Wherever She Goes(28)

I’d been determined to prove him wrong. I practiced shooting until my shoulder ached. I ran until I collapsed from exhaustion. I lifted weights until I tore muscles. And still he talked about that damned desk job, tossing around visions of Silicon Valley like it was Disney World. Which it had been, to him—the dream of a safe and successful life for his daughter.

I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t understand.

I heft the gun—a Glock 19—and I remember the day Ruben tried to hand me a Ruger LC9. Until then, I’d worked from my laptop, hacking security systems so his group could break in. That day, two members were out sick, right before a massive job.

“We just need eyes on the ground,” Ruben said. “The same thing you do from your computer, except IRL.”

He actually said “IRL” as if we “tech geeks” spoke in text acronyms.

“You’ll get your cut, plus one of theirs,” he said.

“I want both of theirs.”

He laughed. “You can’t do the job of two—”

“If I can, you’ll pay me both their shares?”

He agreed . . . and he paid out. After that, I was no longer sitting on my laptop. I learned how to wield a set of lock picks. I learned how to case a property. I learned how to steal . . . IRL, as he’d put it.

Yet when he’d tried to hand me the Ruger, I refused.

He rolled his eyes. “Let me guess. Army Girl needs a bigger gun.”

“No, ‘Army Girl’ doesn’t carry a gun. That escalates a situation.”

“That’s the idea, kid.”

We argued. I won, and never once did I regret being unarmed. Not even after the last job, when the guy who was playing “eyes on the ground” screwed up, and the returning homeowner shot me in the shoulder. Afterward, Ruben said, “I bet you wish you’d had a gun for that.”

No, I was glad I hadn’t, or I might have returned fire, and a guy defending his property did not deserve that. I did deserve what I got, and that awareness proved I was no longer the angry kid who signed on with Ruben.

It was the proverbial wake-up call, not even the shot itself so much as what followed—the realization that I couldn’t check into a hospital. Not with a gunshot wound. Ruben knew people. Doctors, or those who passed for doctors, because honestly, someone who takes cash for off-the-books medical care has probably lost his license, and not through a tragic miscarriage of justice. So I pay the price, with the pain in my shoulder as a constant reminder of a choice I made.

I put the gun into my purse, and my phone rings, making me jump. I look to see an unfamiliar number. I answer.

“Aubrey?” a woman’s voice asks.

“Yes?”

“It’s Gayle. Gayle Lansing. I wanted to thank you for the flowers.”

It takes a minute to realize what she’s talking about. Hell, it takes a minute to remember who she is. Standing here with a gun, among the ghosts of my storage locker, I am someone else. I am the Aubrey who’s never had a husband, never imagined she would have one, certainly not a woman who envisioned she’d someday have an ex-husband with a girlfriend.

I cover my hesitation with a babble of “Oh, you’re welcome” and “Thank you again for taking Charlie.” That goes on for a few exchanges—her with “I was happy to” and me thanking her again and her assuring me it’s all good.

Then she says, “I wanted to ask you a favor. About this weekend. Is there any chance Paul can keep Charlie for Saturday?”

“Keep her?”

“I know he brings her over first thing Saturday morning, but it’s my daughter’s birthday, and we were going horseback riding. Charlie would love it.”

My hackles rise. I force them down. Gayle isn’t inventing special treats to woo my daughter. She’s taking her daughter for her birthday and asking Charlotte to join.

Still, I can’t resist saying, “I don’t think she’s old enough for horses.”

Gayle laughs. “Oh, of course, she isn’t going to ride by herself. She’ll be with Paul. And I haven’t mentioned it to her, so if you would rather not, I completely understand. Libby would love to have her along, though, and we could bring Charlie to you first thing Sunday morning.”

“Why not Saturday night?”

There’s a pause. Then, “The horseback riding is in Wisconsin, so it’s a bit of a drive. I know you had Charlie this week for an extra night, so I thought you might like the evening to yourself. We’ll bring her first thing.”

She’s being reasonable. Perfectly reasonable. Which only makes some childish part of me dig in her heels and want to be unreasonable. That extra night had been a bonus, not a chore, and I will take every one with my daughter that I can. Also why the hell didn’t she ask this sooner? It’s Friday night, for God’s sake. I might have had our weekend planned.

Except I didn’t, and the reason she’s asking now is because she’s met me. We have exchanged our peace offerings—she got me the princess tea reservation and I sent flowers. She has to have been worried about me, what kind of person I’d be, how I’d treat her, and now all is fine, so she’s taking a chance on asking for Charlotte to come to her daughter’s party.

Yet even as I calm myself down, there’s a part of me that cannot help but wonder whether I’m misreading this entirely.