Girl, Forgotten (Andrea Oliver 2)

Laura looked genuinely puzzled. “The inside of what?”

“The System,” Andrea said, for lack of a better description. “If he ever gets out of prison, if he ever tries to mess with us again, I’ll have the entire United States Marshal Service behind me.”

“He won’t get out of prison.” Laura’s head was shaking before Andrea finished. “And even if he does, we can take care of ourselves.”

You can, Andrea thought. That was the problem. When shit had gone sideways, Laura had been a bad ass while Andrea had cowered in the corner like a kid playing hide-and-seek. She was not going to feel that helpless if—when—her father turned his deadly focus back on them again.

“My darling,” Laura tried again. “I like the person that you are now. I love my sensitive, artistic, kind little girl.”

Andrea chewed at her lip. She could hear more shouts as the last of the stragglers crossed the finish line. Students Andrea had trained with. Students she had bested by almost a full ten minutes.

“Andrea, let me give you the same unsolicited advice that my mother gave me.” Laura never talked about her family, let alone her past. She didn’t have to wait for Andrea’s undivided attention. “I was younger, but exactly how you are now. I approached every challenge in life as if it was a cliff that I had to constantly keep flinging myself over.”

Andrea didn’t want to admit that sounded familiar.

“I thought I was so brave, so daring,” Laura said. “It took me years to figure out that when you fall, you’re completely out of control. You’re just letting gravity take over.”

Andrea forced a shrug. “I’ve never minded heights.”

“That’s almost exactly what I told my mother.” Laura smiled at the secret memory. “She knew I wasn’t running toward something. I was running away from everything—especially myself. And do you know what she told me?”

“I think you’re going to tell me.”

Laura was still smiling when she gently placed her hands on either side of Andrea’s face. “She said, ‘Wherever you go, there you are.’”

Andrea could see the concern in her mother’s eyes. Laura was afraid. She was trying to protect Andrea. Or maybe she was trying to manipulate her the way she always had.

“Gee, Mom.” Andrea stepped back. “It sounds like she would’ve made a fantastic grandmother. I wish I’d had the opportunity to meet her.”

Laura’s pained expression showed the cut was too deep. This was new to them, this nasty back and forth that turned their tongues into razors.

Andrea lightly squeezed her mother’s hand. They never made up with words anymore. They slapped on a Band-Aid and let the wound fester until the next time. “I should go find Dad.”

“Yep.” Laura’s throat worked against tears.

Andrea silently reprimanded herself as she walked back toward the crowd. And then she reprimanded herself for reprimanding herself, because what was the fucking point?

She tossed her empty bottle into the recycling bin, accepting more pats on the back and congratulations from total strangers who thought she was awesome. Andrea’s gaze traveled across a sea of mostly white faces until she found her father standing alone in the back. Gordon was taller than most of the dads, with a lean body and a scruffy beard and mustache that gave him an Idris Elba vibe, if Idris Elba was a nerdy trusts and estates attorney who was president of his local astronomy club and talked way too much about jazz.

Andrea was soaked with sweat and Gordon was in one of his Ermenegildo Zegna suits, but he pulled her into a tight hug and kissed the top of her head.

“Dad, I’m filthy.”

“That’s what dry cleaners are for.” He kissed her head again before letting her go. “I’m very proud of what you’ve accomplished here, sweetheart.”

She noted the precision of his words. He wasn’t proud of her for becoming a federal agent. He was proud of her for doing the work, just like he had been proud of her when she’d traced an outline of her hand to make a drawing of a turkey in kindergarten.

She tried, “Dad, I—”

He shook his head. He was smiling, but Andrea knew her father’s smiles. “Let’s talk about how uncomfortable your mother is. I think we can both find some humor in that.”

Andrea turned, watching Laura nervously pick her way past a line of armed men. The senior inspectors were dressed in navy polos with the official seal of the United States Marshal Service sewn onto the pockets. Tan pants showed the USMS Silver Star badge gleaming on their belts. Glocks were strapped to their hips.

One of the friendlier instructors started talking to Laura. Gordon chuckled at her agitated demeanor, but Andrea had been too much of a shit to her mother to take any pleasure from watching her squirm.

“I don’t know,” Andrea said.

Gordon looked down at her.