The Distraction (29 page)

T
wo weeks passed. Enough time for the dust to settle from the night on the bridge and for me to start to pick up the pieces of my life. Reznik was dead. The guy I'd once known as Trevor had been moved to a secure facility for medical treatment. Amy and Paisley had started therapy—a referral Marcos had given them after what had happened. So far they seemed to like it.

Without the imminent threat posed by William MacAfee, I had no reason not to go back to work. Derrick begrudgingly took me back yet again, making more than one comment about how high maintenance an employee I was. I made up for it working overtime, every day, until my hands were so sore I could barely make fists.

It was better than going back to my apartment alone.

I didn't see Thomas, but I thought of him often. Mike called to check on me every few days. He told me that Alec wasn't being held in witness protection anymore, but that the FBI was still running him ragged in preparation for the trial.

He didn't mention his name again.

And in every free moment I did what I could for Amy. I cooked, cleaned, even got their groceries so that they could focus on what they needed to: each other.

But I thought of Alec constantly. I dreamed of him every night. When my mom had died, I woke up for months having forgotten that she was gone. Life went back to normal; I felt okay. And then reality would come crashing down, just as hard as it had that first day without her. It was sort of like that with Alec.

Except life didn't go back to normal. I didn't stop wondering where he was or if he was safe or what he was eating for lunch. The memories of his mouth on my neck, and his hand on my stomach, and his knees behind mine when we slept didn't fade away. In my worst moments I grieved for him, in my best, I yearned for him. But I never sought him out, nor did he come to me.

And then one night I came home from work, and all the things I'd brought to his apartment were stacked outside my door. The pictures I'd hung on the walls, the pots and pans, placed neatly in boxes. Even the goddamn spice rack.

That was when I really knew it was over.

*   *   *

“Best tacos ever,” Jacob announced as he pushed back his empty plate. It was our second meeting since his new foster placement with his sister, and he'd made a special request for the Taco Bus.

“Agreed,” I told him, though I'd hardly touched mine.

“So how's everything going?” He looked smug, even with the salsa smeared across his cheek. He'd put on some much-needed weight, even in the last two weeks, and his eyes weren't as untrusting as they'd been before.

I chuckled. “You
my
advocate now?”

“How are your grades?” he continued, doing his best adult voice impression. “Are you eating your vegetables? How do you like your new house?”

I laughed harder. This was the real Jacob; the kid who acted like a kid. He was a goofball when he wasn't worried about protecting his sister.

“My grades are excellent,” I told him. “I eat only broccoli and Brussels sprouts, and my apartment is . . .”

Lonely.

“Great,” I lied.

“You're gross,” he said, making a face. “Lucia made us Brussels sprouts one night. They're like alien heads.”

“That's why I love them.”

Now it was his turn to laugh.

“Serious question,” I said. “Are you happy now with your sister?”

He nodded, his face turning serious. “It's my job to take care of her.”

Trevor—because I preferred to think of him as Trevor, not as William MacAfee—flashed across my mind. Jacob had already gone to extremes to protect his sister. I hoped he never felt the pull to do something as drastic as Trevor had.

“You kind of manipulated us to get what you wanted, do you know what that means?”

Jacob stared down at his lap.

“Yeah.”

“You could have gotten hurt, you know.
She
could have gotten hurt.”

He chewed on the corner of his lip.

“But we weren't, and now we live in the same house.”

It was hard to reason with that.

He looked up at me, brown eyes bright with curiosity.

“Who takes care of you?”

I shifted in my seat.

“I take care of myself.”

“Yeah, but isn't there somebody else? I've got Sissy. Who's got you?”

Now it was my turn to look away. I wasn't seeing Trevor anymore, but a man who could level me with his eyes and make me feel safe even as the world as I knew it was crumbling to pieces.

But he was gone now.

“You don't need to worry about me.”

“But someone does, I bet,” he said.

His statement hung between us, without an answer.

“Can I have more tacos?” he finally asked.

My fingers slowly unclamped from the hem of my shirt, hidden beneath the table.

“Of course you can,” I said.

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