8. Shadow Kingdoms #2
I start to protest, but he waves it off. “You’ve been running non-stop since we started this push. Take a night, get some sleep. Tomorrow’s soon enough to start implementing everything.”
The others nod in agreement, though I catch speculation in their eyes. They know something’s off with me, even if they don’t know the cause. I haven’t told them just how close I’m keeping Naomi.
I’ve never been one to step back from work, to put personal needs before business. But tonight, the pull of the cabin proves stronger than duty. I need to see Naomi, need to know she’s safe. Need to reestablish the boundaries I almost crossed this morning.
“Thanks,” I say simply, gathering my coat. “Call if anything comes up.”
I exit through the back entrance, nodding to the security team as I pass. The parking lot is half-full, cars gleaming under the streetlights. My truck sits in its usual spot, a battered Ford F-150 that draws no attention.
The key turns in the ignition, and the engine rumbles to life. I pull out onto High Street, pointing the truck north toward Hocking Hills. Toward Naomi.
Toward complications I can’t afford and feelings I shouldn’t have.
Unfortunately, I don’t make it out of the city before my phone buzzes with a text. I groan in frustration when I see who it’s from.
Sandra
Meet me at Jerry’s Diner. Now. Non-negotiable.
I stare at my phone, jaw clenching. Damn it. My need to see Naomi is fierce and soul-clenching. But Sandra’s timing, as always, proves impeccable in its ability to disrupt.
I correct course and head to the diner she insists we meet at. The drive takes twenty minutes, each mile increasing the anxiety weighing me down.
Jerry’s Diner is a decrepit shithole on the outskirts of Columbus—all peeling paint and flickering neon. Perfect for the kind of conversation I’m about to have.
I park my truck in the nearly empty lot, doing a quick scan for surveillance or threats out of habit. Nothing obvious, though Sandra’s never needed backup to inflict damage. Her weapons of choice have always been words, wielded with surgical precision.
The bell above the door chimes as I enter, the sound oddly cheerful given my mood.
Stale coffee and grease hang heavy in the air.
The vinyl booths have seen better decades, their stuffing escaping through cracks and tears.
I choose one in the far corner, positioning myself to watch both the entrance and the emergency exit.
A tired waitress brings coffee without being asked. I check my phone again while I wait. Still no messages from Naomi. The knowledge that she’s safe at the cabin provides little comfort as I anticipate this confrontation.
When Sandra finally arrives, she makes an entrance worthy of community theater.
The door slams open, bell jangling discordantly.
Every head turns to watch her march toward my booth, designer handbag clutched like a weapon.
Even in grief, she maintains her armor of perfect makeup and coordinated accessories.
Her ash-blond hair pulls severely back from a face that’s aged more from bitterness than years.
“Twenty minutes.” I state as she slides into the booth. “Then I have business to attend to.”
Her lips—painted an aggressive shade of red—curl into a familiar sneer. “Business. Of course. Always more important than family.”
I don’t rise to the bait, keeping my expression neutral as she settles herself with theatrical precision. Her perfume creates a cloying cloud between us, too sweet and too strong. Some things never change.
“Where is she?” Sandra demands without preamble.
“Who?”
“Don’t play dumb, Micah. It doesn’t suit you.” Her eyes, the same icy blue as Lucas’s, narrow with accusation. “That little tramp who married our son. The one who’s been hiding since his murder.”
“Naomi made her choice to leave Lucas months ago,” I remind her, voice carefully even. “Their marriage was over.”
“Because she’s an ungrateful bitch who thought she was too good for him.” Sandra’s volume rises, drawing attention from nearby diners. “Just like you always thought you were too good for us.”
I take a slow sip of coffee, using the moment to maintain control. “Is there a point to this meeting beyond hurling insults?”
“The point is my son is dead, and that woman knows something about it.” Tears appear on cue, perfectly timed to match the tremor in her voice.
“The police found evidence linking him to drug dealers,” I say, repeating the carefully crafted narrative. “Sometimes people aren’t who we think they are.”
“Lies.” Her hand slams the table, rattling silverware. “My Lucas would never get involved with drugs. He was a good boy. The perfect son. Until she corrupted him with her fancy ways and her family money.”
