Page 32 of Judge's Justice

All of it gone in less than twenty-four hours.

"Mama." Grace taps my hand to get my attention. When I look down at her, she signs. "Are we in trouble?"

How do I answer that? How do I explain to my five-year-old daughter that yes, we're in trouble, but it's not her fault and it's not even really my fault. It's just terrible timing and men who see violence as negotiation for a war we didn't know existed?

"We're safe," I sign back. It's not quite an answer, but it's all I've got. "Judge and his brothers are keeping us safe."

"But Judge got hurt keeping us safe."

"Yes."

"Really hurt."

"Yes."

Grace's lower lip trembles. "I don't want him to die, Mama. I like him. He's nice. He knows how to sign and he said I look tough on his motorcycle and—" Her hands are moving faster now, more frantic. "If he dies it's because of us. Because we were there and the mean men saw us and—"

"Baby, this is not your fault. None of this is your fault. Those men… They're bad people who do bad things. Judge stopped them from hurting us last night. That's why they came back. Because he protected us. Because that's what he does."

"But if we weren't there—"

"If we weren't there, they would have found some other reason to hurt him. Because they're at war. Because that's what happens in wars." I'm signing as clearly as I can, making sure sheunderstands every word. "You didn't cause this. You didn't do anything wrong. You just existed in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Grace processes this, her small face scrunched up in concentration. "Judge said the same thing. He said we didn't cause anything."

Of course he did. Because apparently this enormous, dangerous, scarred man who breaks people's arms also has more emotional intelligence than my ex ever managed in three years.

My ex.

My phone is in my pocket, and I haven't checked it in over an hour. Haven't wanted to. But now I'm thinking about those texts. About him threatening lawyers and custody and acting like he has any right to dictate where Grace and I go.

If he could see us now, in a van driven by a biker named Brick, being taken to a clubhouse because we're caught in a gang war, he'd use it against me. Would say I'm an unfit mother. That I'm putting Grace in danger. That I'm irresponsible and reckless and exactly what he always said I was.

And the worst part is, he might be right.

What kind of mother puts her daughter in this situation? What kind of mother gets off a bus in a random town and immediately gets tangled up with motorcycle clubs and men who take beatings to protect strangers?

I should have stayed home. Should have worked it out with my ex. Should have been smarter, less impulsive.

Grace would be safe right now if I'd just—

"Mama, you're crying."

I blink, and tears fall down my cheeks. I didn't even realize. Grace is looking up at me with huge, worried eyes, her small hand reaching up to touch my face.

"I'm okay, baby. Just tired."

"You're thinking bad thoughts. I can tell."

Sometimes I forget how perceptive she is. How much she sees even when she can't hear everything.

"I'm just worried about Judge," I sign. It's not a complete lie.

"He'll be okay. He promised." Grace says it with such absolute certainty that my chest aches. "And Judge doesn't break promises. I can tell."

I want that certainty. Want to believe that everything will be fine, that Judge will heal, that the Vipers will leave us alone, that Grace and I can somehow come out of this unscathed.

But I'm thirty-one years old and I've been lied to enough times to know better.