Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Miranda
It takes three days for the bruises to look less ghastly. Fortunately, the fourth day is a Saturday, the most sacred day of the week, my one day off when no one else gets to make demands on my time. I should be thrilled today. Instead, I’m dragging myself out of bed with a throbbing left eye.
My face in the mirror makes me wince. The discoloring shouldn’t be expected to improve this quickly, but a girl can wish, can’t she?
Fortunately, or unfortunately depending on perspective, the very next day of the attack brought a particularly volatile patient in the first hour of my shift.
Explaining the bruise became easy by pinning it on the poor man.
Brooke side-eyed me when I explained it away to the nursing staff, but it happened during a shift change, and nobody’s really digging into the matter anymore.
“To be fair, he did try to break my nose,” I mumble, gently pressing a warm compress over my eye while a couple of eggs boil for breakfast. “And it’s not like he got in trouble over the whole ordeal.”
While the eggs cook, I down my coffee, going over private nursing job listings on my phone. I try not to think about how hopeless my situation is, but aside from selling a kidney on the black market, this is the only other way to pay off my debt.
My left eye throbs with the memory of the punch.
I stand over the pan, gingerly touching my eye now.
It’s warm from the compress, but I feel cold inside.
I know it’s not going to stop at that. “Kozlov isn’t the type to give up so easily,” I mutter into the empty room.
“I need to pay him off quickly, or he’s going to have someone drag me to his bed. ”
The words spoken out loud make my skin crawl.
The only reason I took the loans from him was because he was the only one willing to lend me money at such low interest rates.
How was I to know there was fine print in that contract?
Each time I borrowed, the interest rate doubled, something he only explained to me with a sleazy smile once I was knee deep in debt.
By the time I’m peeling eggs, my anxiety is sky-high.
I need to get out of the house. I’ll go crazy if I keep sitting here thinking about the downward spiral that is my life.
The weather isn’t bad outside. Going on a run would clear my head.
I also need to pick up some groceries because there is nothing in my fridge aside from something in a plastic bag that I’m pretty sure used to be a lettuce at some point.
Finishing off breakfast, I take a quick shower, pulling on black running shorts and a gray tank top. I dig through my drawer looking for a cap to avoid getting heatstroke but can’t find any. Annoyed, I root through everything twice.
I come up empty. Then my eyes fall on the stupid signed one.
“You’ll have to do today.” I look at it dubiously. “I’ll put you on eBay tomorrow. You’d better be worth something.”
Jamming it onto my head, I put on a pair of sunglasses to hide the bruise, grab a water bottle and my wallet, and head out.
The June morning is already warm, the mountain air crisp and clean. Perfect running weather. I start jogging, falling into rhythm. Feet on pavement. Breath matching stride. The ache in my body fades to background noise. I let my head empty.
Fifteen minutes and I hit the park. I love this place because most people stick to the main area with the playground and the duck pond. The trails into the woods are usually empty.
The temperature drops under the trees. It’s cool and pleasant in the shade.
Running centers me. It’s my one escape from all my problems. The trail winds deeper.
I know these paths by heart. There are markers every half mile and clear signs where private property starts.
Big fences. No Trespassing signs that look serious. I’ve never been tempted.
At three miles, I stop to breathe, my mouth parched, my body covered in sweat. I pull out my water bottle and am about to take a drink when I hear a sound.
Crying.
For a moment, all the ghost stories from the woods that circulate in town pop up in my head. Strange howling at night, large monsters sighted, terrifying noises. But all the ghostly tales happen at night. I’ve never experienced anything out of the ordinary, and I run here every week.
I look around, and then I hear it again.
“Hello?” I call out. “Is someone there?”
This part is desolate. I haven’t seen anyone in twenty minutes.
The crying continues. High-pitched and broken.
It sounds like a child.
My heart slams against my ribs. “Hey, it’s okay! Where are you?”
No one appears, and the wailing continues.
“Hey, kid. Come out. What’s wrong?”
I try to locate the source of the crying, and then I see some bushes on the side, a little ahead, rustling.
I immediately hurry forward just as a small figure crawls out, covered in dirt and leaves.
He can’t be more than four, dark hair sticking up everywhere.
The biggest amber eyes I’ve ever seen. His hands and feet are scraped raw.
Oh God.
I drop to my knees. “Hey, buddy. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”
He stares at me with wide eyes filled with tears, and my protective instincts go into overdrive.