I almost laugh at the irony. If she only knew how Lucas had terrorized Naomi, how his “perfect” facade hid a monster capable of incredible cruelty.
But telling Sandra the truth would be pointless.
She’d crafted her version of reality decades ago, casting herself as the victim and everyone else as villains in her personal tragedy.
“You’re protecting her,” Sandra accuses, leaning forward. “Lucas told me you let her hide in your apartment like some dirty secret. What would people think, Micah? A man your age, harboring his son’s young wife? It looks … inappropriate .”
The insinuation lands like acid, burning through my careful control. Images from this morning flash unbidden—Naomi in my arms, her lips inches from mine, the way desire had fought with conscience. Sandra’s accusation hits too close to a truth I’m not ready to face.
“Naomi needed a safe place to stay,” I say flatly. “I provided one. End of story.”
“Oh, I’m sure you did.” Sandra’s voice drips poison. “Always the white knight, aren’t you? Saving damsels in distress to make up for how spectacularly you failed as a husband and father. Tell me, does helping her ease your guilt about Lucas? About how you abandoned him?”
Each question strikes with practiced accuracy, finding old wounds and tearing them open. I force myself to breathe steadily, to maintain the mask of indifference that’s served me well over the years. But Sandra knows me too well. She knows exactly how to hurt me most effectively.
“You want to talk about failure?” My voice remains low, controlled, though anger simmers beneath the surface. “Let’s talk about how you taught our son that violence was acceptable. How you encouraged his worst impulses, excused his cruelty, turned him into—”
I catch myself before revealing too much, but Sandra’s eyes narrow with predatory interest. “Turned him into what, Micah? What exactly are you implying about my boy?”
“Nothing,” I grumble, cursing my momentary lapse. “This conversation is over.”
I start to rise, but her hand shoots out, manicured nails digging into my forearm. “Oh, it’s far from over. I’m going to find out what happened to Lucas. And when I do, everyone involved will pay, including that bitch you’re hiding.”
The threat in her voice is unmistakable. I lean forward, using my size to loom over her. “Be very careful, Sandra. You’re not the only one who can make threats.”
She jerks back, fear flickering briefly through her eyes before hardening into hatred. “Are you threatening me? The grieving mother of your murdered son?”
“I’m suggesting you let the police handle their investigation,” I say. “Before you cause damage you can’t undo.”
Sandra lets out a bitter laugh. “The police? Please. They’re incompetent at best, corrupt at worst. I won’t stop until they do their job and investigate all possibilities, including Naomi.”
“You’re making a mistake,” I warn, though the words feel hollow even to me.
“The only mistake was ever trusting you to do right by my son.” Sandra rises, gathering her designer bag with dramatic flair. “I’ll find her, Micah. And when I do, I’ll make sure she pays for what she did to Lucas.”
I watch her storm out, the bell chiming ominously in her wake. Other diner patrons quickly avert their eyes, returning to their meals as though nothing unusual occurred. But everything has changed. Sandra’s threats could unravel all our careful planning.
I leave money on the table and head for my truck, mind already racing through contingencies. We’ll need to strengthen security at the cabin, create additional fail-safes. Perhaps set up alternative safe houses. Anything to keep Naomi protected from Sandra’s vendetta.
I’m going to have to meet with Eve too. See what she can tell me about the investigation and what evidence has been gathered. I’ve tried to stay clear of conversations with her about the case to not draw attention to Naomi, but Sandra has changed the game.
As I drive through Columbus’s darkening streets, an uncomfortable truth settles over me. I can’t protect Naomi forever. Sooner or later, the past will catch up to us. And when it does, the choices we’ve made and the lines we’ve crossed and almost crossed will demand their price.
The city lights blur past my window, each one seeming to whisper of approaching storms. I press harder on the accelerator, eager to return to the cabin, to Naomi. To the secluded hideaway we’ve created that suddenly feels far more fragile than before.
Sandra’s final threat echoes in my mind.
I’ll find her. Three simple words that carry the weight of inevitable confrontation.
Because Sandra’s right about one thing—she’s always been dangerously good at finding what she wants.
And she wants answers about Lucas’s death that I can never let her discover.