do I want? To disappear. To stop existing. But I don't have the guts to make that happen. Not yet, anyway.
Jerry sighs, flipping open my file. "Let's go through this again, shall we?" He starts rattling off names—all the foster families I've been through. With each one, memories flash through my mind.
The Johnsons. I smashed their TV when Mr. Johnson tried to hug me.
The Garcias. I stole Mrs. Garcia's pills and flushed them down the toilet.
The Patels. I punched their son when he asked about my family.
Each time, the same thing. Someone tries to get close, and I lash out. Push them away before they can see how fucked up I really am. Before they can see the blood on my hands.
Before I can start to care. The counselors have me all figured out, I guess. They say I need to let people in.
Fuck that. Never again. I will never let myself love anyone again. No one's going to replace my family.
Never.
"You're making this real hard, kid," Jerry says, closing the file. "I'm out of foster homes willing to take you. You know what happens next? Group home. And trust me, you don't want that. Some of those places are only a step up from jail."
"Don't care," I mutter, still not meeting his eyes. There's a little thread of anxiety that tries to unravel in my chest, but it withers away fast. It's hard to get too worked up about anything when I've already lost everything that ever mattered.
"Well, I do," Jerry snaps, surprising me. I glance up, seeing the frustration etched on his face. Normally he’s pretty chill, so the fact that he’s not right now is a tiny bit interesting. "I'm not giving up on you, Ransom. Not yet."
He leans back in his chair, running a hand through his thinning hair. "I've got a friend. I used to work with him on the force. I called him up, and... he might be willing to take you in." I glance over at the pictures at the side of his desk. He's in uniform, looking young and buff. Who the hell stops being a cop to become a social worker? It seems like a downgrade to me. A lot less power, and a fuck of a lot more shit to deal with.
Shit like me. "You're sending me to stay with a cop?"
"He's not a cop anymore," Jerry says. "Left for a smaller town years ago. Runs a garage now. Moved there with his daughter—she's... different. Wasn't doing well in the city."
I don't respond, just go back to staring at the floor. What's the point? It'll end the same way it always does. I'll make sure of it. The group home doesn't scare me. Nothing scares me anymore.
And who knows, maybe the group home will save me the trouble of trying to off myself again. I keep fucking failing. I’m not good at anything, not even killing myself.
Jerry leans forward, his voice softer now. "Look, Ranny. I know you're hurting. I can't even imagine what you're going through. But you can't keep pushing everyone away. Sooner or later, you've got to let someone in."
I clench my fists, feeling that familiar anger bubbling up. He doesn't know shit. He doesn't have to live with this guilt, this shame. He doesn't wake up every night smelling smoke, hearing his sisters' screams, wishing he'd died with them.
"When do I leave?" I ask, my voice flat. Fighting him would take more energy than I have. It doesn't matter anyway. I'll be back here soon enough. The new guy will quit on me too. I'll make sure of it.
Jerry sighs, the sound heavy with exhaustion. "Tomorrow morning. I'll drive you myself. For tonight, just keep your head down, please. The Wilsons are at their breaking point."
The breaking point. I wonder how hard it would be to push them into doing something bad. Something that I can't recover from.
I spend too long thinking about that possibility. That would get me out of the hell my life is now. Then we’re done, and I stand. As I reach for the door, Jerry speaks again.
"Ranny... give this one a chance, okay? For me?"
I don't answer. I can't make that promise. I just walk out, leaving Jerry slumped at his desk, looking more tired than I've ever seen him. And I ignore the lines of stress on Mrs. Wilson's face as she escorts me out. Lines of stress I put there.
I press my forehead against the cool glass of the car window, watching the city fade away. Concrete and steel give way to endless fields of green, dotted with grazing cows and rusty tractors. My stomach churns, and it ain't just from Jerry's crappy driving.
This wide-open space is freaking me out. Where are the alleys to duck into? The crowds to disappear in? Out here, I feel exposed, like a bug under a microscope. No way am I staying out here.
Jerry's humming some old country tune, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. I want to tell him to shut up, but I'm too busy trying not to puke.
We pass a sign that makes my heart sink even further. "Badger Falls," it proclaims in faded paint. "Population 2462."
