The garage door hums open.
Inside sits the car—a low-slung, matte-black Porsche 911 Turbo S. Not the screaming red or yellow most men would choose; this one is understated, almost stealthy. I open the passenger door for him. He slides in, backpack at his feet, then looks up at me with a small, nervous smile.
I settle behind the wheel, the engine waking with a low, predatory growl. The gates slide open. We pull out onto the private road, the house shrinking in the rearview mirror. For the first few miles we’re silent, the only sound the tires on asphalt and the soft rush of air through the vents. Eddie watches the trees blur past, fingers twisting in his lap.
An hour in, the road widens into a two-lane highway flanked by diners and gas stations. I spot a roadside place—classic, neon sign flickeringOpen 24 Hours,gravel lot half-full of pickups and a couple of semis. Perfect for a late breakfast and a quick check that we’re still clean.
I pull in, park near the back. “Hungry?”
He nods. “Starving.”
Inside, the diner smells of coffee, bacon, and syrup. We slide into a booth by the window. I order black coffee. Eddie goes all in: pancakes drowning in syrup, a side of apple pie, and a large OJ.
I watch him pour half the syrup bottle over the stack, grinning despite myself. “How are you sosmall?”
He cuts into the pancakes, fork dripping. “I burn a lot of calories with my artwork. Kneading clay, hauling bags, standing for hours. It’s basically cardio. SO I need to eata lot. It’s either that or I feel weak and grouchy!”
I laugh—quiet, but real. “Fair enough. A grouchy boy is never good!”
He eats with focus, the way he sculpts—total absorption. But halfway through the pie, his fork slows. He stares at the plate, then out the window at the passing traffic.
I know that look. The quiet before the storm of worry.
I reach across the table, cover his hand with mine. “Once this is over,” I say, voice low, “I’ll get you the best studio in the city. Top floor, north light, whatever you need. You’ll be free to make the art that will make your reputation. No more hiding. No more running.”
His eyes meet mine, shimmering. “You mean that?”
“I do.”
He turns his hand over, laces his fingers through mine. We sit like that for a long minute—hands clasped across the table, the diner noise fading around us. His thumb strokes the back of my hand, small circles. It’s simple, but it anchors something inside me.
Eddie finishes the pie, sips the last of his OJ. I pay at the counter—cash, no card trail—then we step back into the crisp air. The Porsche waits like a patient predator, a Great White ready to strike.
I open his door. Eddie slides in, backpack at his feet once more. Before I close it, he catches my sleeve. “Thank you. For today. For…everything.”
I lean down, kiss his forehead. “We’re not done yet.”
The engine roars to life again. We pull back onto the highway, the city drawing closer with every mile. The final part of the journey. Back into the danger zone.
I glance at Eddie, his profile soft in the morning light, his hand resting on Goldie’s mane in his lap.
He’s scared.
For the first time in many years, so am I.
But we’re in this together now.
And I meant every word.
The studio. The freedom. The promise.
I’ll burn the city down before I let anyone take that from him.
Chapter 15
Eddie
The city rises around us like a concrete jungle as the Porsche weaves through traffic, sleek and silent except for the low hum of the engine.
