Someone is gently shaking my shoulder.
“Jack, we’re here. Jack?”
I pry my eyes open and, startled, look at Damon in the driver’s seat. He smiles at me. “We’re here.”
Here? We’re in a hired town car Damon ordered from the valet desk at the hotel. I crane my kinked neck to the right and see, outside my window, a manicured lawn stretching up to a modest little tan house. Trim. Well kept. Twin flowering bushes flank the entryway.
We’re already at his mom’s house.
“Sorry,” I grumble, sitting up. “I guess I fell asleep.”
“You haven’t had much the last few days.”
Pulling down the mirror, I groan and reach for my purse. “Now I’m a mess.”
“You look great.”
“Not enough to meet your family!” Hurriedly I’m trying to clean up the mascara smudges under my eyes and add a fresh coat. Makeup handled, I tug straight the hem of the navy dress I finally chose after roughly twenty minutes of debate. “I really wish I had my own clothes. I feel weird showing up all half Carmella.”
“The dress is fine.”
“Yeah, but it’s so severe. I don’t want them to think I’m some kind of—”
“Jack.” Damon catches my hand, urging me to look at them. “Don’t worry. They’re going to love you.”
“You don’t know that.” My whole body is jittery with nerves. “It’s you bringing me home. Maybe they’re expecting someone much more—just more.”
His hand cups my cheek. “You’re plenty,” he says and gives me a quick kiss. “You ready to go in?”
“No,” I whimper.
He just chuckles and says, “Come on.”
Damon keeps his arm firmly around my waist as we make our way up the walk to the front door—and a good thing too, or I probably would’ve tried to bolt. Dread mounts as we wait in the deafening lull between the bell ringing and the door opening. It feels like a thousand years have passed when finally it flies open and his mom is gathering us both in her arms.
Shocked, I manage to register a bunch of sleek, blonde hair and the smell of irises before she pulls back again. “Oh, Jack! We’ve been so excited to meet you!”
“Thank you,” I say faintly. “Thank you so much for letting me come.”
“We’ve been dying to get you here! Come in, come in!” She ushers us across the threshold and into a light-filled living room where irises sit on the entry table. She straightens the vase and then turns to us, all smiles. “How was the drive? Was the traffic terrible?”
“Not too bad,” Damon says. His arm is still around my waist—partly from affection and partly, I’m sure, to keep me upright. “The house looks great, Mom.”
“Oh, it’s just a tiny place.” She laughs. “But it works just fine for me. Please, sit down.”
Damon pulls me along to a set of rose-colored couches facing each other across a wooden coffee table on which are stacked various travel books and memoirs. The walls are lined with bookshelves on which more volumes sit. The book closest to me on the table, a biography of someone I’ve never heard of, has a pair of glasses folded neatly on top. His mom must do a lot of reading. It should intimidate me, but the whole room is light and inviting.
His mom perches on the couch across from us, and I’m struck by her resemblance to Damon. Same fair hair wisped back from her face and plaited down her back. Same bright-brown eyes and full lips—though she never seems to stop smiling. A pale-pink blouse and dark pants are half covered by an apron that declares, “Cooking up love!” with little hearts around it.
While the furniture and even her clothes look neat and polished, the apron is worn, fraying at the edges. It’s obviously been worn through years of meal preparation. For some reason this little detail makes me instantly endeared to her. There’s something about seeing the woman who has spent her life raising the man you love. It makes you love her too.
“Lunch will be ready any second,” she says. “The meat just came out of the Crock-Pot. I hope you’re fine with pork sandwiches.”
This last comment is to me, and I stammer, “Of course. Thank you for having us, Mrs. Wade.”
“Oh, none of that Mrs. Wade nonsense. Please call me Miriam.”
“Miriam, okay. Thank you for having us for lunch.” That sounds like we’re on the menu. I can’t seem to make normal sentences.
“Well, it’s nothing fancy.” She wrinkles her nose. “We’ve never had much of anything fancy in this house. Mostly lots of meat and potatoes.”
“Don’t let her fool you,” Damon says to me. “Her cooking is still the best. How’s the garden coming, Mom?”
“Oh, fine. Fine. Not much grows in this hot climate, but I’m managing to coax some things along. But enough about that.” She waves the topic aside. “I want to hear about Jack. Tell me all about yourself, sweetie.”
I bluster something incomprehensible just as another voice comes down the stairs, “Mom, are they here?!”
