31. Troy
August, Present Day
Maple Ridge
I kickthe kid-sized soccer ball toward the makeshift goal—two twigs stuck in the field—and pretend to run after it.
Nova giggles and goes chasing it too. Butterscotch pulls on the leash I’m holding, also wanting to go after the ball as it rolls over the grass.
Nova kicks at it, but her motor skills haven’t quite got things figured out yet, and her foot misses by an inch. She bursts out giggling again, and an infectious grin spreads across her face.
I nudge the ball with my foot, sending it a few feet. Nova tries once more to kick it, this time with more success. The ball rolls farther than my faked kick sent it.
“Whoo-hoo, Nova!” I cheer with the enthusiasm of someone watching their favorite team win the World Cup.
I scoop her up and swing her high. She giggles and attempts to yell, “Hoo hoo!”
I lower her to the ground and check my phone. Jess hasn’t texted, but I’m not sure she would even if she needed me. While she might have pulled down most of the barrier between us, a few fragments remain, like a castle that’s partially standing after centuries of neglect and bad storms.
Shit, what I would give to bring in a wrecking ball and permanently knock down those walls.
Nova yawns. I check the time on my phone. “Okay, princess. Time for me to take you back to your mommy.”
Olivia has texted me a few times over the past two hours, checking on us, even asking for photos. Part of me wonders if she’s just checking Jess isn’t with us.
Nova runs across the field with Butterscotch and me in hot pursuit. She stumbles and trips. I swoop in, picking her up, and carry her to my truck.
The drive to her house isn’t long, but she’s nodding off by the time I pull up in front of it.
I unfasten her from the car seat, gather up all the things that usually come with Nova—like the diaper bag and her bunny—and carry her to the porch.
Olivia is standing on the other side of the door, waiting for us, when I open it. She grins at us both.
“Mommy!” Nova leans forward, reaching for her.
I pass her to her mother. “We played soccer, so I think she should be worn out now.”
“Did you have fun with Uncle Troy?” Olivia asks her.
Nova bounces in her mother’s arms. “Yes!” She then squirms to be put down. Clutching her bunny, she runs toward the living room.
Olivia hugs me. “Thanks for taking her out. It means so much to her.”
That’s an odd thing for Olivia to say. I’ve been doing this regularly ever since Colton’s body was lowered into the grave over a year ago. “You know I love spending time with her.”
“I know. But that doesn’t mean I’m not thankful for you doing it.” Olivia tucks her hair behind her ear, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. “Those reporters…do they know?”
“Know what?”
“That you’re dating her. Jessica.” The unwarranted harshness nipping at her vowels has me frowning.
“Probably. Not that it’s any of their business. But you know how the gossip is around here.” Plus, it’s not like it’s a secret. Butterscotch and I have been staying overnight at Jess’s house off and on for several months—and vice versa.
Olivia nods, knowing firsthand how bad the gossiping can get in Maple Ridge. Six months after Colton’s death, rumors spread that I was dating his widow. Everyone knew the three of us had been best friends since we were kids, but that didn’t matter. Of course I was going to be there for her after he died. What did people expect?
“Just be careful. For”—Olivia nods toward the living room—“for her sake. I don’t want Nova exposed to any of that.”
“She won’t be. Her safety’s my number one priority.” I doubt it will get to the point, though, where I have to worry about reporters following me to get a different angle to Jess’s story.
We say goodbye, and I’m driving to Jess’s house when my phone rings. Mom. I click it through to the truck’s speaker. “Hey, Mom.”
“So, I bumped into a friend of mine at the grocery store today,” she tells me without even bothering to say “Hi” first like she usually does. “She…she mentioned your girlfriend isn’t who she seems to be. That she’s not even called Jessica Smithson.” Mom’s tone is one I remember hearing growing up. Her you’ve-got-some-explaining-to-do-young-man tone. Her I’m-about-to-ground-your-butt tone.
Shit.I should’ve given my parents a heads-up after I saw Cora’s article. That would have been better than them being blindsided by the news. I just didn’t think her past would be a problem for them.
Clearly, I was wrong—or Mom’s mad because she thinks I’ve been keeping secrets.
I inwardly groan. “What are you trying to ask, Mom?”
“How long have you known she’s Savannah Townsend?” Her tone hasn’t changed, but I can’t tell if she’s pissed at me or something else.
“Almost two months.”
A yawning silence stretches between us. I can’t be bothered to fill it or ask her what her real concern is.
“Two months?” she repeats, the pitch of her voice scaling two stories. “And how long did you know her before you found out the truth about her identity and past?”
“About three months,” I reply calmly, my eyes on the road ahead of me.
“You were with her all that time, and you had no idea she used to be in a prison?” Mom doesn’t say it, but the serrated edge of “maximum security” cuts through her voice. “When were you planning to tell your father and me?”
“I wasn’t. It isn’t yours or anyone else’s business. Jess has been trying to start her life over after everything she’s been through. She deserves that much.”
“I get it. But I don’t like it when people lie and keep secrets.” The harshness in Mom’s tone has faded, replaced with distrust and the uncertain shake of her head I can’t see but I know is there.
