Razed (Barnes Brothers #2)(60)

“It was a long time ago.” Then she scowled. “I don’t know why people say that. Eighteen years ago, eighteen months, eighteen days. It still hurts. I still miss him. I remember on graduation day, I looked out, halfway still expecting to see him, camera in hand.” A grin curved her lips, a little bittersweet, as she looked up at him. “You and he would have had that in common. He almost always had a camera in hand. I kept looking for him, even though I knew he couldn’t be there. I was . . . alone. I had nobody.”

“Your mother?”

A shutter fell across her eyes.

“My mom.” She rolled onto her back and she snorted. After a moment, she turned her head and stared at him, her face barely visible in the faint light. “You know the term sperm donor? Well, in this case, I guess I had an egg donor. She wasn’t exactly fit for motherhood. I don’t remember much about her from when I was little. When they divorced, my father filed for sole custody and won. I was ten when he died. I don’t remember anything, but she was f*cked up enough that she wasn’t considered an acceptable guardian. I ended up in in foster care.”

Zane frowned. “Wasn’t there anybody else?”

“No.” The word was short, clipped. She sat up, drawing her knees to her chest. “There had been arrangements. My dad and his business partner, Otto, Otto’s wife Beth, they were all good friends. If my dad died, Otto and Beth were going to be my guardians. But Otto had died, and well . . .” She shrugged. “I ended up going into foster care. I guess Beth had her hands full. She’d just lost her husband. Didn’t want to take care of me and her four-year-old son. I don’t blame her.”

You should, Zane thought, but he kept it behind his teeth. How could somebody just let an orphaned, scared girl go off into foster care?

Keelie looked back at him, a sad smile on her face. “It’s okay,” she said, reaching out to push his hair back. “She was young. Grieving. It was a hard thing for her.”

“You were a kid. It was just as hard, if not harder on you. And you ended up alone, in foster care.”

She shrugged. “Yeah. But foster care wasn’t the worst thing that ever happened to me.”

“Don’t tell me the story gets worse,” he muttered, focusing on the ceiling.

An odd, almost strangled tension blanketed the room. Slowly, he sat up and shifted his attention to Keelie. She was twisting her hands in the sheets, over and over.

“Keelie?”


*

Keelie kept her face carefully blank as she turned away and focused on the wall.

Twilight had fallen and the light streaming in through the narrow slit in the curtains was that surreal shade of pink gold. Almost unearthly. She’d always loved sunsets here in Arizona. Grabbing the sheet they’d kicked off, she wrapped it around her toga-style and moved to the window, brushing the curtains back enough that she could stare outside. She could see the mountains, see the golden gleam of the fading sun.

But the view gave her no peace.

“Talk to me,” Zane murmured from behind her.

“You sure you want to hear this?” she asked softly.

His hands closed over her shoulders. She leaned against his heated chest and realized how cold she was. “If I didn’t want to hear, I wouldn’t have asked.”

“Hmmm.” She closed her eyes, rested her head against his chest. He slid one arm around her waist and she snuggled into his comforting warmth.

He’d listen. She knew that.

She could tell him. The abbreviated version, the white-washed one.

She could even do what she’d never done—tell him everything.

She wasn’t sure she was ready for any of the above, though. Sliding a hand down, she covered his hand with hers.

“Some kids spend so many years in foster care, they just get used to it. Others, they daydream—they spend their time dreaming about a parent—a mom or dad who’ll show up out of the blue. I knew my dad was dead, but I had no idea what had really happened with my mom. Not then. I had a caseworker. And . . . there was Mr. Jenkins. He’d come out to see me.” She smiled, remembering his smooth bald head and his wide, almost startled blue eyes. “I liked Mr. Jenkins. I didn’t really know who he was—why he was there, what he did. But he was always checking up on me. Made sure I had toys or electronics or whatever kids my age wanted . . . for me it was books. Art supplies. He made sure I was happy, or as happy as I could be. Made sure that I had clothes I liked. The caseworkers would change and my foster families would change, but he was always there. I’d even daydream that maybe he was my fairy godfather or something—helping me look for a home. He was there the day she showed up, though. And I figured out real fast he wasn’t out there waiting for her.”

“Who?”

Keelie angled her head around. “My mom.”

“Your mom?”

“Yeah.” She looked back out the window. “I’d been in foster care for four years when she showed up, out of the blue. I was sitting outside at a picnic table talking to Mr. Jenkins about school clothes and music and he was telling me about his granddaughter and we were having a nice time. And then there she was. My mom. I didn’t even know who she was.

“My mother,” she murmured again. “Mrs. Katherine Marie Vissing.”

It had been a punch in the face, seeing the woman climb from the back of the shiny black car. The coat of paint had gleamed so bright, Keelie would have been able to see her face in it. Her mother had stood there, posing, for just a moment.