"Yes, sir," he says, "we have fifty-two barrels ready with just toys. We'll have them ready in a week or so just as is planned. And our supplies will compliment your toy drive, and our shippers will move things in confidence."
I never talk openly about business in front of Riley or in public, for that matter, so I say, "Thanks for helping with the toy drive," and I hang up, just in time for Riley’s eyes to pop up and meet mine.
"Toy drive?" she asks with narrowed eyes of curiosity.
There's honesty and then there's transparency.
Honesty would be telling her Next Gen is doing a charity toy drive for Christmas. Transparency would be telling her half thebarrel will be toys that cover the other half of the barrel which is military-grade handguns. I choose the latter because she's already seen the worst and at some point, a man has to stop running and hiding. She's mine now, and I have to start trusting her.
"It's a front…" I say, keeping my head down. My eyes scan the diner's crowd to make sure no one is listening. "We'll move some items when we move the toys, but yes. It's a genuine drive for real toys, for real kids for Christmas."
Her face tenses and then she sighs. "Always some ulterior motive," she grumbles, and I feel insulted by that.
"Not always," I grumble, stealing a slice of bacon. "When I was a kid I emptied my toy box before Christmas one year because I was certain if I gave away my used toys to children in need, Santa would bring me the new toys I wanted." That memory is a fond one for me, because I knew as a child what giving means. It wasn't followed through because Santa isn’t real, but I learned a lot about myself because of it.
"So you got new toys?" she asks, one eyebrow raised.
"I got my first handgun, and two years later, I killed my first victim." I remember it like it was yesterday. It still stings. Reality is far worse than any fictional story spun up by Hollywood.
"Fuck," she says, half mumble, half grunt. "How old were you?" Riley has stopped eating now and watches me in shock and concern.
"I was ten that year, twelve when I killed the man. I don't like to think about it, but doing a charity drive every year is something I never miss." Today has been exhausting, and remembering these memories only makes it worse. My eyes are tired and I feelworn out. If I knew no one would harm her, I'd nap right here in this booth while she finishes her dinner.
"God, I’m sorry, Rafe."
"I just want kids to have what I didn't have." I don't need her to understand me, but it helps that she's trying.
"Except, you make sure to slip your guns into their story too…" She picks up a slice of bacon, and that comment feels like a low blow.
I can't even be angry with her. She's right. I'm pathetic. I do whatever Sal orders me to do without a fucking backbone to stand up for myself.
"I'm gonna hit the head. Stay there…" I stand before she can realize how much that hurt and walk away.
But I've made my decision. She may be snarky and bitchy and a bit out of control at times, but I want her. I really want her. And I'm not letting my uncle Sal tell me to get rid of her. We'll have to figure it out.
Because Christmas as a child means being helpless to do anything for yourself. You get what your parents decide Santa wants to bring you.
But I know what I want this Christmas and absolutely no one is going to take Riley Maddox from me. Not now, not ever.
15
RILEY
Iwake up disoriented, body stiff from sleeping in an unfamiliar bed. For a moment, I forget where I am. Then the events of last night come flooding back—the car chase, the crash, the stolen vehicle, the long drive through the snow to this place Rafe calls a safehouse. I remember stumbling through the door exhausted and Rafe pointing me toward a bedroom where I collapsed onto the mattress without even taking off my shoes.
The room is sparse and cold, a twin bed with plain sheets, a nightstand with nothing on it, a single window covered by blinds that let in thin strips of gray morning light. My duffel bag sits on the floor where I dropped it last night, still packed.
I push the blankets aside and swing my legs out of bed. My muscles ache from the tension of yesterday, and I feel the bruises forming where the seatbelt caught me during the crash. I'm not fond of how achy I am, especially in the bendy parts of my body where my rumpled clothing pinched me all night. I must smell like a hog to anyone around me.
With my legs over the side of the bed, I toe off my shoes and listen. The house is pretty quiet, and so is the surround. I have no clue where this place is. I didn't pay much attention after it got dark out. We're somewhere in the Catskills, probably, and with the snowfall last night deadening every sound, I'm not sure there's even a road nearby. I don't even know if Rafe is here.
But I stand, forcing my body upright to stretch and yawn, and then stumble out the door thinking I'll see Rafe seated in the kitchen or living room. The place is small. There aren't many places he could be. And when I have a quick peek around, I don't see him anywhere. I'm alone for now.
I walk to the couch and sit down, pulling my knees to my chest, then reach for the remote on the coffee table and turn on the TV. The screen flickers to life, and I flip through channels until I find a local news station. The anchor is mid-sentence, though the volume is down, and I see the banner at the bottom of the screen.
FBI Joins Search for Missing Buffalo Woman
My stomach drops as the anchor continues what she's saying, and I click the volume button up to hear the report. "The Federal Bureau of Investigation has officially joined the search for Riley Maddox, the twenty-six-year-old bank teller who disappeared over three weeks ago. Authorities say Maddox's cell phone last pinged at a warehouse on the east side of Buffalo, a property with known ties to organized crime. FBI agents are now working alongside local law enforcement to investigate potential connections between Maddox's disappearance and ongoing criminal investigations in the area."
