Smoked (The Invincibles 5)

“Those who knew wouldn’t have dared to utter a word.”

“It’s so sad.”

“There were many happy times that came before.”

“Yeah?”

* * *

Uncle Gene spent the next two hours telling me stories about my mother and father as children and teenagers. “They went from hating each other to loving each other in the snap of a finger,” he said, laughing about how all the neighbors had predicted it would happen. “You could tell that, deep down, they carried a torch for one another. That kind of passion burns in both directions. They say it’s a fine line between love and hate.”

I thought about the conversation I’d overheard between Smoke and Decker. He’d said that there were times he hated me enough to walk out on the mission. He also said I hated him as much, if not more.

Was that why I woke after my surgery believing I’d loved him? Because of that fine line?

“You’re lost in thought.”

“There’s someone…” I shook my head.

“Who you feel the same way about?”

I shrugged. “I told you about the amnesia.”

“Go on.”

“I don’t really know. He and I were on a mission, and I was shot.” I pointed to the knit hat I wore whenever I was out in public. “Here,” I added, resting my hand on the incision behind my ear. “When I came to in the hospital, I couldn’t remember anything. Except him, and by that, I mean I remembered being in love with him and he with me. Turns out that wasn’t the case.”

“Are you sure?”

I bit my bottom lip. “About me or him?”

Uncle Gene smiled. “You.”

“I overheard him say he was just waiting for me to get my memory back. After that happened, he’d make sure we never worked together again.”

“Eavesdropping?” he asked with a raised brow.

“Yes.”

“Is there a chance, then, that what you heard was taken out of context?”

“I don’t think so.”

“But you aren’t certain.”

I sighed and took another sip from the pint that never seemed to empty. “I’m not certain of anything right now, Uncle Gene.”

* * *

It was late, so rather than let him walk home alone in the dark, I drove him back to my old neighborhood.

“That one is mine,” he said, pointing to a house a few doors down from the one I grew up in.

“This might be a long shot, but do you know of a James Mallory?”

“Jimmy Mallory?”

“I suppose so. I’ve been trying to locate him.”