“Yes! Come and meet Jack!” Miriam calls back.
There’s a thunder of feet thumping down the stairs, and Sabrina bounds into the room in a yellow flurry, blonde hair in a straight sheath about her shoulders, yellow sundress paired with white tennis shoes. Here, too, is a set of flashing brown eyes and a wide smile that takes up half her pretty face.
Even as she crosses the room, Damon is up and sweeping his sister into his arms, lifting her briefly off her feet. “Finally you get here!” She laughs as he sets her down. “What’d you do, crawl from the strip?”
“We had some stuff to handle,” he says. “Come and meet Jack.” In a mock whisper, he adds, “And don’t embarrass me.”
“Please. You’ll do that all on your own,” she scoffs. “I was up half the night digging embarrassing photos out of the boxes in the attic.”
I manage to get to my feet before she reaches me and is already hugging me. As my arms wrap around her, I think, She feels so small. No wonder Damon is convinced she’s fragile, especially considering what she’s been through.
Part of me had expected to see that more—to see some lingering devastation in her face. I’m used to seeing assault victims in movies wearing bulky sweaters and looking guarded. That image makes sense. But this bright, bubbly, smiling girl looks so carefree I marvel. How can she be so full of light after her experience?
When she pulls back, she laughs. “Jack! I thought I was going to have to sneak down to Orem to meet you behind Damon’s back. He’s been so stupid about us getting together.”
“Hey, now,” he says. “I just got here. Let’s watch the insults.”
“You have been stupid,” she insists. “Just from what you’ve told me, I knew I’d love Jack.” To me she adds, “You have been so good for him. For a while I thought he’d never meet someone to help him lighten up.”
Damon scoffs. “I didn’t need lightening up.”
“Yes, you did,” Sabrina and I say together and laugh.
“Well picked, D,” Sabrina tells her brother. “I hope Jack is sticking around awhile because if not, I’m going to adopt her anyway.”
“She’ll be around,” he says and gives me a wink.
“Good.” Sabrina nods. “Because I’m pretty sure we’d rather keep her than you anyway.”
“Enough, you two,” Miriam says good-naturedly. “Let’s sit down and eat. I just have to grab the watermelon.”
“Anything I can help with?” I ask as she heads back toward the kitchen.
“Damon can help her,” Sabrina says, looping her arm through mine. “I need you to myself to tell me your life story.”
“It’s not too exciting,” I say as she pulls me along.
“Good. Then we’ll have plenty of time for those embarrassing pictures I was talking about.”
***
By the time lunch is ending and we’re heading out to the terrace for dessert, I’m in love.
Not just with Damon but with his family. I’m amazed by how Miriam and Sabrina have welcomed me into their little world of joking and warmth—lots of teasing tempered by love. A world of pork sandwiches, playing Monopoly after dinner, and deferring to Damon as the priesthood holder of the household to call on someone to say the blessing. I knew his parents had been divorced for most of his life, but I hadn’t fully appreciated how it shaped their family dynamic.
Though Miriam was independent and found a way to get a real estate license and start providing for her family, there was still a void. I’m sure she never intended for Damon to fill that void, but he did—trying to take on the role his dad left behind. It’s why he’s always been so protective of the two women who became his whole world. It’s why he was, when we met, so serious and weighed down with obligations.
It’s why he took Sabrina’s hurt so personally. She wasn’t just his little sister; she was his responsibility. The guilt and blame he placed on himself compounded his pain at what she was going through.
Carrying all of that, I can understand more why he strayed from the gospel, why he tried the things he did and took so long to find his way back. If I bore that kind of anger and shame, I would probably have done something similar.
It clarifies his confession last night. Not that the sadness is less, but my capacity to feel compassion instead of blame is greater. For that, I feel immense gratitude.
We sit on the back porch under an awning that flaps lazily in the breeze while Miriam goes to retrieve plates of pie from the kitchen. I offer to help, but again she waves me off in that easy, smiling way of hers. Knowing what she too has suffered since the divorce—carrying the family on her own, being father and mother to two bereaved children—I’m amazed at her strength and kindness.
It’s incredible to see how people react to great trial. For some it is a breaking point. Others grow stronger and more compassionate. This family has grown together through their losses.
