Chapter 23 #2
The silence that followed wasn't peaceful. It was heavy, like the pressure drop before a hurricane. Mandie exhaled, a sharp, humorless sound. She didn’t look at me. She just stared at the empty chairs, fingers drumming a nervous rhythm on the wood.
"You really believe you guys can beat Capital Punishment?" she asked.
I set my mug down. "I believe we’re still standing."
"That’s not the same thing."
No. It wasn’t. I could’ve lied. Told her everything was fine, that we had it under control, that Capital Punishment was just another Tuesday. But Mandie wasn’t the kind of woman who wanted pretty lies. She wanted the truth, even when it tasted like ash.
So, I didn’t say anything.
I exhaled roughly. She wasn’t wrong. Johnny’s recklessness, Roger’s self-doubt, Sebastian’s divided loyalties, hell, even Donovan’s quiet hesitation. We were a team in name only, a jagged collection of broken pieces pretending to fit. And Mandie? She saw right through the cracks.
I should’ve known she wasn’t done.
Her hazel eyes flicked up, sharp as flint. "You’re quiet."
I shifted in my chair, wood groaning under my weight. "Ain't got much to say to that."
She leaned forward, her knee brushing mine under the table. It wasn't an accident. Mandie didn’t do accidents. "Bullshit. You’ve got plenty to say. You just don’t want to say it."
I dragged a hand over my beard, coarse hair scratching my palm. "What’s the point? They’re gone. We either trust them to handle the job or we don’t."
"That’s not what’s eating at you."
My jaw tightened. She had a way of cutting straight to the bone without anesthesia. "No?"
"No." She tapped her fingers against the table. Tap. Tap. "You’re thinking about her."
The air left my lungs. Her. Just one word, and I was back in that courtroom, watching my daughter’s face crumple when the judge ruled against me. The way she’d looked at me like I was a stranger. A monster.
I swallowed hard. "Don’t."
Mandie didn’t flinch. "Why not? Because it hurts?" Her voice dropped, losing its edge. "Yeah, Matt. It should hurt. That’s how you know it matters."
I shoved my mug away. "What do you want from me, Mandie?"
She sat back, crossing her arms over the ink on her skin. "I want you to stop. Stop pretending you’re fine. Stop acting like you can muscle through this like it’s just another mission. You’re no good to this team, and you're sure as hell no good to yourself, until you deal with this."
"And how exactly do I do that?" My voice rose. "My daughter won’t even look at me."
Mandie’s gaze held steady. "Then you make her."
Silence stretched between us, thick and heavy. I stared at her, pulse hammering in my throat.
"You make it sound easy."
"It’s not." She shrugged, but her eyes remained serious. "Nothing worth a damn ever is. But you want to be part of this team? Then you have to stop carrying this around like an anchor." She gestured to my chest.
I looked down at my hands. Big. Scarred. Hands that had built things and broken things. Hands that had held my little girl when she still believed I was a hero. Now, they just felt empty.
"What am I supposed to do?" I asked, the fight draining out of me. "She is an adult in college. She’s got her whole life now. She doesn’t need me messing it up."
Mandie reached across the table, wrapping her fingers around my wrist. The touch was warm, grounding. "You don’t know that you will mess it up."
I let out a bitter laugh. "Yeah, I do."
"No. You assume. And assuming is just another way of hiding."
The words burned because she was right. I had been hiding. Behind the missions, the team, the excuse that I was "doing good" now.
I scrubbed a hand over my face. "Even if you’re right, what do I say?"
"You start with the truth."
"The truth?" I chuckled darkly. "That I let her down? That I wasn’t there? That I’m so scared of screwing up again, I can’t even breathe?"
"Yeah. That. All of it." Mandie’s expression softened. "Because here’s the thing, Matt, she already knows. Kids feel the holes even when you don’t talk about them. You can let that space grow, or you can fill it with something real."
"And if she doesn't want it?"
"Then at least you’ll know." She held my gaze. "But you won’t know until you try."
I stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. I needed air. I walked to the sink, gripping the counter. Outside, the sky was a relentless, empty blue.
"What if I don’t know how?" I whispered.
"Then I’ll help you."
I turned. She was watching me, no judgment, just a lifeline offered in the dark.
"How?"
She stood, grabbing a notepad and pen from by the phone. "We write a letter."
"I ain't exactly the poetic type."
Mandie smirked. "Good thing you’ve got me." She slid the paper toward me. "Come on, you overgrown Viking. Let’s do this before you chicken out."
