Chapter Eleven
Ana
Ten years ago…
The cake says “Sweet Sixteen” and as I sit with a group of ten friends around the long table in their family dining room, I watch Lara Callahan’s mother attempt to light the candles. When she fails, Lara’s father rushes to the aid and finishes the job. He’s a handsome guy, a banker, I heard from someone I think, and he waves his hands for everyone to applaud his efforts. We comply, of course, happily cheering, and while I am giddy with delight for Lara, there is this gnawing sensation in my belly that I cannot deny.
There are simply moments in life when I feel the loss of my mother and father more than others. I have Kurt, I do, and I’m thankful for that, but my sweet sixteen was me attempting to complete a drill to get to my cake.
Everything is about life or death, not just life.
Because he’s the reason my mother was killed. He told me that himself. His enemies killed her. His enemies could come for me one day. The way they came for her.
It’s hours later when I return to The Ranch and walk into the kitchen to find Kurt sitting at the table, drinking coffee, and working on his MacBook. My agitation at him is an abrupt punch that transforms into a choppy sensation of anger. I round the counter and grab a protein drink from the fridge, because God forbid I drink a soda. At least I had cake and ice cream tonight.
I shut the fridge door and he’s standing there, big and intimidating as ever. “Please don’t tell me I have to pay for the party with a four-mile run. I ran five this morning.”
“Someone came home with attitude.”
“Who killed my mother?”
His eyes narrow and his energy pops but his expression never changes. “We’ve had this conversation. My enemies.”
“Who were the enemies?”
“They’re dead, Ana. That’s all you need to know.”
“Then why are you still so afraid they’ll come for me?”
“Not them. Someone else.”
“Who?”
“There are bad people in this world.”
“Are you one of them?”
His jaw tics. “Some people think I am.”
“Are you?”
“Sometimes.”
“Then why am I here?”
“Because you’re my daughter.”
“But I’m not really, am I?”
He stares at me for several beats, turns on his heels, and walks back to the table where he sits down. That gnawing sensation in my belly is back, but stronger now, with a sense of loss and guilt with it. Yes, he’s my stepfather, and no we are not blood, but he didn’t have to take me in or protect me. Without him, I’d be alone. And I do love Kurt.
I set the protein drink down and walk to the table, claiming the seat across from him. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he states, tapping the table. “Do not ever be sorry for asking questions and excepting answers. It’s your right.”
“Who were they?” I demand.
“It’s also my right not to answer. They’re dead. That’s all you need to know.”