Sabrina has been the greatest surprise. It’s been a few years since she was attacked by her prom date, but even a few years aren’t a lot after such an experience. Yet I sense no lingering fear or distrust in the easy way she moves, talks, and laughs. She exudes light in a way that’s opposite of how I’d expected her to emanate pain. To have her dad leave and then be hurt the way she was . . . not many people would’ve come back from all that like this.
I’m enjoying the sunlight and Sabrina and Damon’s easy banter when Miriam returns with the pie. “I hope you like pumpkin,” she says as she sets a heaping portion in front of me.
“Always with the pumpkin.” Sabrina laughs.
“Mom is addicted to pumpkin pie,” Damon explains. “She serves it year-round.”
“Something this good shouldn’t just be saved for Thanksgiving and Christmas,” Miriam insists as she sits. “Great things should be enjoyed all year long.”
“Wouldn’t saving it till the holidays make it more special?” Sabrina asks.
“I don’t know,” Miriam responds and takes a big forkful. “I’ve never stopped long enough to find out.” As we laugh she suddenly realizes, “I forgot the whipped cream.”
“I’ll get it,” Damon offers and starts to rise from the table.
“Oh no,” Sabrina says. “If you go for it, you’ll squirt the whole can into your mouth, and it’ll be gone before you get back to the table.”
He looks devious. “Maybe,” he says and bolts toward the house.
“Not this time, pal!” Sabrina hollers and chases after him, knocking her chair a bit.
“Slow down!” Miriam says automatically—the way she must’ve when they were kids having the exact same interaction. Once they’re gone, she smiles at me, ignoring the sound of thumping inside. “I’m so glad you were able to make it down. I couldn’t have been happier when Damon said you made it after all.”
“Yeah, I surprised him a little,” I admit. “But I showed up too early.”
“I’m sure he didn’t mind,” she says, and I just nod. Clearly Damon hasn’t mentioned what’s actually been happening the last few days, and I don’t blame him. I’m still trying to figure out how to explain it to my mom once the danger’s over.
“You know, this is probably too forward to say, Jack, but I’m so glad Damon found you.”
Relief floods me. “Thank you. I’ve been pretty nervous to meet you both.”
“You needn’t have worried.” Miriam grins. “We would’ve loved you no matter what because Damon loves you.”
Hearing it from someone else makes my heart pound. “I don’t know about that,” I mumble, looking down at my pie. I just don’t want there to be any misunderstanding.
“I do.” She leans forward, catching my gaze. “Damon has a hard time expressing all he feels—he’s been that way ever since his dad left—but I know he loves you even if he hasn’t told you himself.”
I can’t believe I’m confiding in his mom this way but say softly, “I haven’t known what to do about it.”
She touches my hand. “Just keep hanging on. He’ll come through. I know he’s figuring a lot of things out right now, but he’ll get there. And he wants to get there with you.”
“You think so?”
“Well, you are the only girl he’s ever brought home. That says a lot.” She pauses, sighing. “I blame myself for his difficulty in getting close to people. If I hadn’t expected so much from him after his dad . . . maybe all this would be easier for him.”
I’m surprised to hear such an admission. “You didn’t hurt him at all,” I insist. “Damon’s who he is because of you. In a good way.”
Miriam shrugs, somber. “I wonder sometimes. He felt like he had to step up and be the man of the house. I appreciated it. We wouldn’t have gotten through if he hadn’t. But it seems like it’s held him back. And with Sabrina . . .” Her voice trails off, and she looks out toward the backyard. “If her dad had been here, maybe that wouldn’t have happened.”
Now I’m the one leaning toward her, hoping she’ll hear me. “I’ve never met anyone as full of life as Sabrina is. Damon told me that through the whole thing, she held on to her faith, knowing that Christ would get her through it. Just meeting her you can see that’s true—that she’s healed stronger because she had the gospel.
“You couldn’t have prevented what happened to her, but you’re the one who gave her the cure. And Damon is a better man because he learned to care for people the way he did. Your kids are amazing, and they’re both close to God. As a mom, you can’t do better than that.”
Miriam’s eyes are glistening as she squeezes my hand. “Thank you, Jack. That means a lot. ”
Damon and Sabrina come tripping back out the door, laughing.
“Did you two break the kitchen?” Miriam asks.
“Only a little,” Sabrina admits. “But I did manage to rescue the whipped cream.” She brandishes the can. “Who wants some?”
***
Too soon they’re walking us back to the car.
“I know you’re busier with work than you expected to be,” Miriam tells Damon. “But if you get any more free time, please come back.”
