George scoffed. “I told you if you ran off to play hero, you were as good as dead to me.”
“That doesn’t excuse it.”
George responded by lifting his head and spitting on Jon’s pantleg.
Jon folded his arms across his chest. “Where’s Mom?”
George’s lip curled. “Get off my porch.” He stepped back and made to slam the door, but Jon shot out an arm to catch it.
“Did she finally dump your ass? Is that it?”
George glared up at him for a long second before his shoulders deflated. “You stay out there.” He turned, making no further effort to shut the door, and dragged himself down a hall and out of sight.
Jon grunted and scrubbed a hand over his hair.Maybe he’s writing down her new address.Or maybe he was calling the fucking police. With his father, it was a crapshoot. Was it possible his mother had finally grown enough sense and confidence to pull away from George? He did find that hard to believe.
He stood impatiently on the porch for five damn minutes before George ambled back into sight. The older Johnson held what looked like a standard letter envelope in one hand. When George reached the doorway, he shoved the letter outward. The envelope appeared sealed, and damaged around the edges, as if it had been treated roughly. It was addressed to Jon, first name only, in his mother’s scrawl.
Warning bells went off in Jon’s head.
“Here,” George said, tone gruff. “Take this and get the hell off my property. I see you here again, I’ll put you in the ground myself.”
Jon took the envelope and arched a brow at his father. “With what training?”
George’s brow furrowed. “I hunt every year.”
“Cute.” Jon dropped his gaze back to the envelope. It didn’t feel terribly thick overall, but there was something inside that was heavier and chunkier than a piece of paper. “What is this?”
“Fuck if I know. Your mother left it for you, made me swear not to open it.” He gave a shrug and grabbed for the door. “That bitch is in the dirt next to her daddy.”
In the space it took Jon’s brain to process his father’s words, George finally slammed the door between them.
Jon took a large step backward.
His mother was dead.
He’d had no idea.
Of coursehe’d had no idea. She was the one who’d reached out to write him and let him know when his grandfather had passed. It was the only time she’d sent him a letter after he’d left. His father wouldn’t have written him if someone held a gun to the bastard’s head. And that meant there was no one—no one who would have, could have, told him about her passing.
Jon’s fingers clenched tighter to the already damaged envelope, crumpling a corner as he sucked in a hard breath. That wasn’t quite right. It seemed his mother had written him one more time, but for whatever reason, she hadn’t mailed it. He had no idea what to expect in the letter he held, or even if he believed his father had really left it alone, but he knew he’d look anyway.
As soon as he put his childhood home and piece of shit father behind him.
Jon sprinted off the steps, cut through the dead lawn, and for good measure he made sure to knock over one of the stupid political signs. It was just fucking tacky to leave them up more than two years after the relevant election.
He tossed the envelope onto the passenger seat of his newly acquired truck and tore off, driving half blind through the streets he no longer remembered. He’d once thought Misty Glades never changed, but it turned out, even a small town changed in noticeable ways after seventeen years. That, combined with faded memories and entirely different perspectives, made the town as unfamiliar as any other he’d landed in on a duty tour.
He drove past Jenna’s bakery like a fucking moron. Of course she wouldn’t be there. Of course it was taped off, still boarded up, and not going to be open any time soon. He flexed his handsover the steering wheel. That meant he had no idea where to find her.
Rather, he’d have to resort to less reasonable means.
No. Jenna wasn’t—couldn’t be—his priority just yet.
Jon muttered a curse and punched on the radio just to fill the silence of the cab. Seeking Jenna out after any sort of confrontation with his father was an old habit, one he shouldn’t still have.The fuck is wrong with me?
“A search party has formed for missing twenty-one-year-old Avery Byrd. Supposedly last seen leaving a night class on Friday, and formally reported missing on Sunday by her worried boyfriend.” The radio host paused. “I do hope they find the girl, but let’s be honest. She’s either skipping out to get high or that boyfriend’s got some blood on his hands, am I right? Still, best of luck to the searchers, and stay safe out there. At the rate girls in this state are going missing, I’d lock mine up like Rapunzel if I had any.”
Jon frowned and switched the radio off again when it transitioned into commercials. His instinct insisted there was more to that flippant comment than there seemed. But it was also stupid to make assumptions based on one obviously biased, unabashedly insensitive report. So, he filed it away as something to possibly look into later and swung into a gas station.
