Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136743 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 684(@200wpm)___ 547(@250wpm)___ 456(@300wpm)
“Honey, we don’t know that.” I run a shaking hand over my hair, letting it slip from the haphazard pony I threw it in while making dinner. It feels like years ago that my greatest concern was whether the risotto had cooked long enough.
“Are you defending Judah Cross?” Inez’s face scrunches with adolescent indignation. “God, Mom. How could you?”
I slam my hand on the counter, the palm making a loud whack that jerks all three sets of startled eyes to my face.
“Don’t.” The word comes out quiet and flat. “I don’t have time for your histrionics, Inez. You know I support your father completely. We aren’t sure what’s going on yet, and while we figure it out, please don’t make this any harder than it already is.”
A tear slips down Inez’s cheek, and she presses her lips together, sniffing and nodding.
“Look at me.” I tip her chin up and meet her eyes, the hard lines of my mouth softening, on the verge of shaking. “It’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna be okay.”
“But Daddy,” Lottie sobs, her slim shoulders shaking. “They’re taking him to jail.”
“Hey.” I cup her wet cheek and look at the three of them one by one. “I’m not saying this won’t be hard. I don’t know what’s happening either, but there’s one thing I do know.”
I wait for them to quiet their sniffles and give me their full attention.
“I will take care of you.”
I pull the three of them close to me in a tangle of limbs and hair and tears. “You are my life, and I will take care of you. We will be all right. I promise you that.”
By the time the agents finish their search and ask me a bunch of questions I have no answers for, I’ve called the lawyer and persuaded the girls to go up to their rooms for the night. Needless to say, no school tomorrow. And Coach Krisensky can shove that five a.m. practice up his vaulting horse.
I’m on the stair landing when I hear three hushed voices coming from Lupe’s room. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but their words are interspersed with shhhes and tears. I hesitate, torn between going in to comfort them and letting them be there for each other. I spent the last hour plying them with thin reassurances I’m not even sure I believe. It melts my heart a little that they’re together in one room. It’s what my sisters and I would have done. Hell, what we did do anytime something scared us or left us unsure.
I decide to leave them be for now and head down the stairs to survey the damage—displaced couch cushions, dirt from my plants carelessly strewn through the hall, and broken glass from fallen picture frames. Under normal circumstances, there’s no way I could go to bed with my house this trashed, but in the wake of adrenaline and fear, a bone-deep weariness takes up residence. All the possibilities bow my shoulders and strap themselves around my ankles like weights. I’m dragging myself up the stairs to pull the covers over my head and try to prepare for whatever tomorrow holds when the doorbell rings.
“I can’t.” I shake my head and pull my hair off my neck. “I can’t take one more thing.”
But I walk to the door and peer through the glass panes, half expecting Agent Spivey to be standing on my porch with another search warrant because there is some tiny corner of my life they forgot to upend.
It’s not the agent.
It’s my best friends.
I wrench the door open, so glad to see Yasmen and Hendrix illuminated under the porch light, worry etched into their faces.
“Yas,” I choke out. “Hen.”
They cross the threshold, pulling me into a them-scented hug that shatters the last of my composure. The tears come in a deluge that scalds my cheeks and leaves my throat raw from sobs.
“Hey, hey, honey.” Yasmen pushes the tangled hair back from my face. “It’s gonna be okay. Come in here and sit.”
I force one leg in front of the other until I reach the couch and collapse, letting my head fall back so I can stare up at the coffered ceiling I was so particular about when we were designing. I had to have Calacatta marble for the counters. Viking oven. Bifold doors leading to the patio. None of it seems important now because we could lose everything, and the only things that matter are my girls.
“This son of a bitch done fucked up,” Hendrix says, flopping into an armchair. “I knew it was only a matter of time.”
“Hen,” Yasmen chides, dark eyes wide and curly Afro moving with a quick shake of her head. “We don’t have the full picture.”
“Oh, I do.” Hendrix’s bold features—high cheekbones, slashing dark brows, and full lips—twist with disdain. “He done fucked up, but even I, who have never been this man’s biggest fan, didn’t think it would be of these here epic proportions. The FBI? Shiiiiiit.”