Outside the Lines (3 page)

I lead him back through the hall. “The doors all look the same, so look for the big yellow four,” I say, pointing to our room number. I push through the door and realize I don't know where I have a free desk. I decide to put him up front, next to the cabinet of curiosities. “This will be your desk, okay?”

He slips into the seat and sets the shark jaw on the desk in front of him.

I lean against my desk. “Did you bring your lunch, Sherm?”

He shakes his head.

As if on cue, the classroom door opens and Big Brother is back with a lunch card. “Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to . . .” He holds up the card between his index and middle fingers, and the light flashes off a chunky ring on his right pinky. It's identical to Sherm's, but heavier—proportionate to the size of his masculine hands. It has a topaz the same size as Sherm's diamond set in the center of the band.

“It's fine,” I say, pushing off my desk. “We were just taking the tour and getting Sherm settled.”

He moves deeper into the room and crouches in front of his little brother. “What you got there, champ?”

Sherm pulls the shark jaw closer without looking at his brother.

The older brother's mouth presses into a line, and concern creases the corners of his eyes as he slips the lunch card onto Sherm's desk and stands. The tension between them is so thick it's nearly choking me.

“Excellent, Sherm,” I say, tapping the card. “Now you won't have to miss out on our famous peanut butter and pickle sandwiches.”

Sherm's nose scrunches as he glances up to see if I'm serious. When he sees my grin, he smiles back.

“Yuck,” I say making a face. “I'm only joking. We're really having frogs' legs and fluff sandwiches.”

Sherm breaks into a giggle, his whole face lighting up for a second.

Big Brother's eyes pull into saucers as his gaze lifts to me. He opens his mouth as if he's going to say something, but then closes it and focuses back on his little brother. He grasps Sherm's shoulder and gives it a squeeze, making Sherm flinch. “I've got to go, but I'll be back when school gets out at two thirty. I want you to wait right here for me, okay? Not outside, but right here in your classroom.”

Sherm nods grimly, and it strikes me again how odd this whole situation is. Granted, I don't have a lot of experience in the classroom, and I know families come in all shapes and sizes, but there's definitely something off here.

“Okay, champ,” Big Brother says, moving toward the door. “See you in a few.” His eyes catch mine just as the door closes, and I curse under my breath at the prickle of goose bumps I feel.

I think I was in this very classroom when I had my first real crush. This feels exactly the same—weak knees, sweaty palms, pounding heart. This building must be some kind of time machine. The Hormone Portal. I step inside and am instantly transported back to prepubescence.

I shake the feeling away and move to my desk, pulling open Sherm's file. I scan the page and find it lists Robert Davidson in the Parent/Legal Guardian box of his paperwork.

Is that a father? Or guardian? Could it be Big Brother?

I can still feel the press of his gaze on my body. There's no doubt Big Brother is hot . . . in a frighteningly intense sort of way. But even if he was interested, then what? I'd be pretty shocked if dating the guardian of one of my students isn't grounds for getting fired—or at the very least, severely frowned upon. This is a tree I definitely shouldn't be barking up.

Especially because there's something about Big Brother that isn't quite right.

Maybe if I can get Sherm to talk, I can solve that particular mystery. I just hope it doesn't end with a call to child protective services.

At the bell, the door pushes open and students start to filter in. Most of the seats are full by the time a big boy with blond hair and freckles walks in like he owns the place. He seriously looks like he must have been held back a grade or two, because he's easily a head taller than anyone else in the class—which means he matches my five foot four. He stalks right up to Sherm. “Hey, dickhead. Get out of my seat.”

“Hey!” I sweep around my desk. “I put him in this seat. There's a free desk over there,” I say, pointing to a desk in the back, two rows over.

“Then he can take it,” the kid says, shoving Sherm's shoulder.

I take a deep breath and count to ten, praying for my inner teacher to show herself. This is exactly the kind of thing I was afraid of. I have no idea how to handle something like this. Do I make an example of him? Do I let it go?

