Deploy (17 page)

“Yeah, that wouldn’t make sense, now would it,” Atticus said as he drove on.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

Atticus glanced her way. “A buddy of ours, he was chatting it up with Nolan the morning he and Declan left.” His eyes met the road. “He saw where Nolan’s attention was going as he looked outside.” Another glance her way then to the road. “Didn’t make much sense to me for you to seem upset about my brother leaving then to go cuddle with a Souter.”

Justice felt her heart beating liking a drum.
Horrific panic
. If he had pieced as much together, could others have done the same? Is that why the Sheriff still had the file on his desk like Murdock said?

Atticus pulled up to the box outside, dropped his letter in then pulled into a spot. He gripped the steering wheel then looked right at her.

“He hit you because you were with my brother?”

Justice dropped her gaze.

“Which one?” Atticus asked through clenched teeth.

Justice glanced quickly to her side.

“Did your daddy do it and Murdock manned up, or was it the other way ‘round?” He leaned closer. “Murdock lay a hand on you?”

“No,” she said in a whisper.

“You saying that because you don’t want me to do anything ‘bout it?” he asked as he evaluated everything about her. Her breath, how short it was. Her stare, how it could not settle. Her blush, how it was so red she was near feverish. Her hands, now she was wringing them together. Her shoulders, how tense they were.

“If it were true, I wouldn’t want any of my drama to touch your family.” She looked him dead in the eye. “I would fight to make sure it didn’t.” She swallowed. “Murdock was at my house, my father had an accident.”

Atticus’s gaze searched hers for a moment. “No, I mean
no
one,
ever
raises a hand to you. You understand? Ever again.”

She nodded and reached for the door so she could go in. He reached for her hand. “This isn’t conditional, Justice. It’s not because of how any one of my brothers feel about you. It’s because you’re a good person. It’s because no one ever deserves to live in fear. To be struck for who they are, what they say, or believe.”

“I know,” she said, with a shy smile, wondering how any Rawlings would take the truth of what happened. If they’d be proud she fought back, or upset she, in effect, committed murder. It was hard to know for sure. They did defend whenever and wherever they could, but family was sacred to them.

Either way, Justice planned to die with the truth of that night unspoken. At least, not in utter detail, the detail she relived every night.

“I just gotta check and see if my mom sent me anything real quick.”

“Right,” Atticus said as he leaned back against his door.

A person should not be terrified, and excited to approach a mailbox. Justice knew as much, but she couldn’t control her emotions anymore than she could control the weather, not lately anyways.

The little old post lady looked up at her, then did a double take. Justice smiled shyly then made her way to her box.

At first, she couldn’t get the key to work, which didn’t surprise her. Murphy’s Law had been her best friend for a long while. Simple things like opening doors, pouring a glass of tea, bushing her teeth...you name it, something went wrong and it would blow up in her face. Which was, in truth, the reason she was a horrible waitress as of late, not that she rocked it out before all this drama.

With a grunt and a pull, she finally managed to jerk the door open and when she did, letters spilled down over her feet.

She gasped a grin as if she had just won the lottery and hundred dollar bills were raining down around her. Some of it was junk mail, but right on top she saw more than one letter from Declan.

In a rush she knelt down and sorted it all as fast as her shaking hands would let her, tossing the junk mail in the bin, but not before checking it twice to make sure there wasn’t a precious letter tucked within.

She had all that was left in a pile tucked in her apron, hidden from Atticus’s questioning gaze and was ready to leave when the lady said, “Miss,” causing everyone in the post office to look her way.

Justice glanced over her shoulder and saw her pushing a plastic U.S mailbox toward her. “Here’s the rest.”

Justice gaped.

The old lady shrugged. “It wouldn’t fit.”

Hearing her heart pound Justice made her way to the counter. Getting home with all of this was going to be the trick of the century.

“Keep the box,” the lady said, going back to her task, a lingering smile on her lips. “Write back.”

