Page 5 of Rogue Survivor
His black hair falls over his forehead, and he gives me one of his million-watt smiles. “Sure, babe.”
I freeze, and from the look on Luke’s face, Mama would be proud of the way I cut him down with just my eyes. “Good night,Luke.”
Backing up a step, he drops his gaze to his shoes. “Sorry. It slipped out.”
“Slipped out? Did you payanyattention to the sensitivity training last month? Women aren’t ‘babes.’ You don’t get to call me hon, dear, darlin’, sweetie, baby, sweetcakes, or anything else besides Isabel.”
“Um…right,” he mumbles. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Isabel.”
Turning on my heel, I straighten my shoulders and head for the parking garage. Luke’s great with numbers, and he’s saved the organization hundreds of thousands of dollars since he took this job two years ago. But his penchant for calling all the women he meets “babe” grates on me.
Once I’m in the car, the GPS mocks me. The drive that should take twenty minutes? Today, it’s over forty. My phone connects to the car’s Bluetooth, and I tap the handsfree button on the steering wheel.
“Text Veronica. Message reads: Sorry, sweetie. Had to teach Luke some manners and traffic is tight as a wet boot. I’ll be twenty minutes late.”
When I pause, the voice recognition software asks, “Would you like me to send your message?”
“Yes.” The whooshing sound of the text leaving my phone fills the small SUV, and I hope she’s not too mad at me. Or stuck waiting alone. Her school is in a safe neighborhood. One of the safest. For what the Austin Academy costs, it better be. But when I took this job, I knew picking my daughter up on time every day would be a challenge.
“Text from…Veronica,” the computerized voice announces.
“Play message.” My heart sinks as the rain starts to drum against my windshield. This storm is going to be a toad strangler, and I know exactly what’s coming next.
“Total downpour here. Going to Mitzi’s. Pick me up there?”
Shit. One more parental fail in my column. We’ve always been close, and she knows how important this job is—not only to me, but to the people Second Chances helps. Still…how many times can I fail her before she starts to hate me?
“Mom? Are you listening?”Veronica asks over her third slice of loaded pepperoni. Oh, to have a teenager’s metabolism.
Lifting my gaze, I smile. “Sorry. You could only reach four of the six names I gave you?”
She runs a hand through her long, wavy hair and frowns. “The other two aren’t answering their phones. We even went to the sober living home. Maryanne Jarck left ten days ago and Nelson Gomez hasn’t been there in a month.”
“When did y’all go to Midtown? That wasn’t part of the plan.”
Keep your cool. She’s sitting across from you. Perfectly safe.
Through a mouthful of pizza, she mumbles, “Monday. We were fine, Mom. The counselor was really nice and made sure we didn’t bother any of the other residents. But Jamie—she was Maryanne’s roommate—found us as we were leaving. She was really worried about her. She even went to the police, but they wouldn’t investigate. I think there’s a bigger story than the shitty—”
“Careful there, baby girl,” I warn.
With an eye roll, she sighs. “I’m seventeen. In six months, I’ll be at UT Austin and I’ll be able to swear whenever I want.”
Arching a brow, I give her my best mom stare. “Until then, you will watch your language. I taught you better than that.”
Her cheeks tinge a dark red, and a part of me wants to tell her she can curse to her heart’s content. But that would disqualify me from the Mom of the Year award.
Don’t kid yourself. You earned a permanent ban from competition years ago.
As if to prove my point, Veronica hunches over her plate, picking at her pizza crust. Great. All that excitement…gone.
“V, tell me about the story. Please?” Nudging the pizza box closer to her—my girl can put away a whole pie by herself if she wants to—I offer her a smile. “I thought you were writing an exposé on the lack of resources recovering addicts have once they leave rehab?”
“We are.” She straightens and grabs another slice. “But Jamie says there’s a bigger problem. Someone doesn’t want them to stay clean.”
“What?” This was supposed to be an easy story. Or at least a safe one. The men and women who volunteered to talk to her? I vetted each one of them. Made sure they weren’t violent. That they’d all been clean at least six months, that they had jobs and a good rating from the sober living home.
“Jamie said Maryanne and Nelson were doing well. Working their programs. Until the phone calls started. Day and night for over a week. And now they’re gone. We’re going back to talk to her in a few days. Before we’d finished our questions, she got a call and kicked us out.”