Mom? Are you there? Help me out here.

Nothing. God, I miss her.

I glance at the new boy and the only thing I know for sure is that I have to get him out of the middle of this.

“What do you think, Sherm?” I ask with a nudge of my head toward the desk in the back.

He shrugs.

“Okay, cool. How about we move you over there? You can take the shark jaw, okay?”

He nods and slides out of the seat. Once we get him settled at his new desk, I come back to the front of the room.

“What is your name?” I ask the bully.

“Jason.”

I go to the desktop computer and pull up the roll. “Jason Harkin?” I ask.

He nods.

“Fabulous, Jason. I've just made you a date with Principal Richmond. He'll be expecting you in his office for first recess.”

But by the end of the day, it's clear Jason's trip to the principal's office didn't have the desired effect. Despite moving desks, Jason and two of his fifth-grade buddies make it a point to knock into Sherm every chance they get, including when he's eating, spilling his chocolate milk down the front of him. Sherm puts up a brave front, bless the scrawny little thing, but I pretty much want to die.

And he still hasn't said a word.

Despite desperately wanting to know why Sherm isn't speaking, I decide going on the offensive with a guy like Big Brother isn't likely to get me very far. Especially since I don't really know what questions I should be asking yet. Instead, I make myself busy with another student when his brother comes to pick him up at the end of the day and just watch their interaction.

But I can't keep my eyes off Big Brother's remarkable form, and I know he catches me staring when he glances over his shoulder as he's ushering Sherm out the door.

When they're gone, I shake his formidable image out of my mind and pull the lesson plans for the week toward me. I thumb through them. Mrs. Martin has everything for the next few weeks sorted for me, but I have to figure out how to teach it all without just reading from the textbook. It's late before I feel like I've got anything that will keep the kids interested.

When I get home, Dad's cruiser is already in the driveway. The second the front door swings open, I'm hit in the face with the smell of burning . . . everything.

“Dad?” I call.

He pokes his head around the corner of the kitchen door. “Adrianna! There you are! I decided to surprise you and cook dinner.”

“What are you making?” I ask, checking that the fire extinguisher is still in the holder near back the door on my way by.

“Well . . . it was going to be spaghetti and meatballs,” he says, gesturing to an empty skillet with an oily black film at the bottom, “but I realized about halfway in that meatballs are more than just balls of meat, and then I burnt them when I was trying to make garlic bread. So now it's just spaghetti, which is difficult to burn.”

He picks up the pot of boiling spaghetti by the handle, then and drops it, shaking his hand. “Jeez, that's hot.” I hand him a potholder, and he tips the spaghetti into the colander in the sink.

I dump the sliced tomatoes on the cutting board into the bowl of lettuce on the counter. “I could have made dinner when I got home, Dad.”

He gives me a crooked smile as he shakes out the spaghetti. “It was your first day at work. I wanted to do something nice for you.”

I peck his cheek, then pick up the salad bowl, grab the dressing from the fridge, and bring it to the table. Dad's there a minute later with two mounded plates of spaghetti with sauce. He drops one on the table in front of me and lowers himself into his chair at the end of the table with the other.

“I thought you said there was garlic bread,” I say, looking around the table.

The left side of his face squints in chagrin. “It burned while I was trying to save the meatballs.”

I can't stop the laugh that erupts out of me.

Dad raises his bushy eyebrows at me. “Poking fun at your poor old dad?”

“No, Dad.” I reach across and pat his hand. He's just so helpless. “This is awesome. Really. Thanks for cooking.”

Yep, this is why I'm here.

Rob

I wake up in a cold sweat, bound to my feet, the solid butt of my Glock G30S already firmly in my palm. But as I stab the gun into the dark of the room, the realization that it was only a dream seeps through my bones. I thought I'd been more successful than Sherm at shaking the image of what happened the night that goon came for us. Guess I was fooling myself.

