I took a breath.
“What do you want, Marcus?”
“I want money. Two hundred thousand. Enough to start over somewhere far away. Somewhere no one knows my name.”
“And if I don’t pay?”
“Then I go to the authorities. I tell them everything. About the operation. About the men who died. About you. I have evidence. I have documents. I have enough to make sure you never see your son again.”
I looked at him for a long moment. At the scar on his face. At the cold, desperate eyes. At the forged letter in his hand.
“You don’t have anything,” I said.
His expression flickered. “What?”
“Claire kept records. Every contact. Every meeting. Every threat. She documented everything you did. And I have all of it.”
He went pale. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not. She kept a safe deposit box. She wrote everything down. Dates. Times. What you said. What you demanded. She was building a case against you, Marcus. And now I have it.”
“That doesn’t prove anything.”
“It proves you’re a blackmailer. It proves you’ve been harassing a dying woman for money. It proves you’re the kind of man who sells out his own team and then tries to profit from their deaths.”
He took a step forward. His hand was shaking. “You think you can threaten me?”
“I’m not threatening you. I’m telling you what’s going to happen. You’re going to leave Jacksonville. You’re going to disappear. And you’re never going to contact me or my son again.”
“Or what?”
“Or I go to the authorities. Not with your forged letter — with Claire’s records. I’ll tell them everything. About the operation. About your role in it. About the men who died because of you. I’ll give them your name, your location, everything. And I’ll make sure they know exactly what kind of man you are.”
He stared at me. The cold mask was gone now. What was left was something smaller. Something afraid.
“You wouldn’t,” he said. “You’d be exposing yourself. Your own past. Your own secrets.”
“I don’t care about my secrets anymore. I care about my son. I care about keeping him safe. And if that means burning my own life to the ground to make sure you never touch him, then that’s what I’ll do.”
He looked at me for a long moment. I could see him calculating — weighing the risks, the costs, the odds. He was a survivor. He always had been. That was the problem.
“Fine,” he said finally. “Fine. I’ll go.”
“Leave tonight.”
“I said I’ll go.”
“Tonight. I want you out of Jacksonville before sunrise.”
He nodded. Then he turned and walked away, disappearing into the darkness at the end of the alley.
I stood there for a long time after he was gone. My heart was beating slow and steady. The old machinery was still humming inside me, ready and waiting. But I hadn’t used it. I hadn’t needed to.
I’d kept my promise.
I drove back to Sandra’s place and picked up Milo. He was asleep on the guest room bed, his glasses askew, a half-finished book on his chest. I stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him breathe.
He was safe. He was going to stay safe.
I woke him gently and told him we were going home. He didn’t ask questions. He just gathered his things and followed me out to the truck, his eyes still heavy with sleep.
On the drive home, he looked at me and said, “Did you take care of what you needed to take care of?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I did.”
He nodded. Then he leaned his head against the window and closed his eyes, and within minutes he was asleep again.
I looked at him — at the curve of his cheek, the way his glasses sat slightly crooked on his nose, the gentle rise and fall of his chest. And I thought about Claire. About the letter she’d left me. About the promise she’d made me make.
Don’t let Marcus hurt him. Don’t let him hurt you.
I hadn’t. I’d found a way to protect him without becoming the thing I’d spent four years trying to leave behind.
The next morning, I called the bank and arranged to close the safe deposit box. I gathered all of Claire’s records and put them in a fireproof safe at the back of my closet. If Marcus ever came back — if he ever broke his word — I’d be ready.
But I didn’t think he would. Men like Marcus were survivors. They knew when to run.
The weeks passed. October turned into November. The leaves changed color and fell from the trees, and the air grew cold and crisp. Milo entered his potato battery in the district science fair and won second place. He was disappointed, but I told him that second place was better than first — it meant he had something to work toward.
He rolled his eyes at that, the way twelve-year-olds do, but I could see the smile he was trying to hide.
Thanksgiving came and went. We spent it at Sandra’s place, along with a few of the other families from the gym. Sandra made a turkey that was slightly too dry, and Milo ate three pieces of pumpkin pie, and I sat at the table with a glass of apple cider and watched my son laugh with the other kids.
It was a good day. A simple day. The kind of day I’d been trying to build for years.
In December, I got a letter from Tommy.
Garrett,
Just wanted to let you know: I saw Marcus a few weeks ago. He was passing through town, didn’t stay long. Said he was heading west. Said he wasn’t coming back.
I don’t know what you said to him, but whatever it was, it worked.
Take care of yourself. Take care of that boy of yours.
Tommy
