“Of course you have a mother.” She made a jerky move again, and scratched at her neck, and then shook her head like she was trying to clear it. “It’s me. I knew, God, I knew I shouldn’t have given you to him. But I didn’t have a choice—” Her face screwed up and she started to cry, but then stopped herself. “I thought you’d be better off with him. And he’s taking care of you, I see that.” She looked around at the cabin. “You’re safe, right? Warm?”
Jak nodded slowly. “I’m warm. But no one’s taking care of me.” He took care of himself.
The woman—his mother?—tilted her head, jerking and scratching at her neck again. His eyes moved to the place she’d scratched, and he saw that she’d opened a sore and that a trail of blood was moving slowly down the side of her neck. “But he gave you this house, made sure you had a safe, warm place to live.”
“Driscoll? Yes, he gave me this house . . . how do you know Driscoll?”
She shook her head again. “It’s a stroke of luck that I found you. I saw Driscoll in town, and I followed him but lost his car. I thought I was lost, but then I saw your house. It’s like God led me here, you know?” She sniffled, wiping at her nose with her sleeve again. “I know it’s not right, him keeping you out here. And I’m going to fix that. I’m going to get clean, I promise, and I’m going to find a place. A nice little house with sunflowers in the garden. Do you like sunflowers?”
Sunflowers? “But there’s a war out there. Don’t you know that?”
She stared at him for a second before nodding, her head jerking up and down and her eyes filling with tears again. “I know. God, I know. No one can be trusted. The whole world’s on fire. It’s always on fire.”
He nodded. “Yes. You shouldn’t go back out there.”
She smiled weakly. “I’m a survivor. I’ll be okay.”
He stared at her, trying to understand this confusing visit. Could it be true that she was his mother and she’d given him to Driscoll so he’d be safe from the war? But what about his baka? He felt his brow pinch together as he tried to make sense of it all. Of the ways he might have been passed around from person to person so he’d be kept safe. Is it possible?
And if it was . . . he had family. He had a mother. He stepped forward, gripping her arm. “Let me come with you. I can protect you. I can find food for us, and . . . and make warm clothes to wear.”
She smiled again, another tear slipping down her cheek. “Sweet boy.” She sighed and then shook her head slowly. Sadly. “No. I can’t take you with me yet. Soon, I promise. I’ll be back for you. But,” she said, her voice cheering in a way that sounded like a lie, “I did bring you something.” She stepped away, bringing her bag from her shoulder and setting it on the floor. She knelt down and dug inside, bringing out a couple of books.
She stood, handing the books to him. He took them, reading the titles: The True Story of the Three Little Pigs and Goodnight Moon.
“I was told they’re the most popular books for kids.” She frowned. “I know they’re for younger kids, but . . . I wasn’t sure so . . .”
He looked at her blankly. His baka had told him he must never ever tell anyone she’d taught him to read. His baka had told him it would be very dangerous. But this woman was his mother, or so she said. He didn’t have to tell her he could read, but he didn’t have to lie and say he couldn’t either. “Thank you,” he finally said, but couldn’t help adding, “when you come back, will you bring me more?” Not baby books, he wanted to say, but didn’t. He didn’t want her to take back the ones in his hands. He held them tighter.
“Of course. Yes.” She let out a breath, smiling and stepping away. She bent, picking up her bag again and moved toward the back window. “I’ll be back. I will.” She smiled again, bigger this time, but there was hurt in her face and her body was even more jerky than it’d been. “I just need to get well and then I’ll be back. Until then, you take care of yourself, okay?”
Jak nodded and she opened his window and began climbing back through, out into the snowy night. “Wait,” he called and she turned. “What’s your name?”
“My name’s Emily.” She paused, turning back toward him. “But you can’t mention me. Don’t tell anyone I’ve been here, okay?”
Jak nodded. But he didn’t understand. Who was he going to tell? And he didn’t get why everyone always wanted him to keep their secrets. He didn’t know who was protecting him, or who the bad men were. He was all twisted inside and had no idea who to trust, or if he should trust anyone at all.
She turned away again, starting to duck out of the window, but then paused. “What does he call you?” she asked over her shoulder.
He knew she was talking about Driscoll, but Driscoll didn’t call him anything at all. And he didn’t know if there was any point in saying anything about his baka, wherever she might be now. Why did Driscoll and his mother not know what the other called him? Who am I? he wondered. “Jak,” he said.
She nodded, still turned away from him. “Jak’s a good name. I called you Lucas.” She sounded very sad. “I know that’s not your name, but when I was carrying you, that’s what I called you. I’m sorry that in the end, I never even gave you that.” She ducked out the window then, landing in the snow with a soft crunch.
He watched as she turned on her light and walked into the woods, the light fading in the darkness, along with the woman who’d called herself his mother but had left him alone again.
Jak read the books, three times each, memorizing the words, and then got back under the blanket on his bed and lay staring at the ceiling. But the books didn’t make sense. Wolves were good, not bad. Pup had been his best friend. Wolves had families and mates that they stayed with for life. They sang love songs to the moon and rolled on their backs in happiness at the smell of the rain. It was wild pigs who were mean and bad and greedy for their mushrooms. They liked the smell of blood and laughed at things no one else could see. He shivered when he thought of them, and the memory of Driscoll’s words came back. Pig is going for lots of money in town. Bring me one, and I’ll give you a bow and arrow. He hadn’t found any pig yet, not that he had looked very hard. He couldn’t seem to make himself want to do much of anything the last few months. He missed Pup. He hated the loud and empty quiet.
The other book, the one with the little boy and the red balloon just made him more sad. The old lady in the chair made him think of his baka, made him know there was no one sitting in a chair in his room, or anywhere else, watching over him. No one to make him food, or make sure he was warm and happy. The person who called herself his mother had left him that story and then walked away from him. He had a feeling she wouldn’t be back. Just like when she must have given him away to his baka. But why? When? He didn’t understand anything about who he was.
It was a long time before he slept again that night and when he did, pictures of an unknown enemy with a face in shadow and dark eyes filled with meanness, haunted his nightmares.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Harper stirred the soup with one of the plastic spoons she’d thrown in the bag with the canned items she’d brought to Lucas. A quick glance at the things on the table told her he had one of everything: a pot, a bowl, a spoon, and a fork. Things he’d traded Driscoll for? What did the fork cost him? How much did a pot go for? If it was a kindness Driscoll had been doing for him, why didn’t it feel that way to Harper?
Something was way off about this whole situation, and she hoped Agent Gallagher would find out what it was, though he wasn’t under any obligation to share it with her. But she could be a . . . she searched her mind for the most fitting description . . . friend? Contact? Yes, contact at least. She could be a contact to this man who had few options for obtaining needed items, after the way he’d lived his life thus far. So why didn’t that word . . . satisfy her?
As she stirred, she thought back to his expression as he’d licked the peanut butter off his finger, and a shiver went through her just as it had at the time. She was attracted to him, not only because of his looks, but for the way his gaze sharpened with intelligence when he was curious about something, for that shy expression when he was worried he was saying the wrong thing or using the wrong word, for the way his voice sounded, and the way his body moved. He appealed to her in a deeply sexual way no man ever had, and it scared her, but it also came with an edge of excitement.