Forgetting I killed a man with my bare hands isn't as easy as I'd hoped.

But I had no choice. He had a gun pointed at my baby brother. So I jumped him, snapped his neck.

And then we ran and never looked back.

I lower the gun, give my hammering heart a second to settle before fishing my sweatpants off the end of my bed and tugging them on. The floorboards groan under my weight as I stand.

I scrub the sweat off my face with a forearm, then glance to Sherm's bed. My heart shoots right back into overdrive when I see that his covers are in a pile on the floor and the twin bed is empty. I lead with the Glock as I move toward the window, but through the pounding of blood in my ears and my rasping breath, I hear soft voices coming through the wall from the bedroom next door. I brace my hands against the windowsill, drag in a measured breath.

When I've got the adrenaline rush mostly in check, I pad into the hall. I hesitate outside Lee's room when I hear Sherm's voice whispering, “. . . and she had a shark's jaw.”

I tip my forehead into my sister's door, relieved to hear my little brother's voice after so long.

“You know, there are real live sharks in the ocean right out there,” Lee answers, her voice just above a whisper.

“Seriously?” Sherm asks. There's the awe of only the truly innocent in his voice.

I shove the Glock into the waistband of my sweats, brace a hand against the wall outside their door, hang my head. When I was nine, I was still innocent too. Sixteen years later, I can't even see innocent in the rearview mirror anymore.

“Seriously,” Lee answers. “Maybe we can go out in a boat and see one.”

When I open the door and peek through, the moonlight illuminates Sherm, on his stomach under Lee's covers. Lee's on her side, her head propped on an elbow, rubbing his back.

It shouldn't surprise me that he came to her when he was scared, but it stings a little that the thing he was scared of was probably me.

“Why don't you try going back to sleep,” Lee says. “You've got school tomorrow.”

Sherm squirms deeper into the pillow. “Lee?” he asks, his voice muffled.

“What, Sherm?” she answers, laying her head down next to his.

There's weight to the silence before Sherm asks, “Are they coming?”

My rib cage tightens, making my next breath rasp loudly in the cold silence of the dark hallway.

“We're safe here, Sherm,” Lee answers. “I promise.”

“When can we go home?” he whispers.

There's a long second where Lee doesn't answer. When she finally does, it's on a weary sigh. “I wish I knew, buddy.”

The sadness in her voice tugs at the deepest part of me. I need to go back and set things right in Chicago before I can bring my family home. I haven't told her my plan yet because I know she's going to be all kinds of pissed that I'm leaving her here to deal with the kids. My plan needs to be ironclad before I break it to her. I need her to believe they'll be right behind me.

I watch Sherm roll onto his back. We're both the spitting image of our old man, except my whiskey-colored eyes are more jaded. I think that happened somewhere between the time I put a knife into my “uncle” and when I ordered my first hit.

I back away from Lee's room and stand with my hand on the knob for a long time before heading to the door at the end of the hall. I squeeze through into the tight staircase to the widow's walk. When I push out the door, the night air is cold on my bare chest and shakes the last remnants of sleep from my system. I pull the Glock out of my waistband, rest it on my thigh as I prop myself into the corner of the rail.

Earth and sea seem to have struck a deal. White surf rolls rhythmically onto the beach below, giving back instead of taking. The breeze sweeps my sweaty hair back from my face. I lift my gaze into the blanket of stars in the vast black sky overhead, wishing the universe could tell me what it's going to throw at us next.

Never in a million years did I see my life leading me here. Grant is right. This
is
the middle of fucking nowhere. On top of that, we've got a whole set of unknown rules we need to live by now. It would take so little to blow this whole thing out of the water. We might not even know it's happened until it's done: an innocent comment to the wrong person, a nosy neighbor asking tough questions, or God forbid Grant should piss off the wrong woman.

