Total pages in book: 95
Estimated words: 91452 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91452 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 457(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Most of the time, to help mitigate any kind of disagreement, I followed him. I would knock on his door, and when he gave me permission to step inside, only then would I enter. I’d take a seat in the wingback chair in his room, put my feet up on the ottoman, and we’d talk and figure out whatever the problem was.
It hit me suddenly that I was living in the past. How long had it been since the last time I’d done that?
Walking down the hall to his room, I knocked gently and waited.
“I’m going out,” he said through the door. “I’ll see you later.”
“Owen,” I said softly. “Please, let’s just talk. We’ve always been able to talk.”
The door was thrown open, and he had a backpack and a jacket on. It was the end of September now, so the temperature was starting to drop a bit. “I don’t wanna talk to you,” he admitted sadly. “I’m all talked out.”
“How? We hardly ever talk.”
“No,” he disagreed, biting out his words. “We talk all the time, but you don’t hear me. You never listen.”
But that wasn’t me. “I always listen to you,” I insisted. “Please, let’s go get pie or something and you can explain about whatever this is.”
His eyes went so cold, I was startled. “I’m not a child. I’m more than man enough.”
“Man enough for what?” I barked at him.
“For you,” he said flatly, his eyes searching mine before he charged down the hall. I heard the front door slam and his Mustang roar to life a moment later.
I stood there, unsure of what had just transpired and having no idea what to do. What the hell was “for you” supposed to mean? Did he want me to see him as combat ready? Did he want to go into the field with me? Was he waiting for an invitation to accompany me on ops where I sometimes partnered with the military that were insanely dangerous and where he could be killed? Because if so, that was never going to happen. I’d lost his parents, who’d been close, dear friends of mine, and if he thought I would let them down by not keeping their son safe—forever—he was insane. And since Owen could never be accused of that—crazy was not something he was—and as he’d never even alluded to wanting to fight by my side… I really was lost in the tall weeds. But perhaps it was best to ask. At least then I would know.
Of course, when I called him, it went directly to voice mail. I left one, asking if that was what this was. If his man-enough comment had something to do with combat. Perhaps he thought I considered him weak or something else equally ridiculous.
I checked to see where his phone was, and there was nothing. He’d turned off the location feature. When I checked my backup, the GPS I had on his phone and car, both were dead as well. It wasn’t surprising; if Owen wanted to still be on the grid but look like he was off, he could. He was very gifted, and he’d had many legitimate—as well as criminal—offers for his services over the years. I was always impressed with his skills, but now they were being used against me, and I was not a fan. It made no sense that he would want to worry me. His rage made no sense. This was Owen, my friend Owen. My murdered friends’ kid.
I had saved him when he was ten, then kept an eye on him after dropping him off with his grandparents. I suggested he see a therapist, told them to contact me for any emergency, physical or financial, and they had appreciated my concern. But the truth of the matter was, their daughter had been killed because of their son-in-law Ronan’s work. As mine was technically the same, they really didn’t want me involved in Owen’s life. It made sense, and I didn’t begrudge them their choice. The hard, cold facts were that I could not have been a parent or guardian to Owen. I was entrenched in my life with Army Intelligence and had no time for anything else. I certainly couldn’t have taken care of a traumatized ten-year-old boy.
Eight years later, when I got the call from his grandmother that Owen was in trouble—terrible, life-altering trouble—I was there immediately. I’d been surprised to find FBI agents at the jail in St. Paul, Minnesota. Owen Moss was a wanted hacker, and he was going to jail for twenty years at the very least. They were trying to prove more of the crimes they suspected him of, hoping to put him away even longer. But I had enough clout not to let them.
After that, with some guidance, Owen had turned into a well-rounded, smart young man. He got a master’s degree from MIT in Computational Science and Engineering, and he was funny, tender-hearted, could quote poetry, and his head was full of so many facts, I always told him he’d be a winner on Jeopardy! He was fluent in five languages—I was most impressed with the Japanese, having tried and failed myself many times. He had a TikTok with four or five million followers who religiously watched his videos about different kinds of tech. Owen would break down everything from video games and consoles to spy cameras and computer hardware. Since we had amazing gadgets we used almost daily, he was always showing people how things worked.