Chapter 6 Maya
MAYA
But getting up was easy when you had a purpose.
I pocketed the loose diamonds and slid back into the car, heading toward Boise, Idaho. A bigger city. Interstate. More pawn shops. Fewer questions. If an alert were issued, law enforcement would likely check Bozeman first, possibly even Missoula or Billings.
Not across the border.
By the time I pulled in, the city was already in full swing. Traffic lights cycled. Sidewalks buzzed with people. Delivery trucks double-parked as workers hauled crates inside. Cafés were busy with the late-morning crowd.
No one was looking for me, I was sure of it. But that didn’t mean I’d let my guard down. There were no law enforcement officers in sight, but detectives didn’t always wear badges.
I pulled the hood of my sweatshirt lower, crossed the street, and stepped inside the pawn shop.
The air smelled like metal, old paper, and dust. Shelves were stacked with secondhand electronics, power tools, and glass cases full of watches and rings.
A middle-aged man leaned on the counter, flipping through a magazine. He glanced up. “Can I help you with something?”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the first set of diamonds, setting them down with deliberate care. “What can you give me for these?”
His brows lifted, but he didn’t hesitate. He picked one up, rolling it between his fingers, then held it to the light.
“Clean,” he murmured. “No certs?”
I shrugged, keeping my voice even. “From a broken engagement. Guy was a liar. Figured I’d rather have cash than memories.”
He smirked. “Loose diamonds, though? Most women sell the whole ring.”
I hitched a shoulder. “He had, well, unconventional ideas. He wanted us to design an entire collection from scratch—earrings, a pendant, a ring—the whole coordinated set.”
“And he just let you keep them?”
I met his gaze head-on. “He knew better than to fight me for them.”
That did the trick. His smirk widened.
“Fair enough.” He set the diamond down, tapping the counter. “Let’s see some ID.”
I kept my expression neutral as I reached for my wallet. I was calm and collected as I slid my Montana driver’s license across the glass. He took it, skimming the plastic with his eyes.
He took too long a glance.
A pause.
My stomach clenched, but I didn’t shift.
He flipped the ID over, studying the back. Then the front again. I could hear my own heartbeat.
He knows.
No. That was paranoia talking.
Casually, I let my gaze wander to a row of pawned guitars lined up along the wall, keeping my breathing normal.
Finally, he gave a small shrug, sliding the ID back to me. “Let’s talk numbers.”
First, he lowballed me.
I corrected him.
We went back and forth until the number landed just high enough to make it worth my time. I signed whatever he shoved across the counter. It didn’t matter. By the time anyone double-checked the paperwork or noticed the holes, I’d be long gone, cash in hand.
I tucked it deep into my pocket and stepped onto the street, exhaling.
Boise was done. Now I just had to do it a few more times. Cheyenne next. Different cities, different shops. Smaller loads. Easier questions. And once I had enough, I’d make sure the money ended up exactly where it was supposed to.
After two long days, two cities, and more nerves than I cared to count, I was finally back in Montana. My head spun from too much bad coffee and back-to-back pawn shop negotiations, but I’d survived.
My eyes flicked between street signs and the scribbled address on the notepad beside me.
I hadn’t gotten Cleo’s exact address from Katy, just a handful of clues and little breadcrumbs dropped in passing. A neighborhood name. A street near a school. A description of a yellow house with blue shutters.
It had taken a little digging, a few late-night flips through an old telephone directory, cross-referencing names and numbers, and my gut instinct. But in the end, I’d found her.
A small house on a quiet street in Butte, its porch lined with weathered steps and a few potted plants. The curtains were drawn, but a slice of light edged through the gaps, hinting at movement inside.
I pulled up across the road, killing the engine.
Inside my bag, I counted out the bills and folded them into an envelope until it was thick enough to make a difference.
I grabbed a blank card, scribbling out a simple message:
This is for Cleo. No strings. No name. Just someone who heard her story from a friend.
I sealed the envelope, stepped outside, and strode up the walkway, past a forgotten tricycle and past flower beds once carefully tended but now creeping wild, because who had time to prune roses when their kid was fighting to stay alive?
I slid the envelope under the welcome mat. No knocking. No waiting. Just slipping back into the neighborhood before anyone saw me.
I watched the house getting smaller in my side mirror.
A life saved. Maybe. A little girl who would have a future.
It wasn’t everything. It wasn’t justice.
But it was something.
I had just enough cash left to keep myself afloat for a few weeks.
And after that?
No clue.
