It was barely dawn. The original plan had been to start in the morning, but after leaving Debbie, she hadn’t been able to wait. With nothing to distract her, all she could think about was how Shane had abandoned her again.
At least the drive had been somewhat distracting. She’d listened to several episodes of the Freakonomics podcast, including some older ones she’d already heard. The host always had interesting questions and hypotheses to examine. And the show challenged her to pay attention and re-examine the world with data rather than assumptions. So she applied that to her current situation.
Assumption one: Shane still cared.
Data said: No. If he did, he wouldn’t have disappeared.
Assumption two: She sort of fit in with his family now.
Data said: No. If she did, Vanessa wouldn’t have said the things she’d said.
Assumption three: She was strong and resilient enough to move on.
Data said: Questionable. If she were, no amount of money from Dane would’ve made her go to Shane in the first place.
No matter what the financial considerations were, she shouldn’t have gone. She realized that now. Seeing Shane was like picking at a scab. If she’d just let it be, the wound would heal, and—eventually—the scar would fade. Why couldn’t she just remember that? Why did she harbor a pointless hope that maybe things would be different between them if she’d just give it another shot?
Ginger turned off the ignition in front of a modest three-story house. Her mom Zoe had inherited the property some years ago, and her parents had decided to retire there so they’d still be close enough that she could visit whenever she needed. Like now.
She frowned when she noticed a shiny Acura coupe. It wasn’t the kind of vehicle her parents would drive. They preferred something unassuming and practical. You couldn’t get too frivolous on a couple of teachers’ pensions.
Somebody knocked on her window. “Hey, sis.”
She got out and faced her half-brother. Trevor was in shorts and a pair of Nikes. Beads of sweat trickled down his unshaven face and heavily muscled torso. The skin on one shoulder was puckered from an old gunshot wound, a visual reminder that his job was dangerous even though her family did their best to pretend it wasn’t. “Isn’t it a little early for a morning run?”
“Nah. The best time of the day.” He grinned, his green eyes warm. “I’d give you a hug, but…”
She smiled. “Definitely not, you sweaty pig.”
“When did you come back?”
“To— No, yesterday.”
“Kinda unusual for you to take time off to visit the parents. Isn’t it busy season for bridezillas?”
She snorted. “I’m entitled to some family time.” Ginger popped her trunk and heaved out the lightest of the suitcases that were in it.
“Damn,” he said. “Didn’t anybody teach you how to pack?”
“I’m not a ‘one backpack’ kind of woman.”
“Yeah, but three bags?”
She shrugged. Normally she would’ve just brought an overnight, but most of her stuff was already in suitcases.
“How long are you going to stay?” he asked.
“Maybe a few days?”
Trevor shook his head, muttering under his breath. As he bent to pull the other two bags out of the trunk, the waistband of his workout shorts slipped lower, revealing dark bruises and fresh scar tissue. “Oh my gosh, what happened to you?” Ginger asked. When he hesitated, she said, “Is it classified?”
He smiled. “Nope. Got whacked in the butt by a door.”
“What kind of door leaves marks like that?”
“Now, that’s classified.” He winked, then carried her bags to the house.
Him and his clandestine work. Shaking her head, she followed him into the house.