Page 53 of Striker

We dig through a large manila envelope with a woman’s name written across the front. Erica Vale. There is a restraining order on top and all her legal justification for it underneath in a neat little stack. “Look, it’s a restraining order against Delaney beginning when she was pregnant and renewed every year,” I tell him, thumbing through the renewals.

“Delaney must have continued harassing her in order for her to justify renewing the restraining orders year after year,” Striker comments.

“That’s what it looks like. Delaney was his own worst enemy when it came to threatening his ex and it kept him from ever knowing his son.”

Then I open another envelope, and things get weird. “It’s their divorce decree.”

It’s been folded and refolded until it’s worn soft. Striker and I read through the paperwork a page at a time. Delaney’s crossed out lines and scribbled his own version of events in the margins. And on one page he’s written ‘Lying Bitch,’ with an arrow pointing directly at a sworn statement she made. He’s written ‘My Son’ over and over throughout the document, underlining it twice each time.

“Jesus,” Striker mutters, his eyes sliding over the mess Delaney made of his divorce decree. “This falls in the batshit crazy category.”

Striker’s not wrong about that. The last thing that fell out of the bag is a leather planner. I flip through it, looking for anything that might be relevant to this situation. I find an entry nine days from today that looks like a prison date with Anthony Vale. It’s got the name and address of the prison, his son’s initials, and it’s the only entry circled in red ink. It looks like he pressed down hard enough to tear the page as he drew the circle. The words D-day are written in the margin.

Suddenly, it starts to make sense in my mind. “D-day might be shorthand for disclosure day,” I point out. “I think Delaney wanted his son to know he was his father. After growing up with a mother that kept him away, Delaney felt the need to present his own version of events. This is him rewriting history to suit his own needs. The paternity test, the tracking sheet proving he supported him all along, and even the will making Vale his sole heir are all meant to convince Vale to accept him.”

Figuring it all out is satisfying but it’s also overwhelming. My hand starts to tremble. Striker’s hand comes to rest over mine. It’s the warm, steady support I need right now. And I lean into it, resting my head against his chest. This feels like closure, or the closest thing I’ll ever know to closure.

Striker begins shoving everything back into the messenger bag. He zips it up and slings it over his shoulder. “Let’s get you home. It’s late and you need to rest.”

“I want to pick up Josie on the way,” I tell him. “I’ve missed her.”

“I know,” Striker says warmly. “She’s missed you too. She’s fast asleep right now, though. Jinx and Nora are taking care of her. It would be best to go to her in the morning.”

“Alright,” I tell him reluctantly.

Chapter 22

Striker

My family house on the hill was fine growing up. But since I returned from the military after my parents passed, it’s never felt like a home. It was just a sparsely furnished grand old estate house where I crashed when the clubhouse got too loud. Since Beth and Josie moved in, it’s been more like a real home. Tonight, we walk in to find toys on the floor, toss cushions on the sofa, and my computer gear still sitting on the dining room table. It’s a mixture of all the things that we are, and I fuckin’ love it.

I immediately pull Beth into a hot shower. She hasn’t had one for days and is wearing a cheap sweatsuit her captors bought for her. It hangs off her slender frame. And although she’s not complained, the fabric looks scratchy and uncomfortable.

I take my time soaping up her body, careful when I clean around her wrists. She has bands of raw skin where they chained her. I gently massage her shoulders and she tips her head forward, groaning in pleasure. That’s when I notice bruises around her neck, with round fingerprint marks on either side.

“Who the fuck did that?” I can hear the anger in my own voice, even though I try my best to bury it deep.

She glances over her shoulder and when our gazes collide, she tells me, “It was Delaney. He blamed me for his son being in prison because I cooperated with the feds and testified against him.”

I think about how much I would like to kill that deranged asshole all over again. I don’t say that, of course, but I’m sure as fuck thinking it.

As if she can read my mind, Beth says mildly, “He’s already dead, babe. It’s not like you can kill him twice. You need to let it go.”

My hands go still on her shoulders because she’s right. That old man paid the price for the evil shit he was doing. I grab some shampoo and lather up her hair, using a light touch because God only knows what other parts of her body are hiding bruises.

“You’re really gentle for a guy who got into a knock-down, drag-out fight and stabbed a man to death just a few hours ago,” she teases.

My hands come up to graze along her shoulders one more time. “You’re delicate and worth being gentle for,” I whisper in her ear. She melts back against my chest, and I wrap my arms around her. We stand there as the warm water cascades over our bodies for a few minutes.

Finally, she breaks the spell by saying, “Remember when you told me that they call you Striker because you strike fear into the hearts of your enemies?”

“Yeah,” I respond, wondering why she’s bringing that up now and whether she’s going to tell me she’s afraid of me after watching me kill a man.

She turns around and runs both hands up my chest before cupping my face. “I didn’t understand what that means before. But now I do.”

A sick feeling twists in my gut. I say her name. “Beth…”

One finger comes up to cover my lips. “You don’t have to explain yourself. This is just me telling you that I understand you a little better now.”