None of us can risk getting involved with the locals on any level. Even a casual hookup could destroy everything.

At the thought of hooking up, a pretty, heart-shaped face framed in soft blond waves, with wide-set blue eyes and freckles flashes in my mind.

Adri Wilson.

Maybe it's just that she's not hiding behind layers of makeup like most every other woman I've ever known, but there's something so open and genuine about her. And the way she was with Sherm . . . how she made him laugh . . .

More than anything, he needs something normal right now. She could be the one to snap him out of this.

Or she could be the one who brings us down.

It would be all too easy for him to slip around her. I need to be sure that doesn't happen.

***

I stagger out of the shower, brace my hands on the sink, glare at the pair of bloodshot eyes glaring back at me. Morning is not my friend. In our business, things generally happen between sundown and sunrise, so that's my schedule. But Lee is insisting I handle Sherm's day to day, which means, despite the three shots of Jack it took to get me back to sleep last night, I'm already showered at seven thirty. Automatically, I look for my tube of hair gel before remembering I don't have any. My hair was the first thing the relocation consultants changed, tossing my gel and going for a more standard “tousled” look. I comb a damp hand through it and call it done.

All there is in my drawers are the black slacks I arrived in, a few pairs of jeans, a handful of plain T-shirts in various colors, and a half-dozen wrinkled button-up shirts that they gave me at Safesite. I haven't bought anything new because I don't know what the fuck to buy. Our guys always handled making sure Pop's and my stuff was clean and ready to go. They'd take it all to Sadie's because we could trust her. I don't even know where to get stuff cleaned around here. There's a laundry room downstairs. Maybe Lee can figure it out. I grab a pair of jeans and a random button-up shirt and yank them on.

I don't know how the fuck to look or act around here. All I know is, whenever I leave this house, people stare.

Maybe it's because they know we don't belong here.

Lee is standing at the stove in her green plaid bathrobe and fluffy slippers when I trudge downstairs, buttoning my shirt. Sherm is in a kitchen chair, his arms folded in front of him and his forehead resting on them. Neither of them appear to have gotten much sleep last night either.

Lee's puffy eyes cut to me as I tug open the fridge. “You look like crap.”

“That good?” I ask, pouring a glass of OJ.

She pulls a sizzling strip of bacon out of the skillet with a fork. “Not really. I was being nice.”

“Appreciate that,” I tell her, taking a swig.

“I need the car later. Are you coming right back after you drop Sherm off?”

I shrug. “Figured I'd drop him on my way to check out the south side of the island.”

She sets the fork down, plants her fists on her hips. “And what, exactly, are you looking for?”

My jaw tenses. I have to fight to keep my temper in check, because I have no fucking clue. I've never felt so helpless in my entire life. All I know is I have to keep this crew safe until I can bring them home, but I can't even begin to see what that looks like. “Anything that might be a problem for us.”

Sherm lifts his head, splitting a wide-eyed glance between us. Lee shoots me a warning glare as she pours a bowl of beaten eggs into the skillet. She's quiet as she stirs them around, but finally says, “Rob, if you keep looking for trouble, you're going to find it. Just let it lie, okay? No one here knows who we are. Don't go giving them a reason to want to find out.”

My hand tightens on the glass. I force myself to relax before I crush it.

She dishes eggs onto a plate and slides it in front of Sherm. “Want some?” she asks, lifting the pan.

I shake my head. I have no appetite.

When Sherm's done eating, Lee loads him in the car and hands him his backpack as I climb into the driver's seat.

“There are pencils and erasers in the front pocket,” she tells him, then turns to me. “Find out what other school supplies he needs and I'll pick them up when I'm out.”

“Yes, boss.”

She gives me a measured look as she closes Sherm's door, as if trying to gauge how far off the reservation I am. I'm going to have to come clean with her soon.

