Page 11 of Cut Off
Another precise and deep slash to the heart. “Please give me a chance to show you I’ll be there for you before you decide. We’re family—we belong together.”
His face lightens, like he might actually be happy about my offer, but he says, “I’ll decide to go back to foster care, but okay.” There’s no conviction in it.
His independence is pure Rosie, and it makes my heart ache. I’ve taken countless hits on the ice, but nothing has ever hurt like this moment—seeing my son for the first time and realizing he already hates me.
“Okay, we’ll figure it out.” I take a deep breath as the cuts keep coming. Eli’s watching me with a mixture of suspicion and exhaustion when I say, “Ready to go, buddy?”
“Don’t call me buddy.”
“Right. Sorry.” Another misstep. I turn to Ms. Hernandez. “Where are his things?”
“Just this backpack.” She gestures to it. “Ms. Anders’ apartment in Portland was cleared out after her passing, but there are some boxes in storage that you can arrange to have delivered once you’re settled.”
Jesus Christ.His entire life fits in a backpack.
Somehow, I have to find a way to bridge this impossible gap, to become the father he deserves, even if I’m nine years too late.
As we head toward the door, Ms. Hernandez touches my arm. “Mr. Holt? He’s been through a lot. But so have you today. Try to be patient—with him and with yourself.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Eli walks ahead of me, shoulders hunched, steps dragging. Together, we step out into the hallway, two strangers connected by blood and loss, about to begin the most important game of my life.
One I can’t afford to fuck up.
4
The Lost Story
ZOE
Ispeed walk into the Dickens Police Station, press pass dangling from my neck. The desk sergeant glances up at me with the enthusiasm of someone waiting for a colonoscopy. Not that I blame him—I’m probably the fourth reporter from W2Beaver to hover in his doorway this week.
“Hi there!” I flash what Sydney calls my “get-what-I-want” smile. “Zoe Lane, W2Beaver News. I have an appointment with Sergeant Willis about your community outreach programs.”
The desk sergeant—whose name tag reads Peterson—narrows his eyes at me. “Willis is out on a call.”
“Oh.” I deflate but recover. Flexibility is the cornerstone of journalism. And nosiness. Definitely nosiness. “Well, I can wait. Do you mind if I hang out here for a bit? Maybe interview you in the meantime?”
Peterson’s face crumples. “Ma’am, you can wait in the chairs over there,” he points to a sad row of plastic seats that have definitely seen better days, “but no interviews without approval.”
“Right, got it. Totally understand.” I give him a thumbs up and he rolls his eyes.
I plop myself down on a chair that creaks under me, pull out my phone, and start scrolling through Instagram. Sydney posted a family photo of helping her aunt in physical therapy.
Yeah—I’msonot texting her right now about Jonah.
A middle-aged woman appears from the hallway, and she has an unfortunate bun and a sensible pantsuit, badge clipped to her belt. Not a cop—probably social services.
When I see who follows her in, my heart does a little backflip in my chest.
Jonah.
And he looks pale, disheveled, eyes wild. His coat’s buttoned wrong.
Something bad isdefinitelyhappening, and the hairs on my arms raise.
Then, behind him, a small figure steps through the door, and my jaw literally drops.
It’s a little boy. Maybe eight or nine. Auburn hair that matches Jonah’s exactly. Those same piercing blue eyes. That same stubborn set to the jaw. He’s like someone took Jonah Holt and shrunk him in the wash.
