I fix my eyes on the dark, blank screen of the PC.
“My parents and I were placed in witness protection when I was around seven years old. When I was nine-and-a-half, the people we were hiding from found us. My dad distracted them so me and my mom could run, but they found us quickly enough. My mom stuffed me into an air duct and gave herself up so they wouldn’t find me.” I blink and it actually hurts. “I listened to them kill her, and I couldn’t stop them.”
“Oh, Ryder.” Farrington puts a kind hand on my shoulder, and I fight my initial instinct to pull away.
“The fuckers kept coming for me, calling my name, trying to tell me it was okay. My mom told me not to come out, so I didn’t. I was in the duct for hours and hours, maybe even a day and a half, when I heard dogs barking and people talking. They weren’t the guys who chased us in; I could hear them communicating by radios. This one dog got real close to the vent, and when she barked it scared the shit out of me. Her handler, the guy who happened to be on the other side of the leash, was a retired Navy Seal Chief. He’d been in two wars and served countless hours after retiring in bounty recovery and rescue work. He promised to keep me safe that day if I came out. And he did.
“He and his wife Betty adopted me. They raised me with a lot of love. Chief also raised me to be a younger version of himself.” Now that the words are coming, it’s like I can’t stop them—don’t want to stop them. I feel compelled to tell her everything. I want someone to know about Chief and Betty and what they meant to me.
“The Navy Seal life was his credo, and he made sure it was ingrained in me. Chief homeschooled me and taught me everything he knew when I was younger—physical conditioning, along with mental discipline and survival tactics, awareness. While other kids were going to baseball practice or learning to play guitar, I was getting educated on tracking criminals, spotting clues and going to target practice.” I chuckle at the irony. “He taught me about putting pieces of obscure puzzles together and solving cases.
“He was buddies with almost every cop, military personnel and FBI agent he ever met. He even organized a motorcycle club where all these experts and Special Forces men and women could come together, ride and talk shop. Everybody loved him.” That makes me smile.
“But most of all, I did. He called me son more than he ever used my name. I couldn’t have asked for more good-hearted people to take me in than him and Betty. She’d get so infuriated when he took me out on cases. Maybe that’s because society told her I was too young. By the time I was fourteen I was a crack shot, and I’d traveled to every state with Chief on assignments and rescue missions. We’d also hunt for cadavers after disasters.”
The next thought sobers me. “It all changed when Betty passed away from cancer. Losing her annihilated Chief. He changed everything—he wouldn’t let me go out with him on missions and kept me sheltered and locked up in the house as much as he could. When I fought with him about it, he pulled rank.” I’m overwhelmed by it all again in this moment—the way I felt so powerless, completely unable to reach Chief when he needed me most.
“For a few months after her death he’d get drunker than hell and talk about God and what kind of afterlife there might be. It consumed him and became the ultimate puzzle he couldn’t solve. It was like he had to break that veil and get back to her.
“Then one morning, out of the blue, he woke up and promised me no more drinking, promised things would go back to the way they were and we’d go back to working cases together. He took a couple days off and we rode bikes through the red rocks of Arizona. It was the last weekend we’d ever have together. That Monday, Chief went on a case without me—I later found out the guy was facing a lot of jail time. Chief never came home. The perp shot him.”
“Jesus, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay to talk about today. It actually feels . . . relieving to let it go . . . and let you share it.”