Page 39 of The Exit Strategy

“What aren’t you telling me, Cole?” Her question is quiet, but it lands with the precision of the woman who raised me and knows exactly which boards are under pressure.

“Nana—”

“Don’t Nana me.” She glances up, and there’s no softness in her gaze now. But there’s no anger either. Just the steady eye of a woman who survived six decades of marriage, a recession, a global pandemic, and menopause without losing her composure. “You don’t get to decide what I can handle, Cole.”

“I’m not?—”

“You’re protecting me from something the same way you’re still protecting her.” She tilts her head toward Junie’s apartment, and the air leaves the room. “How’s that working out for you?”

Badly. It’s working really fucking badly.

I’m shielding Nana Mae from the full extent of Devin’s betrayal and shielding Junie from the full extent of mine. The weight of both is compressing my spine into something that won’t hold much longer.

“Devin’s your only?—”

“My only other living family,” Nana Mae finishes. “But I’m aware of who he is, Cole. I also have a pretty good guess as to what he’s done. You think I don’t see it, but I’m old, Cole, not stupid.”

I gape at her.

“I don’t have the details, and I don’t need them tonight. But I’m sure my nephew takes after his father, just as I know you take after yours. You wouldn’t look like this”—she gestures at my face with her teaspoon—“over a few misplaced invoices.”

If only Devin were the single issue. If Junie doesn’t findproof of my innocence, one theft will snowball into the other.

The urge to confess everything rises in my throat. But behind it, lurking with teeth and claws, is the other confession. The one that starts with Natalie and ends with a threat that could dismantle what little semblance of peace Junie has left in her life.

I swallow both.

“Junie’s good at her job,” I say to deflect while adding another beam to the structure I’ve built around the truth. “She’ll find the answers we need.”

Nana Mae studies me for a long moment. Then she reaches across the table and pats my hand twice, firmly, the way she does when she’s choosing not to push but wants me to know that she could.

“She’s good at a lot of things. Including seeing right through you.” She stands and carries her mug to the sink—she never even took a sip. “That girl has always seen you, Cole. Even when you’re trying your damnedest to disappear.”

Her slippers whisper against the hardwood as she turns to leave, then outside, where I hear the squeal of her golf cart as she makes the U-turn too sharply.

I sit alone with her words in my head and Natalie’s letter in my pocket. I don’t open them in public. Ever. But I always open them. I sit with the guilt, the fear, the pain of what she’s cost me.

Over the six years I’ve been receiving them, I’ve developed a protocol. I’m always alone, in my office, with the door locked because I never know how I’ll respond to whatever veiled threat she hurls at me through precise handwriting on thick white paper.

In my office, behind my desk, I open the ticking bomb.

Cole,

Marcus had a good month. His new therapist has been working on motor coordination, and the team says he’s responding well. He asked about you last Tuesday. He wanted to know if you were still building things. I told him yes.

The facility costs are increasing, but I’m sure you’re aware of the annual adjustment. I’m managing, but I wanted to remind you of our arrangement.

I hope you’re well.

Natalie

P.S. I read the article about The Haven in the regional press. It looked lovely. You always did know how to make something beautiful from nothing.

I read it twice, hearing the silent threat between each line. This has never been about Marcus. Then I fold it along the original crease and place it in the locked drawer with the others.

I lost count of how many letters there are. Each one is a reminder that I exist inside a structure of Natalie’s design, and every one of them is a load-bearing wall I can’t remove without bringing the whole thing down.

I wanted to remind you of our arrangement.