Ambush (Michael Bennett #11)(39)

“You have to know what you’re fighting first, Nik,” I whispered.

I looked away, blinking, and let my gaze land on other homes, ones without the kind of memories that could gut me. When I was calm, I looked back at Nik’s.

No matter what, home remains home, and even though looking at it hurt, it also satisfied some part of me to take comfort in the familiar porch, the American flag, the white vinyl siding. All the ways in which Nik had made a home for himself and Ellen Ann and their son, Gentry.

I grabbed my duffel, and Clyde and I got out. When I slammed the truck door, a curtain twitched in the window, then the front door opened. Grams unlatched the screen as we reached the top step.

“It’s good to see you, Sydney Rose,” she said in a voice as dry as two twigs trying to spark fire. “Thought maybe you’d lost the address.”

Clyde and I stepped inside, and I embraced her. Her thin, strong arms wrapped around me, and even though she barely reached my shoulder, I felt like a child again, enfolded in her love. The house smelled warmly of lemon, and even out here I heard the kitchen clock drone its slow ticktock, as if time in this house passed differently, without the troubling madness of the outside world.

Still holding me, Grams said, “Ellen Ann’s out. She’ll be sorry she missed you.”

“Give her my love when she gets home.”

“You’re back to Denver a little soon, aren’t you?”

“Mexico beaches didn’t suit me.”

She stepped back and sized me up. Her eyebrows winged together.

“You get that black eye here or down there?”

“In Mexico. I fell and did a number on myself. Puncture wound near my rib cage. I’d love it if you’d take a look, make sure it’s clean.”

“Girl, you’ve never been a good liar.” Her eyes went to slits. “You weren’t on vacation.”

I had a mixed relationship with my grandmother. There was no doubt that she loved me and would fight to the death for me. But there was something wild and unearthly in her. Something elemental that I recoiled from, even as a child. As if a dangerous part of the Appalachian wildness was woven into her like a second skin. Grams was seventy-eight, and she hadn’t aged so much as gone dry, until what was left was bone and sinew and hardened will. There was never hiding anything from her, and now I saw in her dark eyes that she would see through whatever story I tried to concoct.

“I had things to take care of,” I said.

“Why Mexico?”

“I was looking for something.”

“And you’re going to tell me about it.”

“Some of it.”

She snorted. “Well, some will have to do. Come back to the bathroom. Let’s fix whatever’s broken so you can go off and break something else. You never were much for soft landings.”



When I lifted my shirt, Grams crabbed something about not running with scissors. But she made quick work of the knife injury. A wash, some ointment, and a bandage. She might have been less gentle than I would have wished, but I didn’t figure I had much call to complain.

“You got time for coffee?” she asked as she washed her hands.

I nodded. “We need to talk.”

In the rooster-themed kitchen with its blue walls and faded linoleum, I sat with Grams at the kitchen table. Clyde stretched out near my feet, ignoring Nik’s Doberman, Harvey, who took up a post at the back door. Grams had already brewed coffee, and now she placed a mug in front of me on the scarred oak table.

I watched as she pulled a plate of lemon scones from the oven. She set them, wrapped in a tea towel, on the table along with butter and a jar of homemade strawberry jam. We each took a scone and ate, and I closed my eyes as the warm pastry dissolved in my mouth, the bit of jam a sweet counterpoint.

“I’ve missed these,” I said.

“You know where to find us.”

“It’s still hard, coming here.”

“Hard shouldn’t scare you.”

I opened my eyes. Grams regarded me with the unsettling gaze of an owl—wise and predatory all at once. Intelligence with bite.

“Talk to me, Sydney Rose. And don’t give me any bullshit. Whatever secrets you got are as safe with me as with God.”

I considered that. Nik had told me never to share anything about the war, then turned around and proved to me how fucked up it was to hold everything inside. He’d refused to talk about combat even with other veterans who would understand. But I’d already opened up to Cohen. It came easier the second time.

“Did you hear about the RTD cop who was killed?” I asked. “Jeremy Kane?”

“It’s been all over the news.”

“I think his death might tie in with what I’m doing. Or what I’m trying to do.”

Grams studied me for a moment, then got up and refilled our coffee mugs, her movements quick and efficient. She set the coffee on the table and resumed her seat.

“Tell me,” she said.

So I did. A far more abbreviated version than what I’d shared with Cohen. I told her that bad things had gone down in Iraq and that I’d played an unwitting role in some of those things. That I’d been forced to leave an orphan behind. I told her that now some very bad men were looking for that boy. And that they were after me, too.