“I know, but sometimes people have a good reason for their secrets. All you can do is respect their decision. I’ve gotta go. I’ll talk to you later, Mom.” I end the call before she can say anything else, and I turn onto Jess’s street.
Shit.I hadn’t expected Mom to react that way. The woman I just talked to is not the same one I grew up with. The woman I grew up with believed in giving people a chance to prove the kind of person they were. That woman didn’t judge someone based on gossip.
What happened to her? Where did she go?
The number of protesters outside of Jess’s house hasn’t diminished since I dropped her off after work. If anything, the number has grown. Dammit.
I slowly drive down her street, inching along while I wait for people to move off the road. There aren’t as many protesters as yesterday, but enough sign-carrying individuals swarm the sidewalks and the street to be a pain. Don’t these people have better things to do than harass an innocent person?
I pull into the driveway and park closer to the garage than I normally do—and far enough from the road that I can’t make out the reporters’ questions as I carry Butterscotch to Jess’s back door. The protesters’ chants drown out the questions yelled at me.
I knock on the door and wait and wait and wait. No one answers it and Bailey doesn’t bark. I knock again.
Jess still doesn’t answer. I try the door in case she left it unlocked for me. It doesn’t open. I rap once more, louder this time. Still nothing. Jess didn’t say anything about her leaving the house while I was gone.
I text her.
Me: Jess, I’m at the back door.
No little dots appear indicating she’s typing a reply.
A bad feeling twists in my gut. Something’s wrong. I have a spare key to the house for emergencies. Jess gave it to me a few weeks ago. With everything going on, this—her disappearance—counts as an emergency.
I unlock the door, step into the house, and enter the reactivation code on the alarm. “Jess?” I call out. Butterscotch wanders into the kitchen.
I kick off my sneakers and walk farther into the house. Other than a bunch of books lying haphazardly on the living room floor, nothing seems out of place.
Frowning, I pick the books up and put them on the coffee table. Jess is the kind of person who respects books. She doesn’t mistreat them and she doesn’t bend the pages.
I pick up the last one from the floor. A nonfiction book about Allied spies who armed the French Resistance and helped the Allies win the Second World War. Jess’s phone is on the floor where the book was a moment ago.
I grab her phone and press the home button. My text is the only notification that pops up on the screen. There’s nothing to indicate where Jess could have gone.
I stride into the foyer. Bailey’s leash is on the hallway table, which means Jess hasn’t taken her for a walk. I check the front door. It’s locked.
Where the hell is she?
Butterscotch gives a small bark and bounds up the stairs.
I follow him. “Do you know where Jess is?”
The guest bedroom door is open. Kellan, Lance, Noah, and I have been working on the room. Jess promised she wouldn’t peek inside until we finished it.
I push the door open wider. The room is how we left it when we were working on the renovations. There’s no sign of Jess.
I turn to leave.
A faint sound comes from the closet. The door was closed the last time I was in the room. Now, it’s partially opened.
I widen the gap in the doorway. Heartbroken sobbing spills from the closet, the sound still muffled.
A dim light pours into the space from the bedroom window, enough for me to see the bookcase along the back wall. A bookcase that I don’t remember opening away from the wall like a door. But that’s exactly how it is now.
The sobbing is coming from the other side of the bookcase. Butterscotch barks and scrambles through the narrow opening.
I turn on my phone flashlight and crouch by the entrance to what appears to be a small space. The beam of light falls on Jess and a pile of blankets and pillows on the floor. She’s shaking from her sobbing and is curled up on her side, her hand resting on Bailey. Bailey gazes at me with sad eyes.
“Jess?”
She doesn’t respond. She keeps sobbing.
The opening between the wall and the bookcase is too narrow for me to slip through. I pull on the bookcase, creating a gap wide enough for me to squeeze past. Holy shit. I had no idea this room was here. It’s the perfect hiding space—especially if you’re a kid. How long has Jess known about it?
I crawl into the space. “Jess?”
Her sobbing doesn’t slow. I have no idea if she even realizes I’m in here.
I put my hand on her arm. Jess doesn’t react or say anything. Bailey pushes to her feet and watches me intently. She whimpers.
At a loss at what to do, I lie behind Jess and spoon her, my arm draped over her waist. I don’t tell her everything’s going to be okay. I can’t predict that when I have no idea what’s going on. Fuck. Did one of the protesters threaten her?
I lean over her and kiss her forehead. “How can I help?”
She shakes her head, inhales a deep, jagged breath, and shifts to face me. I lie back down, putting my head on the pillows. She rests her head on my chest.
I stroke the dip of her spine. Bailey lets out another whimper and lowers herself to the floor. Butterscotch settles himself next to her.
We lie on the blankets, not saying anything. Jess is no longer sobbing, but I sense her need to cry again hovering under the surface. I feel so helpless but at the same time relieved to have found her. I hold her a little tighter.
My phone is on the floor next to me, the beam of light hitting the ceiling. The doorway to the space might be short, but the ceiling looks to be the same height as it is in the bedroom. The walls are covered with drywalling and have been painted white.
