In Her Wake (Ten Tiny Breaths 0.5)(35)

I’m so going straight to hell.

Livie’s words cut into my private, dirty thoughts. “That, and making enough money to move out.”

All thoughts of Kacey’s body vanish. “Where does your sister want to move?”

“Oh, who knows? It’s not likely to happen. I just started high school and my uncle gambled our inheritance away, so it’s not like we can support ourselves.”

Strike two for Uncle Raymond.

I hesitate before I ask, “What happened to your parents? . . . My child.” Man, that sounded awkward.

Her voice drops, sadness filling it. “They died in a car accident, a little over three years ago now. A bunch of college guys, coming home from a party. Driving drunk.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I swallow, afraid to ask the question but knowing I’ll probably never get another chance like this. “Do you or your sister ever think about talking to them?”

“Well, we can’t. They died. Two of them did, anyway. One lived. I don’t know where he is now.”

“Perhaps it would give your sister some closure to see him. Talk to him?”

“Kacey?” Livie snorts. “No, I don’t think that’d help her. Kacey wants nothing to do with anything that reminds her of the accident. I don’t think she cares whether she lives or dies, to be honest.”

I could sit here all day with Livie, but I’m starting to get anxious, my eyes darting furtively through the crack. Any minute now, that priest is going to appear. I can’t be here when he does. “It sounds like you are a very good sister. She’s very lucky to have you.”

There’s a long pause and then I hear the low whisper. “I just want her to get better.”

So do I. “Say ten Hail Marys for your sister, Kacey.” And I will too, though I know she needs so much more than that.

“Thank you, Father.”

“No. Thank you, Livie.”

Chapter 18

January 2012

From what I can see, O’Malley’s isn’t a gym for the average Joe. That’s what the website says, anyway. This place focuses on high-endurance sports like boxing and MMA fighting. And the kickboxing classes that Kacey takes. Led by this jackass, I surmise, looking at the picture of a sweaty, rippled guy in nothing but shorts and covered in tattoos—I’m assuming it’s him—nailing his opponent in the face with his elbow.

To: Kacey Cleary

From: Jeff T.

Re: Strike combo from my match last week

Stay late and I’ll teach you how to do this. Just you and me.

Just you and me. “Fucking ass**le,” I mutter. What kind of coach sends pictures of himself to his students? A student. A beautiful red-haired girl named Kacey, with a chip on her shoulder. I’ve been good, staying away from Kacey and her family since the confessional hijack. Up until I read this email. It wasn’t hard to figure out where she goes. It’s the only gym of this kind in town.

The smell of sweat and cleaner hits my nostrils the second I step in.

“Doors close in fifteen,” the young punk behind the desk hollers at me, flexing his biceps—proudly on display in a wife-beater—as he sizes me up. I’ve got a sweatshirt on and the hoodie pulled over my head. Totally acceptable against the frigid blast of a winter storm outside right now.

I stifle my smirk. I’m twice the size of him. “Just wanted to check the place out, actually. Do you think you could give me a quick tour?”

He shrugs and then slides out of his chair, fingering the heavy gold chain around his neck as he comes around the counter, amplifying a swagger that he probably practices on a daily basis in front of his mirror. His pants hang halfway down his thighs, held up by a belt.

Sash and I used to make so much fun of those idiots.

“Where you from?”

“Detroit. What are the hours here?”

He starts rambling off information as he walks me through the main room, with the fighting ring and the punching bags. I’m beginning to think she’s not here, until we pass by a set of doors.

He skirts past it. “There’s a class going on in there right—”

“Great.” I push through the door and stick my head in. Three sets of guys square off against each other, practicing combat moves. And, in the corner, a red-haired girl punches the shit out of a sandbag.

Jesus.

I hear the desk clerk talking behind me but I ignore him, all my focus on Kacey as she hammers that bag over and over again like an unstoppable machine, sweat soaking through the pair of tight shorts and T-shirt she’s wearing, her muscles straining. And then she seems to decide her T-shirt is in her way because she stops just long enough to tear if off her body and whip it at the ground, leaving her in only those shorts and a cropped sports bra.

Giving seven sets of eyes one helluva body to look at. And they do.

The guy from the picture is holding the kick bag, a wide grin on his face as he watches her continue. Like he’s proud of her. Like he doesn’t feel all the rage and hurt and pain that I can feel radiating from her, all the way over here.

“Great job, Kacey!” He lets go of the bag, forcing her to stop, her chest heaving in and out as she attempts to catch her breath.

“Yo,” the idiot clerk behind me calls, loud enough to attract attention.

I duck out just as Kacey turns my way. That was close. “Thanks. I’ll be back later this week to sign all the papers,” I lie, taking long, fast strides out of the gym until I’m back in the safety of my car, my heart racing.