As we pull onto the dirt road at the end of our long driveway, I can't shake the feeling we're being watched. I rarely went anywhere in Chicago alone. If I was out on business, there were always one or two crew members with me. If it was personal, they were still there, just more discreetly. Their whole job was to watch me, but this feels different.

I'm being paranoid. I know that. We were flown from Chicago to DC eight hours after everything went bad. We spent nearly two weeks at the Witness Security Safesite and Orientation Center, where they made us into new people, complete with a new look, fictitious history, and all the documentation we could possibly need to back it up. I've got death certificates to prove our parents were killed in a car accident two years ago. According to the paperwork, I was awarded custody of Sherm by the court. If anyone asks, we decided to move from Philadelphia because we have family in Clearwater, Florida.

They originally talked about splitting the adult children up because our group was too conspicuous, but when Lee found out that meant we'd never be able to contact each other, she put her foot down and they agreed to keep us together. They laid our new birth certificates and licenses, our fake educations and histories, out in front of us and grilled us on our own and each others' until we could recite them backwards and forwards. All of us except Sherm, that is, who wouldn't talk. They called in their kid shrink, who labeled it PTSD. Said he'll need treatment and gave us a name of a guy in Tampa.

Once the Feds deemed the WITSEC makeover complete, they handed us our new bank account with seventy-five thousand in seed money and direct deposit stipends to cover anything we'll need for the next eighteen months, and four gray rolling suitcases full of new vanilla clothes for our new vanilla lives. Then they put us in a black Expedition with tinted windows, drove us to the airport, and handed us plane tickets. Three hours later, when we landed in Tampa, the deputy marshal who met us there handed off the keys to the car and house, four cell phones, and a printed map to Port St. Mary, then sent us on our way.

Pop gave them what they wanted. The trial's over and all the bad guys are in jail. The Feds couldn't give a shit about us now. They're not watching.

But that doesn't stop me from scrutinizing every car we drive by, or every pedestrian who chooses the moment we're passing to step into the road. In my world, everyone's a potential threat. Old habits die hard.

We reach the elementary school a few blocks from the center of town, which consists of a post office, police station, market, gas station and auto shop, and random white church. When we walk into Sherm's classroom, his teacher is in the back. She's slender and on the short side—I tower over her by nearly a foot—but she's athletic-looking, like she takes care of herself. I can't stop myself from admiring the view as she organizes books on the shelf.

She turns and smiles, and I'm struck again by how genuine she seems. I've spent most of my life learning to read people. I've heard the term
open book
, but personally, I've never met anyone who wasn't hiding something. Usually many somethings. On more occasions than I can count, my life has depended on my ability to read between the lines and gain the upper hand.

I'd wager my left nut this is a woman without secrets.

She comes to where we're standing and looks down at Sherm. “Ready for day two?”

Sherm just looks at her, then the shark jaw.

She steps to the side and retrieves it off the shelf under her desk, then hands it to him. “You want to hold on to this.”

Sherm takes it from her. “There are real sharks in the ocean near our house,” he says in a voice that's little more than air.

I try to keep my expression even, but no one other than Lee has gotten a word out of Sherm since we left Chicago.

Her eyes widen a little, flick to me again as if she understands the significance of him finally speaking. “There are nearly fifty types of sharks indigenous to the Gulf of Mexico. Big ones, small ones. Man eaters,” she adds with a visible shudder.

“I'm going in a boat to see them,” Sherm says.

“Better you than me,” she answers with a cringe, then turns to me. “Can I speak with you a moment?”

When those big, blue eyes connect with mine, an electric current crackles under my skin and my eyes lower against my will. No one's ever been able to force me to drop my gaze before. Not holding another's eyes is a sign of weakness—something I could never afford to be. But there's something disarming in that searching gaze. It's almost as if she could glean all my secrets with just a glance.

“Sure.”

She looks down at Sherm. “If you want to look at the other stuff on this shelf, or at the books in back, that would be great. I need to talk to your brother for a sec, okay?”