“We will. Thanks, Mom.” Damon embraces her, and I’m touched by the tenderness there. “Don’t eat all the pumpkin pie before we get back,” he tells Sabrina.
“No promises,” she jokes and hugs him. Despite all their banter, I see the way he holds on to her a second longer, like it scares him to let go.
After I hug Miriam, Sabrina comes to me, wrapping her arms tightly around my back. Into my ear she says, “Thank you. For making him so happy. Stick around, okay?”
“I’ll do my best,” I say.
Damon is quiet as we drive through the groomed streets of Summerlin back toward the freeway.
“You okay?” I ask finally, wondering if I did something wrong.
He nods and glances over at me. “You said something to my mom, didn’t you? While Sabrina and I were in the house?”
Oh no. “Yeah—it wasn’t anything bad. I just tried to convince her she’s done a good job with you two.”
“She carries a lot of guilt,” he says, eyes on the road. “Because of Dad and what happened to Sabrina, but . . . she seemed happier. After you talked to her.”
That makes me smile. “I’m glad. She’s wonderful. They both are.” I hesitate then add, “Thank you. For letting me meet them.”
He just smiles.
As the car is nearing the hotel, Damon’s phone rings. He slips an earpiece in and presses the button, answering with, “Wade here.” After several beats, he says, “Right.” Then after a few more, “Okay.”
The tenseness has returned to his arms on the wheel and makes me sit up. Is he talking to one of the other agents? He must be. They must’ve found something.
He keeps up the cryptic, one-worded side of his conversation as he parks the town car at the valet and steps out. Covering the phone with his hand, he says, “I’ll meet you up at the room,” and heads off toward the pool area, probably for sound coverage. Frustrated, I stride into the hotel.
Back in the sitting room of the suite, I kick off my heels and pace near the enormous windows, idly scanning the crowds below. Gnawing on my thumbnail, I think again through everything I saw at the casino last night. With half a day’s distance between the events and now, the whole idea seems even more ludicrous. But it still doesn’t feel that way. Then again, it could be the sleep deprivation.
Just when I’m debating going down to the pool to find him and eavesdrop on his half of the conversation, the door to the suite opens. Damon comes inside slowly, head down, hands closed over his phone.
He doesn’t meet my gaze right away but seems to be studying his shoes. Finally he says, “I just spoke to McNair.”
He sounds so serious. “And?” I ask.
“They saw some things on the surveillance footage.”
I feel a thrill. “What things?”
“Several men—a few known criminals, others not—placing bets at certain tables. Every time, they order the same liquor and drink the shot, then turn the glass upside down on the table.”
“Ha-ha!” I laugh, clapping. “So I was right?”
“It looks like you might be. They looked into all of Solokovs dealers when the casino opened, but apparently there’s been quite a bit of turnover since. About half the legitimate dealers they started out with were fired for various reasons, and these new guys have been showing up. One is an ex-con, which isn’t that unusual, but the rest looked clean enough. Then they looked deeper into one of the dealers.” He turns his phone to show me a picture. “Recognize our friend here?”
It’s a grainy surveillance photo, but there’s no doubt it’s the dealer we had at the poker table last night: the Abominable Snowman with the chilly gaze.
“Only from my nightmares,” I say.
“Well, it turns out Peter Smith here is actually Pasha Razhevsky. Former KGB. Known Russian assassin.”
Holy cow. I was sitting way too close to that guy.
“Do you think the other dealers are using fake identities?”
“It’s possible.” Damon taps his phone against his hand, thinking. “It would be a tidy little setup. They open this casino, everything completely above board. They run a clean house, clean games. No one thinks anything of the fact that dealers are changing. There’s a lot of turnover in jobs like this. And slowly they’re bringing in hired guns—some of them from their own family circle in Russia. Interpol tries to keep track of these guys, but they always manage to find a way into the country.”
I nod. “Then they order a bunch of different guns to supply their workers with the tools they need, and the business comes to them.”
He looks over at me, and there’s something unreadable in his expression. “You are . . . very unusual. You know that?”
Stung a bit, I nod. “I’ve been told.”
“No, I don’t mean it like that.” He touches my arm. “On one hand you’re so carefree, silly even. But then you’ve got this . . . instinct for certain things. It’s very weird.”
I muse, “Still not sure if that’s a compliment or not.”
“It is.” He smiles. “You always manage to surprise me.”
