Confusion whirls in my mind.
“I didn’t snoop. They were home. We talked and they gave me permission to go through the barn.”
“That isn’t that what they are saying,” John says. “They are saying you decided to make yourself at home when they asked you not to. Said you refused to get back in the truck and leave.”
I open my mouth—then shut it. Those motherfucking liars.
John steps down from the porch, boards groaning under his boots. He doesn’t get close, but he doesn’t have to. He looks tired. Angry. Mostly, he looks scared and I can’t figure out why.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“I’m not,” I tell him quietly. “If you would listen to me and stop treating me like a kid.”
“Then stop acting like one,” he fires back, the first crack in his control.
The words hit harder than I want them to.
My throat tightens. I cross my arms against my chest, nails digging into my skin. “You’re mad because I left. I get that,” I say, voice thinner now. “But you haven’t asked me why.”
“Because,” John rebuts. “I already know why.”
Pace shakes his head. “You went looking for answers that will only land you in deeper shit,” he growls, taking John’s side. “You think those people are gonna tell you the truth? They don’t care about you, Peyton. They never did. They made that very clear.”
“They didn’t have to care about me,” I snap. “They simply had to tell me who she was. Why she left. That is all I want to know and none of you will tell me. You act like it is some government secret. This is my life. She was my mother. No matter how shitty she was at times. She was stillmymother. The woman who nursed me. Bathed me. Who sang me songs when I was sad. Her addiction may have stolen her from me, but she still loved me when there was no one else.”
“And did they?” John asks, his voice soft and lethal. “Did they actually tell you or did they give you the run around and you walked away with nothing but more questions?”
His words knock the breath out of me. Because no…they hadn’t given me anything at all. I stare at him, my hands shaking despite the heat. “You don’t get to be mad at me for wanting to know who my mother was.”
John finally meets my eyes. His eyes aren’t soft or angry. Instead, they are heavy and bleak. “I’m not mad you want to know,” he admits. “I’m mad that you keep running toward the things that burned her.”
There’s a long, brutal silence. Pace shoves his hands into his pockets and mutters, “Colter’s gonna lose his shit.”
My stomach flips so hard I almost choke on air.
Great. Just what I need.
John exhales, long and hard, then jerks his chin toward the house. “Inside. Now. We’re not doin’ this out here.”
I hesitate. He raises one brow, challenging me. I move. The gravel crunches under my boots as I follow them inside, every step heavy with the weight of everything I saw at Blue Skye. The letters, the photos, the jacket withJ.D.stitched along the collar.
And the worse part.
I’m not done digging.
Not even close.
I may not have learned a lot from my mother but there is one thing I did learn early on thanks to her.
You can’t rely on anyone but yourself to get the answers you want.
Because everyone lies.
39
I hearthe raised voices before I even get around the corner of the barn.
Not words—not at first.
