Page 85 of Piece Us Together
I used to fucking know better.
From one breath to the next, I have Nolan pressed behind me against the door, my gun pulled from its holster and aimed at the stranger standing in the hall. “Who the fuck are you?”
He puts his hands up, eyes wide. “Woah there. I’m—”
“Dad? Oh, shit! Wait, Maison!” Casey comes running, skidding to a stop in front of my gun. I angle it so it’s no longer pointed at him and make a mental note to give him a strict talking-to laterabout doing something stupid like throwing himself in front of a fucking gun. “He’s my dad. Maison. Stop. He’s my dad.”
I blink at him, my mind spinning the information. The first conclusion has my gut sinking. “Casey, you can’t do that. What did you do?Fuck. Fucking hell—does Jake know—the head will—”
“Jesus Christ, put the fucking gun down, Beckett!” Jake barks, the man suddenly appearing from around the corner, one hand in the air toward me like he’s trying to calm a wild animal. “He’s safe. It’s good. Put the damn gun away and I’ll explain.”
I hesitate, mostly just to give myself a second to gather myself, then lower my gun and give the man—Casey’s fucking dad, apparently—a small nod. “I would apologize, but I’m not sorry.”
He smirks. “You must be Maison. Can I shake your hand, or will that get the gun involved again?”
“I’ll allow it,” I say as lightheartedly as I can after pointing my gun at someone I would have shot in a heartbeat. Just to clear things up, I settle my gun back in the holster before offering the man my hand. Now that I’m calm, I remember the profile for Casey. His dad is former military and is—well,wasmost likely, if he’s here now—the town’s sheriff. He deserves some respect, even if he really, really,reallyshouldn’t fucking be here. “I actually am sorry.”
“I’m not. A guy like you protecting my son is exactly what I want. Not to mention, you quite literally saved his life. That earns you a near-shooting moment or two.”
“It was a joint effort. If he wasn’t as strong as he was on his own, we wouldn’t have been able to rescue him.” I give Casey a soft smile. He’ll always have a little place in my heart next to Carter’s bigger one. “He also gave my brother something to fight for when he felt like he had nothing. I’ll appreciate that forever.”
“This is getting sappy,” Casey mumbles. “Can it stop?”
Jake chuckles. “Yes, it can. I don’t know what the two of you have been up to these past few days, but I’ve got two warnings for you. Carter is asking questions and Keats is acting fucking weird.”
My gut sinks. Not just because I remember how anxious I had been about Keats before we left two nights ago, but because of the man standing here with us.
“Does he know about…?” I gesture at Casey’s dad, figuring I should probably ask for his name soon.
“That’s the thing…” Jake eyes Casey, then Nolan, then nods toward the stairs. “We need to talk.”
That’s never fucking good.
Nolan looks just as uneasy as I leave him behind to properly meet Casey’s dad.
We don’t make it more than two steps past the landing at the top of the stairs before Jake whirls around, looking wild and a little panicked, and says, “Somehow, some fucking way—Keats did this for us.”
I blink at him. “Casey’s dad?”
“Yeah. Like—he—he pulled strings? Maybe?” He looks around like Keats might jump out of nowhere at us. Then he steps forward and whispers, “Or like he’s the fucking head.”
I laugh.
It’s the most absurd thing I’ve heard in a long time, and Hunter has said some fucked up shit to me lately.
Jake is not laughing with me.
My body goes numb.
“No,” I say. “No, that’s not—” I shake my head. “No.” I laugh. “No, Keats wouldn’t—” I take a step away from him, wishing I could turn back the clock. “The head didn’t let me save Carter.”
Jake won’t look at me.
Bile burns my throat.
“I’m not saying he is. I—I asked him, sort of, and he looked offended. I just—it’s weird, right? The stuff he said at the bonfire a while back, about us hating the head, and the way he got so upset when he found out Casey almost killed himself, and now this…”
“He must know him. The head. He must—they know each other. Maybe even friends. He probably feels guilty for that, but—but he’s using it to help us. To help Casey.” I want to believe my own words. I nod as I say them, like that can make them truer. “He’s a good friend. He’s—he’s practically one of us. He’s not the head. He’s an operative. He’s one of us. He’s not the head.”