The morning sun barged through the curtains Reid hadn’t closed tightly the night before, blinding him like a spotlight. He’d wanted to spend the day forgetting the terrible week with a bout of sleep that blocked everything.
Instead, the sunlight sliced at his eyeballs.
He grunted and then thrust the sheet to the side and climbed from his bed. Might as well admit reality—the week had happened and he wouldn’t sleep anymore today. Twenty minutes later his hair was still wet as he sat at his concrete kitchen table and drank a mug of black coffee. He’d spread the front page of the Washington Post in front of him but hadn’t absorbed a word. He thrust the paper aside and took the last swig of coffee, grimacing at the grounds that came with it.
What should he do since he was up?
On a normal Saturday he’d spend at least half the day on work—trying to stay ahead of the curve. Too much happened over weekends not to keep a close eye on what the markets were doing around the world. Once he felt he’d spent enough time on work, he’d follow that with an hour or two at the gym and then slide into the back of a movie theater to watch a new release. Not necessarily exciting, but that kind of weekend was all his job allowed.
Managing hundreds of millions of dollars for others didn’t leave time to find a soulmate.
It was on rare instances like this that he felt the lack. He missed having someone to share the horrible week with.
Busy. He needed to stay busy.
As he looked around the condo, the sun highlighted a layer of dust on every surface and a stack of junk he needed to go through. Might as well do it today, since he couldn’t manage anything requiring brain cells. His mom routinely told him that a good cleaning service was worth every penny, but he didn’t like the idea of a stranger digging through his things. He never wanted to worry about whether he’d left something out that could harm a client if leaked or stolen.
A knock at his door stirred him from his thoughts, and he pushed to his feet. He glanced through the door’s peephole and grinned. Brandon. He wore an Indianapolis Colts cap backward on his head, workout shorts, and an Under Armour shirt.
Reid opened the door and leaned against the frame. “You take a shower before coming here?”
“That any way to talk to a friend?” Brandon lifted an arm and sniffed beneath it. “Think I put deodorant on.”
Reid rolled his eyes. “I guess I’ll let you in.”
Brandon brushed past him, then they man-hugged with a slap or two before Reid led him into the kitchen.
“Can I get you some coffee?”
“Sure. Got any cream?”
Reid held up the coffeepot, and Brandon pulled a face at the inch of sludge at the bottom. “Maybe I’ll take a pass. When will you get a Keurig? You can afford about twenty.”
“I don’t need one.” He’d always had coffee from a pot growing up, and the one he had now had been a college graduation gift from his grandma. It still worked, so why change?
While Reid brewed a fresh pot, Brandon told him about some trouble they were having with a new family group that had been placed at Almost Home. When the coffee was ready, Reid poured a mug and set it in front of his friend along with a little carton of creamer that smelled like it was still good.
“Thanks.” Brandon filled the mug with coffee and topped it with an inch of creamer, then took a sip. “Not bad. Sorry to make so much noise since I got here. I came to let you talk.”
“No problem. It was nice not to be trapped in my head.” Even nicer than he would have expected, to listen to someone else’s concerns. Surely he could help fix this—a welcome change after his week. “Anything I can do to help with the kids?”
“Not a thing. They need time.” Brandon hunched forward, the mug looking absurdly small in his beefy hands. “I’ve gone through this process plenty of times.”
“Guess that social work degree was worth something after all.”
“Yeah. Now fill me in on you.”
“Nothing new to tell since the funeral yesterday. Thanks again for coming.”
“Wouldn’t have missed it. Really, nothing at all?”
“Nope.”
Brandon leaned back, a disbelieving look on his face. “You still breathing?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Then there’s something going on up there. Spill.”
“What are you, Dr. Phil?”
“If that’s what it takes to get you to access your feelings. The service was yesterday.”
Darn social work degree. “I’m not one of your kids.”
“You need me more than 95 percent of them.”
Reid placed a hand over his heart like he’d been wounded. “That stings. Only 5 percent of your clients are worse off than I am?”
“If the loafer fits . . .”
“Whatever.” Reid stared into his mug, trying to come up with something he could do or say as a distraction. He wasn’t ready to talk, despite his friend’s good intentions.