“Ten-year-old me would’ve loved this place,” I murmur into Jess’s hair.
She laughs, the choked sound wet and amused. “Ten-year-old me would’ve loved it too. I once removed all of my grandmother’s books from her bookshelves, positive one of them would open a secret door.”
“To Narnia?”
“Definitely not. I had no interest in stumbling across evil winter witches.”
I chuckle, my fingers continuing to stroke the curve of Jess’s spine. “Good idea. They tend to make life more challenging.” I glance around the space. “When did you find this place? I had no idea it even existed.”
“While I was clearing out the magazines in the closet. The bookshelf hadn’t been pushed in all the way. Otherwise, I would never have found this room.”
“Ten-year-old-pirate me wants to know if there is any buried treasure in here. Or hidden maps leading us to a giant pot of gold.”
Jess laughs harder this time. “I think that would be a leprechaun.” She says it with a badly faked Irish accent, and I laugh with her. Christ, I love this woman.
She looks up at me, and a grin curves her lips. Her damp lashes sparkle in the glow from the flashlight. “Sorry, no buried treasure or maps.” The smile fades away. “I put the blankets and pillows in here after Violet left her husband.”
“Violet and Sophie stayed in here?” I glance around the space once more, seeing it with new eyes. It’s the perfect place for kids to hide in when they’re playing, but it’s small for an adult to have to stay in for long.
“A few times. Whenever the cops came to the door. The day her husband beat me, I was praying Violet would hear him and she and Sophie would hide in here so he couldn’t find them.”
Shit.“He might’ve killed you if she had done that and not tried to stop him.”
“It was a risk I was willing to take.” She lays her head back on my chest. “For Violet’s and Sophie’s sake.” Her voice cracks on Sophie’s name.
I hold her a little tighter, thankful things hadn’t gone the way she’d planned. “Is there any particular reason you’re in here crying?” I know she misses Violet, but I doubt that’s why she’s hidden away.
Jess draws in a long breath and releases it. “Craig, my brother-in-law, phoned.”
Her muscles tighten under my fingers, and I silently curse him. Whatever he told her couldn’t have been good.
“He and Grace decided it’s not a good idea for me to be part of Amelia’s life. Because…because of his dark past with his brothers.” An intense tremor takes Jess’s body hostage. Dampness seeps through my T-shirt, the spot growing larger and wetter.
Dammit.How could they do that to her?
“What kind of dark past?”
“He never went into the details, but it was enough for him to leave his family and never look back. I know his brothers bullied him, which is why he believed me when I told the police my husband was abusive. They had a hard time believing it—because of his stellar record as a cop—but Craig believed me.”
I don’t know how to respond. The Marines prepared me for many things, but not this. Not for dealing with a woman whose heart has been broken so many times. I’m not sure how to permanently weld it together again.
Or if that’s even possible.
Everything she’s been working toward was based on her having that happily ever after with her daughter in her life. But now what? How can she move on from this?
“I came in here,” Jess says, “because I needed a place to go where the protesters and media couldn’t hear me scream.”
“Maybe we can find a family lawyer and see what they can do for you?”
“I can’t do that. I gave up my daughter so she could have a better life. What kind of better life will it be if I get lawyers involved? And what good will that do? Grace and Craig don’t owe me anything.”
“Sure they do.” I stroke the curve of her hip. “They owe you for giving them the daughter they love. They owe you for giving up the daughter you love because you put her first. Even now, you’re putting your daughter’s happiness over your own.”
“It doesn’t matter. Amelia’s happiness and safety will always come first for me, no matter how much it breaks my heart to lose her.”
I close my eyes against the pain of knowing what all of this means. Jess had already said she didn’t want kids because she was worried she might lose them. This—what happened tonight—will only make things worse. She put herself out there. She reached out—only to have her heart crushed to pieces. Now, I know for sure that Jess will be so scared of going through this again, of losing her daughter, she won’t want to risk any more heartbreak.
Thousands of parents each year lose their children to accidents, stillbirths, diseases, and violence outside of the home. Their grief is real, yet many of them go on to have more kids—whether naturally or through adoption.
Lucas and Simone have been seeing a grief counselor to help them deal with the loss of their baby from ten years ago. But what about Jess? Will she ever be able to move on and open her heart to anyone else, knowing her daughter is out there somewhere, but she can never see her or hold her?
Or maybe that’s just the excuse I’m clinging to, an easy explanation. There’s still the possibility she fears she will end up in the same situation she found herself in with her late husband. She doesn’t trust me enough to know I’ll never be that asshole. Maybe she’ll never be able to trust in the way she needs to for her to love me the way I love her.
Perhaps Robyn will know what to do, but she’s away on summer vacation for a few more weeks.
I hate this. I hate how the callousness of one man has wrecked her so I’ll never fully have her the way I want her.
All I can do is be the shoulder to cry on, her friend, the man who loves her and will do whatever it takes to keep her safe, to make her feel loved and protected…knowing she might never love me in return.