The Last Piece of His Heart (Lost Boys 3)

“Because it’s not often we get to see true kindness,” she said, not bothering to hide it. “You’re a good man, Ronan. And that pendant is beautiful. Whoever made it for you obviously cares about you. A lot.”

A flare of hope went up in my chest, warm and bright, then flamed out just as fast. Wanting what I couldn’t have never got me anywhere.

“Thank you, Ronan,” Maryann said, herding the girls to the door. “Thank you so much.”

“Don’t mention it.”

They left, the girls waving enthusiastically, and I went to my bedroom. I lifted a loose board in the floor and reached for the small metal lockbox hidden under it. I didn’t have a bank account; I rarely had money long enough to keep one.

The box held little more than seven hundred dollars, saved up from odd jobs on Craigslist. More than I’d had in a while. I counted out ten twenties, tore open Maryann’s envelope, and put the cash in with her check.

The day dragged until History. Shiloh had finally shown up after three days of absence but didn’t look my way once. From my vantage four rows behind her, I did enough looking for both of us. Her eyes had dark circles, and her foot tapped in her sandal nervously all during Baskin’s lecture on the Cold War. A war without weapons, only tension and silence.

When class got out, I headed straight back to my place, walking over rain-slicked pavement, thinking (hoping) every car on the road was the creaky, chugging Buick, slowing behind me.

None were.

I went to my place, grabbed the rest of the rent checks left in my manager’s box, stuffed them in a manila envelope, and headed back out again.

Somehow, the Bluffs complex looked even more shitty since last I’d seen it. The roof was in worse shape after a rainy winter, and the cheap, dark green paint was already chipping off in huge chunks.

I knocked on my uncle’s door.

“It’s open.”

I stepped inside, mentally preparing myself for the claustrophobia of his crammed apartment. It was worse.

There was a second small coffee table in his living room with a foldable bedframe stacked on top of it. A brand-new mattress, still in its plastic, leaned against one wall. The TV was on—I wondered if it ever got a break—with Nelson parked in front of it. The scent of microwaved ravioli hung in the air.

I nodded at the furniture. “What’s all this?”

“Tenant eviction,” Nelson said. He was wearing a stained undershirt, boxers that brushed his knees, and black socks pulled up his pale legs that were crisscrossed with bulging veins. “But the mattress is new. Figured you could use it.”

“This is for me?”

“You had a birthday, right?”

My birthday was weeks ago. Usually it came and went, uneventful. Except this year I’d had Shiloh’s pendant, Holden’s boots, and Miller’s song. And now a real bed instead of that shitty futon.

Maybe I’ll sleep.

“How did you know?” I asked.

“That social worker, Alicia, called me. Made me promise not to forget, but I did. Hey, better late than never, right? She sends her regards.”

Alicia Marquez was one of the few people who’d ever shown me kindness over the years, going above and beyond the duties of her job to make sure I was okay. Hell, even after I turned eighteen, she found Nelson.

Except that didn’t make sense.

I hadn’t thought about it at the time; I was just happy to get the fuck out of Wisconsin and be with family. But Alicia had been searching for a blood relative since I was eight years old, and Nelson shows up after I age out of the system…?

I turned the thought over and over in my mind, like the envelope in my hands.

“That’s the rent?” Nelson held out his hand. I gave it to him. “Any issues?”

“No. What’s our late fee policy again?”

He frowned, peering into the envelope. “Seventy-five dollars for the first week. One-fifty for the next. If they’re late more than once, they’re out.”