The plastic container wasn’t filled all the way to the top, but there were bound stacks that made what was in her apron look like a joke.

Nerve. She felt it swell in her and she had not read one damn word.

She pulled her phone out and sent Murdock a text.
“Don’t need a ride. Already gone. See you Sunday.”

She was off the next day and he had planned to go fishing with his buddy Jacks. Which made no sense. He’d always said fishing was a joke, if he didn’t have gun he didn’t care to hunt anything, but lately, it had been his deal and she was good with it. It kept him away for hours at a time.

“What’s up?”
His text was instant.

“Just needed space.”
That was her tagline lately, and for the most part, he got why and tried to give it to her, on his terms of course.

“K.”

Then with her head held high, she put the box under arm and walked outside. She ignored the significant smirk strapped across Atticus’s face as he reached for the box, putting it in the middle of the seat then for her hand to help her up.

She sat up straight up in the passenger seat. “Can you take me home please?”

“What? Murdock’s truck not big enough for your haul?”

She slid a glare at him.

He laughed. “I only work for food.” He rubbed his belly. “Growing boy.”

Her eyes grew wide in shock. “I just fed you.”

“Right, but I’ll be hungry by dinner. I’m sure I can mow or fix something ‘round your place ‘till then.”

She smiled, but her eyes watered. “Yeah...that’d be nice.”

D
eclan had to have started writing the letters hours after he arrived, as he waited to be processed.

“If you remember anything I’ve ever said, remember the words I said this morning...fight, Justice. Don’t fall when I’m not there to catch you...”

“I know you’re stubborn...always have been, but asking for help when you need it makes you strong not weak.”

“Day one was a bitch...I had a dream about you last night. It wasn’t good...”

“Day two...”

“Day three...

“Day Four...

“Day Five I just opened a letter from my dad! What the hell happened? Are you okay? I know I told you that you didn’t have to write back, but, Justice, I have to know...”

There were letters from every day, sometimes two a day. The week right after her dad died, there were days there were three. For the most part they were a page long, sometimes two. He told her what he knew, which was basically the story that everyone was told. He told her he knew she was ‘banged up’ pretty bad. And that Murdock was with her all the time.

The avid reader in her was able to devour the letters like a novel that was written just for her, and in a way it was. Once he understood she wasn’t going to write back about anything she went through with her father, or answer his point blank question if she Murdock were together, he began to use the letters as a journal.

His thoughts on his day, what he learned, where he fell, and where he succeeded. She knew who his close friends were, and in most cases what he did that day step-by-step, how good or bad it was.

There was more...things she knew he wouldn’t write to his brothers, the hint of fear, of fighting separation, wanting to but not wanting to become something else, something
more
.

She read a marked change in him.

When she walked into her kitchen and sat down to read she had a version of Declan Rawlings firmly in her mind, and in her heart. Now she had a new one. She could feel, as her grandmother had said, the boy was gone. A man was there. Declan was near the end of phase two of his training. The polishing of the warrior and his newfound skills was all that was left.

Hours had gone by. She had heard the mower outside, the banging of wood, other sounds that all drifted to the back of her mind as she lived through Declan’s life changing moments at his side, through his words.

It wasn’t until her grandmother, Bell, walked in that the spell was broken and she lifted her gaze and realized she was still there. Seventeen, ‘grieving’ for her father and trapped inside a sickening secret. And poor as the day was long.

Bell had grocery bags filling each arm. “Is that Atticus Rawlings’ truck across the way?” she asked before her gaze found Justice.

Who was sitting at a table with every letter opened. “He wrote...” she said in a ghost of a whisper.

It took Bell a second to decide how she felt about this. If Declan had the power, at a distance, to bring her granddaughter back around or if he would just cause her more grief she could not deal with right then.

