“Sheriff Richards told me you had a record.”
It was sealed. The sheriff had no business telling anyone. He’d probably been protecting Lillie and was willing to take whatever small punishment the court would mete out if Jon found out and pressed charges.
She hadn’t accused him of anything. She was giving him this chance to explain. Which confused him.
“I lived in the same foster home from the time I was born until I was twelve,” he said, deciding to give her the whole truth. “My foster mom was not a warm person. She was a decent caregiver, though. There were usually four of us at any given time, though I was the only one she kept long-term. She watched over all of us the same. She taught us values through example and expectation.”
He’d been content. Thought he had a good life.
“Just before my thirteenth birthday, she told me that she was getting married. She was already in her forties, and she wanted to try to have a child of her own so she was giving up foster care. The very next week I was gone.”
“To another foster home?”
“Three. I finally landed in one that already had two teenage boys—both older than I was. I heard my caseworker say that they thought the boys would take me under their wing. The house was not well supervised and the older guys were thugs.”
Which was no excuse. Barbara had taught him well. He’d known the difference between right and wrong.
But being the youngest and the newcomer hadn’t boded well for him. Not that the foster parents or his caseworker had noticed.
And by then, after being shuffled around so many times, Jon hadn’t thought there was much point in complaining.
So he’d done what he had to do to get along. And more, to belong.
“They picked on you, didn’t they,” Lillie said after he’d told her a little bit about the two older boys, leaving out most of it.
He shrugged. “I learned how to fit in.” He should have chosen the beatings. He’d have learned how to fight back.
He’d learned eventually, anyway. In detention.
“By the time I was a freshman in high school they were seniors, and getting in trouble a lot,” Jon said, his jaw tense as he drew his finger back and forth over the grain in the table.
“We were picked up a few times for trespassing, being out after curfew, little things.”
“So that was it, then?” Lillie’s touch on his hand drew his gaze to hers. Her smile was sad. Compassionate. But growing, including him in a way he didn’t recognize.
He wanted to take her to bed, lose himself in her goodness and hold her. He’d probably sleep if she was there in his arms, keeping the world in balance.
“No, that wasn’t it,” he told her, knowing that she wasn’t going to be as sympathetic when he was through.
“One Thursday night, a week before Thanksgiving, they decided to rob a convenience store. It wasn’t the first time. Or the first store. This particular one had been family owned since the beginning of time. The proprietors were close to eighty and lived upstairs. They were both half-deaf and the plan was to hit the store as soon as their lights went out upstairs that night. I had to stand outside to watch my brothers’ bikes.
“When they came out, they threw a bunch of stuff at me and asked me to shove it into the empty backpack I’d brought. Watches and cigarettes. Candy and cash. A load of cash. And as much alcohol as they could fit in the satchels. They told me to ride to the back lot behind our house and they’d meet me there. They were going in the opposite direction, in case anyone saw them.”
He glanced up. Lillie’s forehead was creased, her lips tight. But her eyes were still warm.
“I did what I was told, figuring they’d kill me if I didn’t, but I swore to myself that that was it. I was getting out even if it meant I had to run away, leave town, make it on my own.”
“You were what, fourteen?”
“Yeah. I headed to the back lot but the guys weren’t there. It was dark and I was sitting there with all that loot and I got scared. So I opened one of the beers, proving to myself that I was as much of a man as anyone. Drank the whole thing down and opened another. Ten minutes later the cops show up.”
Lillie’s hand covered his again, picking it up this time, holding on. “Are you about to tell me that your time behind bars started when you were fourteen years old?”
“Yeah.”
“And when was the last time you were in jail?” She sounded like it really mattered. But it didn’t. Time wasn’t the issue. The choices were.
“I was only ever there the one time. Because I didn’t get out until I turned eighteen.”