For now, I needed a reset. And without even thinking, my heart turned toward Buffaloberry Hill.
I’d read plenty of travel journals over the years, accounts from people who drifted, untethered, from one town to the next. And nearly all of them believed the same thing: that every soul has coordinates it’s drawn to. Something instinctual. Ancient. Not learned, but felt.
Something we’re born with.
Once I was back in the town, a sense of peace settled over me.
Maybe it was the relief of having finished the job, or maybe because those travelers were right.
I was still twenty-two, with a four-year crash course on life behind locked doors, but I’d been around.
Enough to know that peace was a rare thing.
I pulled into the motel lot, killed the engine, and stretched out the stiffness in my shoulders. I didn’t even make it to my door before I spotted her.
Sheryn.
Her hip cocked, one brow lifted. I’d told her I had to go to Bozeman to sort out my banking.
“Oh good, you’re alive,” she called. “You look like you just got into a fistfight with an ATM, and the ATM won.”
I groaned. “Thanks, bestie. Love the support.”
She grinned. “Anyways, I grabbed some groceries for you while I was out.” She lifted a bag. “Bread, coffee, snacks…” Then, with a flourish, she pulled out a bright yellow bag. “And your favorite dried mangoes.”
My jaw dropped. “No way! You remembered?”
She snorted. “Maya, please. You basically lived off these in high school.”
I laughed, shaking my head as I took the bag. “You say that like you didn’t benefit from it.”
Her eyes twinkled. “Ahh, yes. The good old Maya-saves-my-ass-during-exams era.”
“You mean the era where I let you copy my notes, and you swore you’d pay me back in mangoes?”
Sheryn gasped, clutching her chest. “Pay you back? Excuse me. It was an investment in our friendship.”
I tossed a mango at her head. She caught it without missing a beat and popped it into her mouth.
“Glad to have you back, Maya Bel,” she chirped.
“Yeah,” I said. “Me too.”
“Actually, that was a bribe,” Sheryn confessed.
I appraised her with my head tilted, arms crossed. With that sweet, innocent face of hers, how was I supposed to say no to whatever scheme she was cooking up?
“Spill it.”
“Rehearsal dance tonight. Four o’clock snacks with Elia and Claire, then rehearsal at five.”
I waited.
For her to say his name.
For some casual mention of Elia’s brother.
But it didn’t come.
I fought the urge to squirm. Dancing? Small talk? Wearing something that didn’t scream “don’t look at me”? Not exactly my scene.
But if Noah was there?
I’d make an exception.
Though it shouldn’t matter. This was for Sheryn. She’d stood by me through everything, and if she wanted me at her wedding stuff, then I’d be there. Even if I had to suffer through twirling, chatting, and not looking like someone who’d rather be anywhere else.
I smile. “Fine. I won’t be late. I promise.”
“Good,” she chirped. “And you’ll finally meet my Nick.”
I arched a brow. “Bestie interrogation time?”
Her eyes narrowed, so I held up my hands in surrender. “Kidding. No grilling, I promise. From everything you’ve told me, he sounds like your guy.”
Then, her smirk faded, and she bowed her head.
I caught her hand. “What is it?”
“So…” she hesitated. “Have you talked to your mom yet?”
The words hit harder than I expected.
“No. She didn’t even visit me once.”
Sheryn didn’t rush in with I’m sorry or empty words. She just reached out, resting a hand on my knee.
I let out a brittle sigh. “It was my fault. I was a damn fool. All I could think about was how happy she’d be on her birthday. It never crossed my mind that Uncle David might call the cops. I thought it was just gonna be some private drama.” I shook my head. “That’s how stupid I was.”
But the words didn’t undo the truth. It didn’t bring him back. My dad was gone. Because of me. Because he couldn’t handle the shock of seeing me in cuffs, dragged away like the worst criminal.
Because the cops didn’t care what it did to him. One moment, he was there. The next—gone. And I had to live with that.
Sheryn sat with me in the silence, letting me breathe through it.
Finally, she said, “Okay. I won’t invite her then.”
I closed my eyes, weighted with regret. “I love her, Rynnie. I do.” When I opened them, I searched her face for comfort. “She’s my mom. But for now…yeah. Please. I just can’t see her.”
She squeezed my knee. “Hey. When it’s time, you’ll feel it. That kind of bond doesn’t just disappear.”
I gave a nod, still processing.
She added, “As you said, she’s your mom.”
I choked it down, whatever it was. Guilt. Grief. Both.
“Yeah,” I whispered. “She is.”