Page 30 of Grayson

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Jennifer hadn’t realized just how tired she was until the chopper hit cruising altitude and her eyes felt heavy, finally giving way to sleep. Rush covered her with a blanket and turned to smile at Dan.

“Little Jenn is all grown up,” he grinned.

“I think she’s been grown for a while,” smirked Dan. “We should have known that she took out the tracker. We have to find a way to fix that little problem.”

“I’m sure Montana and the team are working on it now,” nodded Rush. When the internal screens lit up with Hiro’s face, they knew he’d been listening.

“We are working on a solution to that but just thought you’d want to know that Cesar Moreau and thirty-one men were arrested this morning by Interpol agents. The French had their heads up their asses because he owned them. Heads are seriously going to roll for this.”

“Was Lacroix among them?” asked Rush.

“No. He is still nowhere to be found. The team knows and will be continuing their search for him.”

“Thanks, Hiro. We’ll be home in a few hours.”

The two men looked at Jennifer, still sound asleep and leaned back in their seats. They would let Ham and the others decide whether or not to tell her. If they did, they’d then have to make sure she didn’t try to go back.

The Osprey rolled to a stop beneath a pale afternoon sky, and Jennifer Sculler remained seated long after the tires had quit humming. Six years and four months had passed since she had last seen the small private airfield, yet the hangar roofs, the wet marshy swamp around her, and the line of cottonwoods beyond the fence struck her with the force of something remembered in a dream.

Through the oval window she saw a cluster of women waiting beside the stairs. They held no signs and waved no banners. They simply stood close together, hands clasped or pressed to their mouths, as if any sudden movement might frighten the moment away.

Erica stood at the front, smaller than Jennifer remembered and somehow stronger, her silver-streaked hair lifting in the prop wash. Beside her was Violet Michaels, one arm braced around Erica’s waist. Harlow, Finley, Casey, Brooke, and Chelsea formed a half circle behind them, all seven women staring at the opening door.

Jennifer rose on uncertain legs. She had crossed borders with forged papers, slept in rooms where every sound meant danger, and talked her way past men who carried guns as casually as wallets. None of it had prepared her to walk down twelve metal steps toward her mother.

Erica reached her before her shoes touched the tarmac. The embrace folded Jennifer inward, reducing those missing years to the span between one heartbeat and the next. Jennifer tried to say, “I’m home,” but the words dissolved against her mother’s shoulder.

The others closed around them. Violet kissed Jennifer’s temple. Harlow caught her hand; Finley held the other. Casey and Brooke pressed close through laughter and tears, while Chelsea rubbed slow circles between Jennifer’s shoulder blades. Their welcome was gentle but absolute, a living wall between her and everything she had survived.

Her knees buckled without warning. No one let her fall. They steadied her, took her small carry-on, wrapped an arm around her shoulders, and guided her away from the plane as though escorting a wounded queen.

“There are more people waiting inside the cafeteria,” Erica told her. “Only people you know. Only people who love you.” Jennifer’s fingers tightened around hers.

“How many?”

“Enough to for a small army,” Brooke said softly. Violet lifted a hand before anyone could crowd closer.

“And every one of them can wait. We go at Jennifer’s pace.”

“Slow sounds good,” Jennifer whispered.

“Slow it is,” Chelsea said, taking the carry-on from Finley. “No speeches, no surprises, and nobody hugs you without asking.”

They did not take her to a conference room or an office. They led her into the cafeteria, where the lights were warm and the long tables had been pushed together. Steam rose from bowls of chicken soup, platters of roasted vegetables, fresh bread, and a dish of macaroni and cheese that Jennifer recognized as her mother’s.

The room stood when she entered. Jennifer froze beneath the weight of their joy, but no one rushed her. One by one, they said her name, and the sound of it—spoken kindly, spoken without demand—brought fresh tears to her eyes.

They seated her between Erica and Violet. Someone placed soup before her, and Erica buttered a slice of bread the way she had when Jennifer was a child.

“The crust still has to come off?” Jennifer asked. Erica’s mouth trembled.

“You used to claim it was poisonous.”

“I was eight.”

“You were dramatic at eight,” Violet said. “Some things survive years.” Violet nudged the bowl closer.