I walk to the patio, open the door, and follow Candace outside. She’s not on the porch and I shut the door behind me, walking down the stairs to spy her in the center of the yard, standing under the willow tree. Her thinking tree. Memories jostle inside me, punching me with the blow of what I had and had lost.
I close the space between me and her, my boots landing heavy on the ground, but Candace doesn’t turn. She’s tormented over the idea of her mother’s death being murder, worried about her father, and scared. Of course, she’s scared. It’s her fear I want to affect, her fear she has to set aside, or it will dictate every moment forward. Fear is a weapon the enemy uses against us. Once I’m behind her, my hands come down on her arms and I lean in, my lips by her ear. “I’m going to kill them all for you,” I vow.
She twists around to face me. “Not if I do it first.”
There she is, the fighter she was raised to be. The fighter I fell in love with, proving that she was right. I’d forgotten just how strong she is, just what a fighter lives inside her.
“And you can stop telling me you’re a killer like it’s a bad thing,” she adds. “I’m glad you’re a killer. In fact, it’s rather endearing right about now. You can teach me to be one, too. I want these people to pay.”
“And they will. At my hand. You have my word.”
“I might need to do it myself,” she retorts. “Was my mother murdered?”
“I don’t know, baby.”
“Do you think she was murdered?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think my father knows she was murdered?”
“We don’t know that she was murdered,” I remind her, “and I find it hard to believe that your father could know such a thing and still get involved with these people.”
“I find it hard to believe that he’s the one who pulled you out of the operating room and shoved a gun in your hand, but he did.”
“I always wanted to fight. You knew that. And I am certain that your father felt like the missions we were running were for the greater good.”
“But illegal?”
“He got out when we got off the government books. I did not.”
“Because he wanted you to join Tag and keep the program going,” she reminds me. “Because of him.”
“I made my choices,” I say. “No one owns my decisions but me. And thankfully,” I add, “I became the man well-equipped to protect you and him.” Almost as if by his design, I think, but it’s a ridiculous thought I push aside.
“Pocher all but said that I’m the election and re-election strategy,” she says. “I just won’t live to see re-election.”
“Because you won’t be married to him and he won’t be president.”
“I feel trapped.”
“You aren’t trapped.”
“Until my father’s safe, I am,” she argues. “You know I am, and when will that ever be?”
“When I end this. We’ve talked about this.”
“In the meantime, I have to pretend to be his woman. You know I have to, I know you know, we’re just both in denial right now. I don’t know how I’m going to pretend with that man. How I’m going to let him touch me.”
“You won’t have to,” I assure her, but she doesn’t hear me.
She’s still talking, still panicked, her voice lifting with every word. “I need to do something. I need to do it now.” She turns and paces a few steps before facing me again. “We have to do something now.” She holds out her hands. “I’m shaking and that’s not fear. I’m angry. Okay, a little afraid, but angry, too.”
I close the space between us and catch her hand. “Then let’s go do something. Let’s go shoot something.”
“Gabriel or Pocher?” she asks, not the least bit of hesitation in her at this idea. That’s the thing about fighting for your life. You become willing to do whatever it takes to keep yours. That’s not who I’ll let her become. That’s who I already am, and then some. The then some part, the dark, ugly part, I don’t want her to see. And I damn sure won’t let her become like me.
“A target,” I correct. “Let’s go to the shooting range. That’s what I do when I need to rein in my temper and plan what comes next. I practice. I make myself better. Better at shooting. Better at hitting my targets. Better at killing who I want to kill. Did you up your karate training?”
“No. Not really.”
“We need to fix that. I need to know you can protect yourself. If you’re going to be in this life with me—”
“I am,” she says, grabbing my waist. “Do you hear me, Rick Savage? I am. You don’t get to decide that I can’t handle it. You don’t get to walk out to save me. That clearly didn’t work and considering my mother might have been killed, I can’t be a princess in a glass tower. I have to be—”