CHAPTER 24
Beware of the mask you wear to play the part. The longer you wear it, the harder it is to leave behind.
After the confrontation with Finn, sleep is hard to come by. I lie awake most nights, staring at the ceiling, replaying my decisions since arriving back in New Mexico, trying to figure out what I’ve revealed that could hint at my true identity, and what missteps I’ve taken.
The fact that Goose has a son leaves me with lingering questions I still want to get to the bottom of. But over the next few days, I try to keep my mind occupied so that thoughts of Goose and his son don’t eat away at me.
At the club, I’m all smiles and playfulness—and more cautious than ever around Goose.
If he speaks directly to me, I respond with pleasant replies, giving as little away as possible.
I can tell he senses my forced indifference, but he doesn’t say anything.
Instead, his eyes flicker with some unspoken question, and he analyzes my every reaction.
I, in turn, attempt to stay out of his way and am careful about meeting his gaze for too long.
On my next day off, I buy a second car—an old, nondescript sedan that won’t attract attention—and contact a realtor to secure the home I want to purchase, which is a few doors down from Goose’s place.
It’s a small house that’s recently been updated, tucked under a canopy of aspen and maple trees, with a front lawn that’s overgrown and in need of tending. It’ll work perfectly as an excuse to keep a stealthy eye on the neighbors, especially when spring begins.
My disguise for this role—an elderly widow with a green thumb—includes a few muumuu dresses, which are my go-to in this persona. The dresses shield my figure, and I use both sunglasses and wide-brimmed hats to not only block out the sun but also shield my face.
Some days, I simply sit in a wicker chair on the porch while indulging in sunflower seeds or sipping hot tea while reading a magazine.
When it begins to warm up, I spend a few hours each day digging in the soil of the flowerbeds, replacing old plants with new, more vibrant, colorful flowers.
I’ve found that the sharp scents of freshly cut grass, the earthy aroma of damp soil, and fresh flowers help to calm my nerves.
While I work, I watch and wait for Goose to show himself in any capacity.
When the devices arrive, I steal over in the dead of night and plant GPS trackers on Goose’s bike and the remodeled ’70 Roadrunner in his driveway.
But for the most part, Goose is predictable and rarely leaves his home for anything other than simple errands, Wet Tips, visiting the clubhouse, or running club business.
At least twice a week, I visit Dozer’s gym. The guys there gradually warm up to me. It’s slow going, but every so often, one or two will chat me up.
Mostly, I dive into music and dance, which includes co-choreographing a few group routines with Raven.
She thinks performing group numbers might be a great way to bring the girls at Wet Tips together and put an end to the cliques.
It was an idea I shared when we went out to lunch together, and she wants to run with it.
Outside of the club, I find a local dance studio willing to let me rent space to practice.
The time slots are during the day because the kids they teach come in the evenings.
And I love it. Getting entirely away from the nightclub to practice helps me work through my emotions healthily.
I get to stretch my skills and work in other genres of dance that center me, rather than rile me up.
The owner approaches me shortly after I start there and asks if I’d consider coaching a couple of the more experienced dancers on their senior teams, or be willing to teach a masterclass.
To say I’m flattered is an understatement.
I don’t need or want the money; just sharing my love of dance is enough.
So I accept and end up donating the money back to the studio to assist some of the families struggling to pay their monthly fees.
Staying busy helps keep my anxiety about what’s ahead to a minimum. It’s a coping mechanism—and for quite a while, it works.
When I first opened Goose’s file, I was taken aback by one of the addresses of the rentals he owned—the old duplex he’d been renting when we met. The one he left me to stay in alone. Thankfully, it wasn’t the one he lived in now, but it did make me wonder how that came about.
His buildings are in some of the poorer parts of town, and by all accounts, they’re some of the nicest places to rent for how much he charges.
I know this because I “accidentally” ran into a few of his tenants at the grocery store and initiated conversations with them.
I mentioned being new in town and looking for a place, but I was worried about reaching out via the ads in the paper or online because I didn’t want to get taken advantage of.
They all had nothing but good things to say about Goose as a landlord.
Some sang his praises like he was some kind of freaking saint.
