“How do you look exactly the same?” I ask. She’s gotta be in her sixties but doesn’t look a day over forty.
“I’ll never tell.” She laughs. “But you look fantastic. Healthy and glowing!”
“Thanks! Hey, is Mom here? I wanted to surprise her with a massage.”
Barb frowns. “Your mom? She hasn’t worked here in years.”
“Wait…what? She works Mondays. She always has.”
Barb gives me a sad look. “Baby girl, she quit about six years ago, after your last relapse.”
My stomach drops. What the hell? I rack my brain, trying to remember if she ever mentioned quitting, but no—Mom still tells me work stories. Stories about Barb, even!
“But this makes no sense,” I say. “Why didn’t she tell me?”
Barb chews the inside of her lip, clearly deciding if she wants to say something. “Well, we had a falling out.”
“Oh my God, Barb, I’m so sorry.” I feel sick. “What about?”
“This is really difficult, and please know I love you. But I refused to donate money to your GoFundMe. My little one had just started college, and we didn’t have much extra to go around. And I’d given so much through the years.” Barbs eyes fill with tears. “She threw coffee at me and stormed out. We haven’t spoken since.”
I knew my mom leaned on friends and family for help duringthose treatment years—mediocre health insurance is about as much help as a paper condom—but I had no idea it was that bad. Now I’m stewing in horror and shame.
Did I seriously just…not notice? Was I so busy being the sad cancer kid I didn’t even realize what my mom was really doing?
I think about Axe and how he’s spent his entire life living out a middle finger to his dad. Well, if he can do that, I can work my ass off to pay back every single person who ever threw a dime at one of my fundraisers. Hell, I’ll start making and selling friendship bracelets if I have to.
“You said that this happened six years ago?” I ask.
Barb nods. “Yeah, back when Penny was a freshman at Penn State and Ollie was a junior. Double college tuition…They never tell you to space your kids out better.”
I’ve got to go. I give Barb a quick kiss on her cheek. “Thanks for telling me. I’m sorry that happened. It was so great to see you, Barb.”
“Wonderful to see you, baby girl…” she starts, but I’m already halfway out the door, waving her off.
I need to find Mom. Now.
Forty-One
Axe
Checking my phone doesn’t change the truth. No new messages. So here I am, gloved up and ready to rumble at Strike’s place, Ashburn, throwing punches and getting warm in the centerpiece of his massive new state-of-the-art gym—a professional-grade boxing ring tricked out with all the high-tech gear you could imagine. The walls are lined with mirrors and photos of legendary American fights—Ali versus Frazier, Tyson versus Berbick.
The entire space feels like a shrine to people who know how to give and take a beating.
A perfect place to blow off steam.
Usually, I’m all in for my one-on-ones with Strike, but today I’m too fucking distracted, wrapped up in thoughts of Josie. My phone sits on a bench nearby, and I find myself glancing at it over and over, hoping for something. Anything. Earlier, I had my assistant send a test text just to confirm the damn thing’s not broken. It’s not.
Nah, the phone’s not the problem.
The problem is me.
I’m a mug for misreading everything. Josie’s participation waspurely professional, end of story. I keep telling myself this revelation is for the best—there was never any potential for more. And certainly it’s far better that I’m the one who’s hurt, not Josie. The idea of causing that lass more pain is almost unbearable.
“Look at that phone again, and I’m chucking it out the window,” Strike warns, his words cutting through my thoughts. He throws a hook that I dodge, the motion pulling me back to the moment.
“I was checking the time,” I growl.