Brandon let the silence lengthen, but Reid was on to his ways. It wasn’t going to work this time, not if Reid could help it.
But Brandon just sat there, looking like he had nothing else to do but sit in that chair holding his empty mug.
“What do you want from me?”
“Acknowledge that your world is upside down.”
“You know that. I know that. I don’t need psychobabble to make it more real.”
“Okay, stay in self-denial, man.” Brandon lumbered to his feet. “I’ve got to get the cat some food before I head home or I’ll never hear the end of it.”
“Frodo is starving?”
“He thinks so. And he likes to remind me . . . loudly.” Brandon paused at the front door. “Call if you need anything.”
“I will.” Not a chance. The last thing he needed was Brandon hovering.
As if reading his thoughts, his friend continued. “Better yet, meet me at the Union House at two, and we’ll have a late lunch. I’m hungry for a burger.”
Reid didn’t want to say yes.
“A man has to eat.”
“I’ve heard that before.” Leave it to Brandon to focus on his stomach. And a big burger and stack of fries from the Old Town restaurant did sound good. “All right. I’ll meet you there.”
After Brandon left, Reid leaned against the door. What should he do until two? The floor looked like it hadn’t been swept in days. He’d start there. Do that task. Then the next. If he did enough, he’d get to the other side of the day and eat at least one meal while he lived it.
He opened the door to the junk closet and reached for the broom. His fingers grazed the dustpan, knocking it to the floor. As he stooped to pick it up, he spotted a couple legal boxes he’d shoved under the wire shelves and forgotten. What was in those anyway? Today would be a good day to go through them and purge the junk. A mindless task that would give him a sense of progress. He set the broom back against the closet wall and squatted to tug the first box free. The lid caught on the bottom rack, so he tugged harder and then abruptly sat on the floor when the box finally came free.
He eased the box closer, and the handwriting on the top arrested him.
Kaylene’s.
He remembered now. She’d brought the boxes on one of the hottest days in early July. The humidity had been brutal—the kind that had tourists diving from Smithsonian to Smithsonian, desperate for air-conditioning. She’d worn cutoffs and a T-shirt, and looked more like eighteen than thirty-eight. She’d asked him if he could store the boxes for her, but asked him not to look in them, so he’d shoved them into the bottom of the hall closet and forgotten them. At the time he’d wondered vaguely why she couldn’t find room in her own house, but he hadn’t questioned. Now she could never reclaim them.
He pulled the packing tape free and opened the box.
A card-sized envelope rested on top of a stack of file folders and photo albums. His name was scrawled on top in Kaylene’s loopy script. He picked up the envelope and opened it. As he pulled out the card, a folded piece of paper fluttered free.
Dear Reid,
I hope you never see this letter. If we’re fortunate, I’ll retrieve the boxes before you have a chance to get nosy. You’re good at that, you know. I wonder if that’s a trait of all younger siblings.
Things are hard right now, but I’m taking steps to get the girls and myself to safety. And no, I can’t ask you to help me. This is something I must do myself while minimizing the harm that can come to those I love. When we’re safe, I’ll need these boxes. Right now, I need to know you have them.
If you see this and can’t talk to me, it means my escape failed. Please promise you’ll take care of my girls. They are my greatest treasure. Promise you’ll keep them safe. Ask my attorney, Emilie Wesley, to help. She knows the whole story—well, as much as I’ve shared with anyone—and she understands why I couldn’t tell you and why I need your help now. You can trust her—she’ll be the advocate you and my daughters need.
As I said, my greatest hope is that you’ll never see this. I’ll come back, and we’ll joke about the good ole days. Or you’ll tell me I was crazy not to let you know. But some things a woman should handle on her own, little brother. Know always that I love you, and thank you for being a safe place for my girls if they need you.
Hugs,
Kaylene
She’d added a heart after her name, one with all the swirls and emotion of a thirteen-year-old girl.
He reread the letter.
What had she been trying to tell him without saying it directly? Did this mean Kinley wasn’t safe with her own father?
That was a crazy thought . . . wasn’t it?