"What kind of bumfuck town is this?" I mutter, not really meaning to say it out loud.
Jerry chuckles. "It's not so bad. Might do you some good to slow down a bit."
I turn to glare at him. "Why am I here? This is really fucking far from the city."
He sighs, his eyes still on the road. "Robert's an old friend from back in the day. We worked together on the force."
"I ain't stupid. You already said that." I snort. "Why the hell are we coming out here? This can't be legal. Are you allowed to dump kids out in the country?"
"I'm not dumping you. And my supervisors agreed to let me try," Jerry corrects. "And Robert's... different. The most easy-going guy I've ever met. Always chill, you know? Could talk to anyone and make 'em feel at ease."
I roll my eyes. "So what?"
Jerry's quiet for a moment, then says softly, "He's the kind of man you need right now, Ranny. Someone who can handle your shit without breaking a sweat."
I turn back to the window, watching the endless fields roll by. My chest feels tight, like I can't get enough air. This place, this Robert guy - it all feels wrong. But what choice do I have?
"And that's where you met Blair and her dad?" Evie asks, leaning forward on the bench.
"Yeah, it was." So much of my childhood is a blur, but that moment, right after Jerry drove off, is still crystal clear in my head. "My social worker dropped me off. He barely stayed long enough to introduce us, then he was gone.
This is a really bad idea. This guy's not like the other foster dads I've lived with. He's bigger. A hell of a lot bigger. And he's got this scary calm way of looking at me, like he sees everything going on inside my head.
I don't like it.
Jerry's car is getting smaller and smaller as it drives away, and I'm desperate to run after it. To climb back in and force him to take me back to the city. To everything familiar. Everything predictable.
The blood starts pumping in my legs, preparing to run, when a heavy hand lands on my shoulder. "Let's go, son. There's no point in running. He'll just bring you right back here."
I round on him, shrugging his hand off my shoulder. "I'm not your son. Don't fucking touch me, you fucking pervert."
His eyes don't light with anger. His hands don't clench into fists. He doesn't do anything but look at me calmly, slow blinking like he's listening to the weather report.
It's creepy as fuck.
"I've got a few more hours of work to do. We'll get you registered at school tomorrow. But for now, you can give me a hand."
"Work? That's why I'm here? So you can have some sort of slave labor in your shitty shop?"
He turns, looking back at his garage. To be fair, it ain't that shitty. Yeah, the sign's worn, and some of the paint's peeling, but he's got three bays, and the floors look pretty damn clean. Nothing like the greasy place in my neighborhood.
My old neighborhood.
"Son, my guess is you don't have a fucking clue about much of anything. If I were looking for free labor, you wouldn't have been my first choice." He strides into the garage, leaving me standing in the driveway, feeling lost.
There's nowhere to go. I scan the street, and there's really not much of anything going on. In front of a few stores, there are little benches, and more than one of them has old people sitting on them. They don't look like they're in much of a hurry to go anywhere. I guess when you're old, you don't have much to do.
Except watch me. They might not be staring, but they sure as hell are paying attention to me. I'm the new freak on the block, I guess.
My options at the moment seem to be go inside and fucking 'work' or stay out here and let the granny hotline gossip about me.
I head inside.
The dude's not even waiting for me. He's already under a car that's hoisted up in the air, fiddling with something.
And he's whistling like everything is fine, and he didn't just get a twelve-year-old kid dropped on his doorstep. If he can act like this is no big deal, so can I. Dropping down onto a low stool, I prop my elbow on my knee and drop my chin into my hand. How am I going to get myself out of here?
I don't know how much time passes as I sit there thinking up ways to blow up my life, but eventually, Mckenna's voice rings out. "Can you hand me that wrench next to you, son?"
I pick up the wrench, my hand tightening on the handle. "I'm not your fucking son. I never will be. And if you call me that one more time, I'm going to beat you to death with this fucking wrench."
He steps out from under the car and comes forward until the toes of his big boots touch the tips of my scuffed white sneakers. My heart is racing in my chest, but I don't let on how fucking scared I am. Maybe this is it. This is the moment when it all ends. Maybe this is the guy to set me free.
