Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84607 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 423(@200wpm)___ 338(@250wpm)___ 282(@300wpm)
I hadn’t cried yet, and I was kinda hoping I could skip that part because I sensed it was going to be ugly.
In the back of my mind, I’d had the same fear running on a loop since Mom had told me she was terminally ill.
How are you gonna make it? You’re alone. You’re a damn mama’s boy who can barely boil an egg. You don’t like people, your job pays minimum wage, you didn’t make it to college, you can’t fucking do this.
I let out a shaky breath and rubbed at my chest.
Could I figure shit out in four months? That was when I’d run out of money.
I swallowed again, feeling nausea creeping upward, and I abruptly opened the closet and stepped inside. A big part of me wanted to peek between my fingers, but it was already too late. I was assaulted by Mom’s perfume and the sight of the family photos my aunt had stacked in here the other day.
Get it over with.
Armed with a roll of garbage bags, I started throwing belongings out of the closet. Keep, keep, throw out, throw out, throw out. Clothes, bedsheets, pictures, old drawings, photo albums… I tore open one box filled with my report cards, tests, and science projects from school. Next box, even older shit from when Grandma passed away.
I wanted to throw up.
You have nobody. You don’t belong anywhere.
I gnashed my teeth and felt my vision blur.
One day, I might regret getting rid of so much, but I just couldn’t bring myself to sort through item by item. I kept a small eagle figurine from my grandma. I remembered playing with it when I was little. A few random photos too. The rest ended up in a bag.
Another box. I got down on one knee, wiped some sweat off my forehead, and flipped open the lid.
What the hell?
It was an envelope addressed to me at the top. Mom’s handwriting.
I opened it and pulled out a note.
My sweet boy.
I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.
I was terrified you might want to follow in his footsteps.
He accidentally left the business card behind.
I love you so much.
I’m sorry.
“What?” I mumbled.
I lifted a shoebox out of the bigger box and opened that too.
Follow in whose footsteps?
The shoebox didn’t have much in it at all. An old newspaper—
Shit. A small card fell out when I picked up the newspaper. The business card. She’d mentioned a business card.
The Hillcroft Group.
There was something written in Latin below the logo. I turned it over and cocked my head. Someone had jotted down a name. Bo Beckett. Who the fuck was Bo Beckett? What the fuck was the Hillcroft Group?
I returned my attention to the newspaper, and it was folded to immediately show me an article about some people dying in Afghanistan. It was a half-page story, with grainy photos of a bunch of soldiers.
I was terrified you might want to follow in his footsteps.
My…my dad?
The name under one of the pictures made me blanch. Sgt Jacob J Quinn. My dad’s name was Jake, but Mom had said his last name was Smith.
I shook my head, fucking confused. This didn’t make any sense. She’d told me he’d died in a work-related accident. I mean…was that what you called it when a soldier died on active duty?
This couldn’t be real. Quinn. Smith. Quinn. Smith. Sgt Jacob J Quinn. He looked familiar, kind of. The photo wasn’t good quality. Definitely a soldier, though. He was in uniform in the picture.
I swallowed hard and sank down onto the floor.
I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.
Sergeant Jacob Quinn and his unit had died in an act of heroism, saving civilian lives… Wait, there was one survivor from the unit.
A strangled noise escaped my throat, and my vision blurred. How many goddamn times had I tried to look up a fucking Smith? Had she lied to me? Had she picked that last name because it was so damn common?
She wouldn’t do that to me.
I was terrified you might want to follow in his footsteps.
My breath hitched, and I quickly wiped at my cheek.
I grabbed the business card again and eyed the name scribbled on the back.
Bo Beckett.
I let out an unsteady breath and pulled out my phone. I wanted to know what the Latin words meant, so I entered “Quod incepimus conficieus” into the search field.
The result came up right away.
What we have begun, we shall finish.
Well, that was un-fucking-helpful, so I looked up the Hillcroft Group instead.
I felt my forehead wrinkle as I clicked on the website.
Private security. Risk assessment. Personnel protection. Cybersecurity. A bunch of these words just stared right back at me. Government training. Protection of assets and…
It was a private military agency based here in Arlington, for fuck’s sake.