“Do you want some water?”
I hold out the water bottle, and he hesitates. Terror is written all over his little face.
Then he leans forward and sniffs.
At first, the assumption is he’s sniffing the water, but then the realization hits. It’s not that.
He’s sniffing my cap.
What the hell?
“Are you sick?” The question comes out concerned. Why is he sniffing so much? I check his temperature, but he doesn’t seem too hot to the touch. Then my eyes focus on his expression and the way he’s fixated on my hat.
“Do you want the cap?”
He nods, a tiny movement.
I pull it off and settle it on his head. It’s way too big and slides down over his eyebrows. But he relaxes immediately. His little hands come up to touch the brim.
“How about that water now?”
This time he takes it. He drinks in long gulps that make me wince.
“Easy, buddy.” I take it back gently. “Not too fast.”
He slows down obediently, but he’s practically demolished the water. I’m still thirsty, but his scrapes don’t look good. I pour the remaining water on my hand, bit by bit, and clean the scrapes on his palms. He winces but doesn’t pull away. “Where did you come from?”
He looks around, confused.
“Where are your parents?”
“Dad said not to run away.” His voice is sweet and innocent, and I can’t help but smile.
“Did you run away?”
“No.” He shakes his head hard. “I was trying to hunt the squirrel.”
Hunt. That’s a strange word for a four-year-old. Most kids would say catch.
I file that away for later.
“Is your house nearby?”
“No.”
“Where did your dad leave you?”
“In the park. He got a call and told me to stay. But there was a squirrel.” He looks at me with wide eyes as if I should understand why he had to chase after the squirrel.
I sigh internally.
What kind of parent loses track of their kid long enough for him to end up three miles into the woods?
“The part with the swings?”
He nods.
No wonder he’s filthy. He wandered off while his father was on the phone and just kept going.
“Come on.” I stand and hold out my hand. “Let’s go find your dad.”
He takes it without hesitation. His fingers are cold despite the heat.
As we walk, I ask, “So what’s your name?”
“Ethan.” He gives me a bright smile.
“Well, hello, Ethan. My name’s Miranda. How old are you?”
He looks down at the hand I’m not holding and lifts four fingers to show me.
“So you’re four?” I smile down at him.
He nods enthusiastically. “I’m big.”
Even though I slow to match his pace, he’s beginning to look tired, so I ask, “Do you want me to carry you?”
The little scamp doesn’t hesitate, holding out his arms. He’s adorable. I scoop him up and let him settle on my back. As we reach the park, his stomach rumbles.
It’s very hard not to laugh.
“Are you hungry?”
“Mm-hm.” His arms tighten around my neck.
“What do you want to eat?”
“Ice cream.”
It’s the weekend, so the park has a lot of families, which always draws the food carts. “All right then. How does a vanilla cone sound?”
Another nod.
I let him off at the closest ice cream cart and buy two cones. His whole face lights up when I hand him his. Finding a place on an empty bench, we settle down.
I’ll wait here for an hour. Hopefully his father will come looking for him. Otherwise I’ll have to take him to the police station so his family can be tracked. That’s going to be a huge hassle.
We’re halfway through our cones when everything happens at once.
Footsteps. A blur of movement. Ethan’s startled yelp as he’s lifted into the air.
I’m moving before I think, grabbing the stranger’s arm. “Hey! Let go of—”
The man spins to face me, and the words die in my throat.
Grayson Wolfe.
His eyes are wild, and his hair is slightly disheveled as if he’s been running his fingers through it. There’s fear in his expression as he clutches Ethan against his chest, and then his gaze lands on mine, and everything stops.
We stare at each other.
His mouth opens. Closes. Those amber eyes go impossibly wide.
“You,” he breathes.
My hand is still gripping his forearm. His skin is warm under my fingers. Too warm, the same way it was in the exam room, like he runs several degrees hotter than the rest of the human population.
I drop his arm like it’s burned me.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I mutter.
Because apparently my life wasn’t complicated enough already.
Ethan squirms in his arms. “Daddy!”
Grayson pulls him close, shifting him to one hip, but his eyes don’t leave me.
The panic from a moment ago is fading, and his brows knit together, a wary look forming on his face.
I cross my arms. I’m in running shorts and a sweaty tank top, and I’ve been in the woods for the better part of an hour, but I refuse to care about any of that.
“Is this your son?”
“Didn’t you just hear him call me Daddy?” His voice has a sharp edge to it.