“I can see that,” she said with a smile before making her way to the counter. “Did Atticus bring them by?” she asked, looking out the kitchen window, noticing all the limbs from the storm months back had been picked up, the sporadic grass had been cut, the boards on the back porch were fixed, and that was just what she could see at a glance.

For a moment she was nostalgic, remembering when she was a girl. Bradyville wasn’t a military base by any means, but its location somehow attracted those who had either loved a warrior or lived on a base.

They didn’t stand out, not really, but you could see the protection in their eyes, and when they stepped up to help—to balance a family who had sacrificed someone for the country they lived in, you felt it.

“Looks like he had a lot to say,” she said as she unloaded the groceries, keeping her gaze to the window. Her home almost looked the way it did when her husband was alive. Prim, neat, and well cared for.

“He heard about Dad. I think he was worried about me.”

Bell glanced at Justice with a raised brow as if to say ‘seems like more than worry in that sea of paper.’

“By the time I answer all these he’ll be gone,” Justice said with regret heavy in her mind. She felt guilty as hell for letting one of the last things he said slip her mind—that he was going write to a box she rarely checked but would now if there was a hope of a letter from him.

Bell ticked her head in agreement. “I’m sure at this point, one letter would help matters.”

Justice heard the blower outside kick on and glanced at the groceries her grandmother had. She knew from experience Atticus was a bottomless pit when it came to food, even though he was nothing but raw, lean muscle. “I promised Atticus food for my ride home. Do we have enough? I can go without if I need to, my stomach is in knots.”

“Plenty,” Bell said. She knew how to stretch a meal, and had done so for years. “How did Murdock feel about this ride home?”

Justice shrugged as she read over Declan’s last letter. She could swear she could smell him across the pages, feel him surrounding her. So close, yet so far away. The way they had always been.

She didn’t care what Murdock thought.

Hearing Atticus tease her all the way home about how scared she was about being seen with him made Justice realize she and Murdock had become toxic. And even though they were by no means BFFs before all this, it still sucked. And in some way it made them seem obvious, and she planned to tell him as much when he took her to work on Sunday.

“I don’t know,” Justice said, lost in Declan’s words, which made Bell smile. Nothing was fixed yet, but at the very least she could see her granddaughter emerging from her latest battle.

***

J
ustice was a rude dinner host. She spent most of her time writing, and being too late to answer questions her grandmother or Atticus sent her way, but neither of them seemed to mind.

The next day when the mailman came at noon, she was waiting on him and handed him seventeen letters. She had more to write, but she wanted some to at least be on their way.

She didn’t write every word the night before, some of the pages had been pulled right from her own journal, words she had written to just get them out, to say what would not leave her lips.

There were parts she did stay up to write the night before, too. Ones where she told him she had forgotten about the P.O. box, but not him. She never explained what happened the night she lost her dad or why Murdock was so close, but she told him no, her and Murdock were friends, only friends.

Letting him know she had it bad for weeks was not good and she knew it. People tended to remember what they read, right? Well, he would remember it because there was a good chance he would read it more than once. People most assuredly remembered how they felt when they learned anything about people they knew. But Justice was caught between a rock and a hard place. For weeks, he had already imagined the worst.

The rest of Saturday was spent responding to even more letters. She signed each one:
Your Justice
. And each time she felt a twist in her gut, a doubt that the wording was right. What were they? Friends? Pen pals? A hook up? Something real? She didn’t know.

Sunday morning by 4:45 a.m., fifteen minutes after she should have been at work, she was sure Murdock knew Atticus had hung out with her on Friday and was mad. At least, she assumed that was why he didn’t pick her up.

She tried taking Bell’s car, but it wouldn’t start, an issue she’d had for weeks. Most times Bell could get the neighbor to drop her off, but waking a neighbor that early seemed cruel.

Calling her boss wasn’t any easier. He was furious.

Finally, Murdock flew into her driveway at a quarter to six. By then Justice felt like she had already endured a day of hell and was not ready to face the hell her boss would give her for being this late.