I stared at the blank page. My daughter’s face flashed in my mind, her dark curls, stubborn chin.
I sat back down. The pen hovered, tip barely grazing the paper. My grip was too tight, the plastic barrel digging into my skin. The silence wasn’t empty; it was waiting.
Mandie didn’t push. She just leaned back, sipping her cold coffee. Her knee rested against mine under the table with a quiet, constant pressure.
"I don’t even know where to start," I rasped.
Mandie set her mug down. "Start with the truth. Not the pretty version. The one that keeps you awake."
I exhaled sharply. "That’s a hell of a lot of truth."
"Then pick a piece." She tapped a fingernail against the notepad. "What’s the one thing you wish she knew? Not what she needs to hear. What you wish she understood."
The question landed like a blow to the ribs. Without thinking, I scrawled the first thing that clawed its way up:
I never stopped loving you. Not for a second.
The ink bled into the paper, dark and uneven. I blinked hard to clear my vision. Mandie didn’t speak, but her breath hitched. She understood the cost of that ink.
Her finger traced the line I’d written. "That," she said softly. "That’s the part that matters."
"It’s not enough."
"It’s a start." She leaned forward. Her tank top shifted, revealing the edge of a tattoo coiled over her collarbone. "You’re not writing a legal brief, Matt. You’re writing to your daughter. She doesn’t need perfection. She needs you."
I turned the pen over in my fingers. "What if she doesn’t want me?"
Mandie’s gaze snapped up, sharp. "Then you’ll know. And it’ll hurt like hell. But you’ll know." She reached across the table, covering my hand. "You’re already living with the not-knowing. Trust me, it’s worse."
I stared at her hand. "You get it," I realized. "The not-knowing."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Yeah. I get it."
"Your old man?"
She let out a short, dry laugh. "Old man, mom, the whole parade. They had a knack for disappearing." She started to pull her hand back, but her thumb traced a quick, absentminded circle over my knuckle. "Left me with a real appreciation for people who stick around."
It sounded like a confession. Mandie was a fortress, but she was letting down the drawbridge.
"You ever try to find them?"
She shook her head. "What’s the point? They made their choice." Her hazel eyes darkened, mirroring the rage I carried. "But you? You didn’t choose this. You got railroaded. And your kid, she deserves to hear your side."
The air between us thickened. Two people who had been handed nothing but wreckage, sitting across from each other with nothing left to hide.
I slid the notepad toward her. "What about you?"
She blinked. "What?"
"If you could say one thing to them, the ones who left, what would it be?"
Mandie went still. Her fingers curled into the paper. "I’d ask them if they ever once thought about what it did to me." Her voice was quiet, but it cut deep. "Just… did they ever wonder? Or did they walk away and forget I existed?"
The rawness of it stunned me. I’d seen Mandie as armor and ink. I’d forgotten she bled.
"Christ, Mandie," I breathed.
She waved a hand, looking away. "Don’t. I’m not looking for pity."
"I wasn’t offering it." I turned my hand over, lacing my fingers through hers. My hand dwarfed hers, but her grip was firm. "I was saying I see you."
Her breath caught. She looked at me, uncertain, vulnerable.
"Yeah," she murmured. "I see you too."
The room seemed to shrink. Her thumb moved again, tracing the vein on the back of my hand, sending a line of heat straight up my arm.
"I should—" My voice cracked.
"Write the letter," she finished. But she didn’t let go. She tugged my hand, pulling me an inch closer. "One sentence at a time."
I nodded, but I couldn't look at the paper. Her other hand came up, fingers curling around the nape of my neck, nails scraping lightly against the short hair. A shiver went down my spine.
"Matt," she said, voice dropping into a register that made my pulse kick. "Look at me."
I did.
Her eyes were burning. Not with tears, with fire.
"You’re not just some broken-down trucker," she said, grip tightening on my neck. "You’re a man who fights. Who protects. That’s the man your daughter needs. That’s the man I see."
The way she said it snapped the last thread of my control.
I surged up, chair scraping back as I hauled her to her feet. The notepad hit the floor. Mandie didn't resist; she met me, body crashing against mine as I gripped her waist.
She gasped as I lifted her onto the table, stepping between her legs. The heat of her thighs through her jeans was maddening.
"Matt—"
I cut her off with my mouth on hers.
It wasn’t gentle. It was years of buried need colliding. My hands tangled in her hair, tilting her head back to open her up. She moaned into the kiss, nails digging into my shoulders, legs locking around me.
I wouldn’t let go. Not now. Not when she tasted like the first breath of air after a lifetime underwater.