I smile back. “I’ll have to keep it up.” After a moment I ask, “So, what do we do from here?”
He sighs and walks over to sink onto one of the couches. “I don’t know. Now that they’ve got this lead, the control center is going crazy. They’ll be checking identities on everyone going in and out of here, seeing if they can find someone to turn.”
“Turn?”
“Give up the Solokovs, gather enough evidence to indict the brothers.”
I pull a face. “Won’t that be hard? You said these guys are extremely careful. Even getting this far was mostly dumb luck.”
“It’ll be hard,” he concedes. “But that’s what they do. They play the long game to build cases against guys like these.”
“But what evidence can they even get?” I press. “This whole thing is so smart because there is no evidence. There’s no way to link the killers to the crimes. And even if you could prove that one of their hit men killed someone, there’s no way to tie the assassin back to the Solokovs. You can’t arrest someone because an employee of theirs did something illegal during their off time.”
“That’s true.” Damon sounds weary. “But all they can really do is try.”
For a while we’re silent, both unraveling it all in our heads.
A horrible, horrible idea has come to me.
And suddenly I’m voicing it. “What if you could get them to admit what they’re doing?”
Damon laughs. “Well, that would be great. That’s always the dream. Unfortunately, with guys like this, that doesn’t really happen.”
Slowly I say, “What if you could get them to explain the business to someone else and you got it on tape? Would that be enough?”
His eyes narrow. “It would certainly be a start. Because we now know they’re somehow smuggling guys into the country, the FBI can probably tie them to some minor crimes involving unsanctioned travel. With that and a confession they could start racking up enough years against them to make something stick.”
“So along with everything else, that confession would help?”
“Yes. But how exactly do you think we can get that?”
My heart is throbbing in my throat. “What if you had someone they already know—someone they’ve started to trust, a well-established criminal—go in and offer a deal: a partnership that would benefit them both. But in order to strike the deal, that person would need certain details about the organization.”
Damon’s jaw is taut. “And who is this well-established criminal that’s going to walk into that kind of death trap?”
I shrug, palms raised. “Carmella would be a good partner for them.”
After a beat, Damon says simply, “No,” and turns to walk away.
“Think about it,” I insist, chasing him as he goes toward his room. “She runs guns. She could get them any weapon they need—or get rid of any weapon they need. After they use a piece, she could just cycle it back through to someone else. Then they don’t repeat weapons, and if the weapon gets picked up for a crime, it’ll already be tied to someone else.”
On the threshold he turns. “Jack, no! I’ve played along until now because there was no other way to go forward with the operation, but this is too much. There are a hundred other ways to come at this now, knowing what we know.” He lowers his voice, eyes boring into mine. “You did your part. You got us here. The FBI owes you a huge debt. Now it’s time for you to walk away.”
Cautiously I proceed, “I’m sure there are other ways to do this, but how long will those ways take? Getting Carmella took more than a decade. How many people were killed by her guns during that time—while the FBI was slowly gathering evidence? How long have they been watching the Solokovs and gotten nothing?”
“That was different,” he shouts. “We had nothing to go on. Now we know what they’re doing, and it’ll be faster.”
“How much faster?” I demand. “Fast enough to save all the people with names on those chips between now and then?” My voice catches. “Fast enough to save Tom Morrison—whoever he is? Damon, I can’t stand the thought that between now and whenever they manage to get enough to indict, more people will die. I couldn’t live with myself knowing that. Not if I can help.”
He’s staring at the floor, shaking his head, fists clenched at his sides.
“Damon, please.” Hesitantly I step forward and take his face in my hands, trying to get him to look at me. “Please let me do this. I know it scares you. It scares me too. I can’t even think about it. But I can’t walk away. I can’t.”
“Jack.” His jaw is clenched, his hands still stoically at his sides, and I think he’s taut with anger. Then finally he looks up at me, and tears spill from his eyes. “Jack, please, don’t ask me.”
My heart catches, but I press my forehead to his, murmuring, “It will be all right.”
“Don’t,” he whispers and falls to his knees. He wraps his arms around my waist, face pressed into my stomach. “Please don’t,” I hear as he begins to cry.
For several minutes I let him hold on to me, my own tears salting his hair. Then I go to my knees with him and wrap my arms around him. My face pressed into his neck, both of us on our knees, I pray aloud, “Father, please help us now. Please sustain us for what we have to do.”