Through them and my spying, I learn that Goose and Mateo live on the top floor of their current place, and Goose rents out the apartments below.
I’m not proud of it, but my curiosity about Mateo increases as the days progress.
My need to know this side of Goose pushes me past caring about the sins I will no doubt pay for later, and I begin to follow Mateo to school, to his job at Bodie’s autobody shop, and to a park he visits often, where he sits alone by a tree and writes in a notepad.
The image of him there immediately brings back memories of a younger Goose doing the same thing. He’d write in his journals nightly.
Mateo reminds me of Goose in a lot of ways. He’s a lone wolf kind of guy—stoic most of the time.
He spends his free time riding his old Honda Shadow, and every so often, he’ll do some death-defying stunts—pop wheelies, peel out, and take it over a hundred on a straightaway.
Once, he stood up on it while I was following him, and I swear to God my heart jackrabbitted so fast with fear for him that I thought that damn thing would fly right out of my chest.
He skips classes quite a bit, smokes cigarettes and weed, and every so often, he’ll sneak out of the house and not make it back until just before dawn. Sometimes on a school night.
This is what I witness on the nights I’m not at the nightclub.
Am I proud of my sleuthing on a teenage boy? No. Does it give me some insight into Goose’s parental style? Yep.
In a way, it’s like Goose isn’t a big part of his life. They never go out together and are rarely in the same place at the same time. Again, the GPS tracker at work. Another sin to add to the list I’m amassing.
The more I watch Mateo, the more questions I have.
Is Goose clueless about his son, or just an awful parent?
Maybe both.
I mean, sure, the kid is obviously not a choir boy. But he’s also not like the other immature and rowdy boys I see at his school. He’s not a childish asshole. If anything, he seems to be just a kid who’s mad at the world, and I’m curious as to why.
His loneliness and silent anger draw me in.
I try to keep my distance. I really do.
But he’s an enigma and a big part of Goose’s life, so in the end, I venture closer.
As I walk into the fast-food joint, the bell above the door jingles. For months, I’ve watched from a safe distance, keeping tabs, never getting too close; however, that decision to stay away changed today.
My footsteps carry me straight to the counter. After eyeing the menu momentarily, I order a Frito pie and a chicken quesadilla. My voice is steady, despite my racing pulse.
For this adventure, I’ve opted for a different disguise: a dark stain over my natural hair color, zero makeup, large prescription glasses that make my eyes appear bigger, and brown contacts.
I found the department store polo at the local thrift store, and I’ve paired it with bland khaki pants and ballet flats. I look ordinary, forgettable.
When my order’s ready, I scan the seating area.
It doesn’t take long to spot him. Mateo is in a booth to the right, his back is to me.
There’s a stunning middle-aged woman with him.
She’s facing me. I take note of her carefully constructed appearance.
The two have similar features, which they should, seeing as it’s his mother.
It’s the moment I’ve waited for and the reason I braved this close encounter.
Her chestnut hair is silky smooth and rests in a subtle curl above her shoulders. She’s polished, and her jewelry appears to be expensive.
I slip quietly into the booth directly behind them and set my purse down.
Mateo is more intense up close, especially with the glare he’s sporting. His brown eyes are deep-set and surrounded by long lashes. With the mustache and the beginnings of stubble along his jawline, he could easily be mistaken for older than he is.
“How’s the food?” she asks.
“Fine,” he replies, his tone flat.
A few minutes later, she speaks up again. “How’s soccer?”
“I quit the team,” he says with a shrug, as if it doesn’t matter, and lays down his fork.
“What? Why?”
“I don’t see the point.”
“But you love soccer!” Her voice rises, almost pleading.
“No, you loved watching me play soccer until something better came along.”
“That’s not fair, and you know it. This isn’t about me loving him more than you.”
“So what?” Mateo continues, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “If you hadn’t met him, we’d be fine? I’d still be living at home?”
Her voice rises when she replies. “You needed a good male role model, Mattie. That’s why I did what I did. We were fighting all the time.”
Mateo lets out a bitter laugh. “Yeah, nothing says good role model like the man you dumped me for.”
Her breath hitches. “That’s not—”
He sits forward and places his arms on the table. “Isn’t it telling…?”
“What?”