I want to be free. I want to see my family again. I want to hug my sisters.
Forcing myself to meet his eyes, I stand, our chests almost touching. His face is unreadable. There's nothing there. It's just blank, which is so much worse than obvious anger. He makes a low rumbling noise in the back of his throat, and I clench all the muscles in my thighs. I don't know why I'm bracing. If he's planning to smack the fuck out of me, there's not much I'll be able to do about it, even with a weapon.
But he doesn't hit me. Instead, he opens his mouth and breaks me. "You must have had a really good dad."
The wrench falls from my hand as memories of my dad play through my mind. Playing catch in the backyard. The way he made a game of sneaking food off my plate, laughing when I'd slap at his hands. The way he'd hug me so tight I almost couldn't breathe.
I'm too broken to fight when he wraps one hand around my neck and pulls me into his chest. He doesn't wrap his arms around me. If he had, I would have lost it. He just keeps a tight grip on my neck and presses my forehead against his chest while I shake.
I won't fucking cry. I don't deserve to. I'm the reason all of this is happening.
But I can't make the shaking and stupid crazy breathing stop. The only thing I can do is stand there and ride it out. This isn't me. I don't fall apart, and I sure as hell don't do it in front of strangers. This shit is usually something I only let myself do in bed at night when no one else can see.
But I don't fucking cry.
"Who is he? Why is he crying? Is he getting snot on your coveralls?"
The voice startles me enough that I pull back, nearly falling over the stool I was sitting on. Stumbling over it, I put my back to the counter and stare at the girl. She's dressed in loose faded jeans and a plain black t-shirt. Her long dark hair is in a braid, and she's wearing a heavy man's watch on her wrist. She's got a black backpack over one shoulder. She's older. Maybe a few years older than me. High school age.
"I'm not fucking crying," I snarl, clenching my hands into fists to stop myself from rubbing at my cheeks. They're not wet; I know they're not, but the way she said it makes me want to check.
She doesn't seem bothered by the way I talk to her. She just tilts her head, staring at me. Then, without looking away, she speaks again. "Dad. Why is that boy crying?"
"I'm not fucking crying!" I've never hit a girl, but something about her makes me wish I could. My dad would be so fucking disappointed in me if I did. That's the only reason I stop myself.
"This is Ransom. He's going to be staying with us for a while. Ransom, this is my daughter, Blair."
Blair. I knew a guy named Blair back in my old neighborhood. Hoping to hurt her, I say, "Blair's a boy's name," and put all the disgust I carry for myself into the words. Maybe making her cry will fix some of what I'm feeling.
"Yep," she says, voice level, almost bored. She turns to her dad. "I'm going to change; then I'll come down and help you with that Chevy." As she walks past her dad, she stops, leaning into him for a second as he runs his hand over her braid, giving it a little tug. They smile at each other, and I hate them both. Because in both their smiles is something I destroyed a year ago.
Family.
"You do that with them."
Blinking, I try to clear away the memories of that day and focus on the room. It's the first good memory I have of that time in my life, so I tuck it back in the little pocket at the front of my mind. My eyes meet Janey's.
"I do what?" I ask her softly. She's looking comfortable and clear-eyed for the first time today. Her all-day sickness seems to be easing up. She’s four months along, so hopefully it’s nearly over. It’s only supposed to last the first trimester, right?
Her smile is soft, which in and of itself is a little surprising. Janey is sweet and so very intuitive when it comes to people, but she's also traveled a hard road, and I expected her to look at me with a little more harshness. A little more judgment maybe. But I don't see anything.
"I noticed it with Jonas first, but you do it to all of them. You cup your hand around their necks and pull them into you. You don't do it with any of us," she says, waving at the women. "Just them. And now the ‘why’ makes a little more sense. Did you start doing it consciously?"
I have to think about it for a minute before I can give her an answer. "I remember how it felt when Robert did it that first time. It felt…"
"Supportive," Kade supplies.
Maverick nods. "Like you're seen."
"Loved," Micah says.
"Like you're home."
That last one, in Jonas's clear, firm tone, is the one that breaks me. My chest tightens, and I need to press the palms of my hands to my eyes. "Yeah," I say, breath shuddering. "Just like that."