Shift

“Okay,” I croak. I blink a few times, my focus on the small pocket on his polo shirt, the imperfect crease in it that says he grabbed it from the dirty clothes and raced to county holding to get me. I move my gaze up until I reach his eyes, and staring into them is as hard as I knew it would be. I won’t lie to this man.

“What do you know about your dad’s business?” he asks.

“Can we . . . can we not call him my dad?” I respond, squirming a little in my seat. I break our stare briefly but offer a tight smile when I return to his eyes.

“Okay.” He nods, his voice soft and soothing. Understanding.

“Thanks,” I say.

In through the nose, hold, out through the nose.

“I found his money a couple of days ago. I mean, he’s always had cash around, but this was serious money. Hundred thousand, maybe more,” I admit.

Mr. Judge remains calm, probably because he knows the real number for the cash. Which means he knows what was with it.

“And there were drugs, like a brick of something. I figured heroine,” I say with a shrug, my face flashing hot. I hate that this is my life, that I’m the son of a man who has shit like this stashed in his kid’s closet.

Ha

“They’re go

Mr. Judge grimaces as he brings his gaze back to me. His mouth holds a tight line as the waitress moves in with our hot plates. As delicious as my hotcakes smell, my stomach turns from the news I sense coming the minute our server leaves our table. She drops off an extra set of silverware and some syrup, then heads to the other end of the diner to attend to a couple who just walked in to sit at the counter.

“Dustin, they’re go

I pull my plate close and focus on my pancakes. I pick up the fork knowing I won’t eat a damn thing on this plate. I just need something to do. I swirl butter around the top as I say “oh.” After several seconds of silence, though, I drop the charade, and the fork, and push my plate away.

“So, he’ll be out soon?” I feel the invisible stranglehold of terror grip my throat.

“I wouldn’t say days. But weeks? Yeah. And depending on how fast they want to move, maybe days.”

“But then he’ll serve time, right? He doesn’t get a free pass without something, does he?” A mental slideshow of all the awful things Colt has done—to me, to my mom, to people—plays through my mind.

“Oh, he’ll serve time,” Mr. Judge says.

I sigh with relief, but it’s temporary.

“Not a lot, though. Maybe eighteen months, maybe six. I don’t know the deal. He’s small fish compared to the guys they’re after.”

“So after all this, he’ll still get out?” I don’t want the truth to sink in. I understand it, I just wish I didn’t.

“He will, Dustin. He’ll come home.”

Home.

I nod and drop my gaze to the table between our two pointless plates.

“That’s why I need to know, Dustin. How involved are you? How much do you know about your dad’s business?”

I shake my head, processing for a few seconds before I speak.

“Nothing beyond what I told you. I swear,” I say, denying my suspicions even though I’m certain they’re right.

“You swear on your life?” he pushes.

My eyes move up to find his waiting and I nod.

“I swear, sir,” I say, sliding my plate to the side and moving the coffee back in front of me. I pull the mug to my lips and take a bigger drink this time, needing the jolt of a strong, black brew. The taste is bitter and perfect, so I go in for more.

“Your dad . . . Colt, I mean,” he corrects. “He got in with the cartel. And from what my friend could tell me, Dustin, he’s been working with them for months, maybe almost a year. Something went wrong with this exchange, though, and I’m guessing it went really wrong. Colt probably thought he could out-maneuver the guys he was in contact with or something, but those guys always have bigger guys behind them, as do those guys, and so on. Until it’s the guy. And that guy? He doesn’t give a shit about anyone.”

I rub my hand over my tired, numb face as Mr. Judge confirms what deep down, I always knew was true.

“I took some of the money,” I blurt out. I swore I wouldn’t lie to this man, and I won’t.

“Shit, Dustin!” he whisper shouts. He covers his mouth and leans back, looking out the window at the busy rush of traffic.

“I know. It was stupid. But he owed me, and I needed to take care of some things.” I fumble for an explanation that makes my actions okay.

Ha

“It doesn’t matter. Forget that. It doesn’t matter,” he repeats.

“O-o-kay,” I stammer out.

I can’t fathom how it doesn’t matter, but I’ll follow his logic for now.

“The DEA is working with the FBI, and they’re going to use Colt to get to his guy. You understand what I’m saying?” he asks.

I nod, though I don’t know what that means bigger picture-wise.

“Dustin, I need you to understand the gravity of this. Your dad—Colt Bridges—is going to be a dangled carrot to lure some really fucking heinous men.”

I flinch at his brashness. And then, my pulse ratchets up. I’m starting to understand everything. Why we’re here—why he’s here.

“I feel sick,” I say, laying my head on my arms and pushing my ass back in the booth so I can stare at my lap. “Oh, God, I’m go

“Go if you have to,” he says. “Bathroom’s right there.”

In through the nose, hold, exhale.

“No, I’ll be okay.” I won’t. I never will be again.

A weight hits the table, the thud enough to push my forehead up from my arms. I glance up through my lashes to find a massive book, a notebook with it, along with a stuffed business-sized envelope.

“Is there a test?” I lift a brow. My stomach rolls.

“It’s twenty thousand dollars, Dustin. Take it, and the book so it doesn’t look like I’m just handing you cash at a truck stop.” His voice is low, and for the first time since we got here, it quivers with nerves.

I blink my focus to the bundle as he pushes it toward me and I do as he says. I pull it all into my lap and turn the spine of the book to read it—Moby Dick.

“What do I do with this?” I ask, hugging the envelope, tucking it against my stomach and behind the book and notepad.

“Amanda and I are going to be your guardians. A few papers need to be filed, but for two weeks, until you’re eighteen, you’ll be ours.” He pauses with his mouth open and his eyes drop. This is where the but comes in.

“I need to go,” I say in a low whisper, the words coming out slowly.

Mr. Judge nods, his movement stilted and slight. His eyes flit away from mine, the guilt of looking me square too much to take now that the cards are on the table. He’s paying me to leave; to leave Ha