The Ones We Trust by Kimberly Belle Read Free Book Online Page B

tiny slits. “I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to figure out. Why don’t you just give the copy to
me
?”
    I don’t tell Gabe that I seriously considered doing exactly that, passing him Ricky’s name and washing my hands of the entire episode. But the more I thought about it, the more I contemplated my reasons for wanting to give the Armstrongs Ricky, the more I realized giving Gabe his name would be like confessing my sins to the priest’s secretary. I need to go straight to the top, which means I need to hand Ricky to his mother.
    “Look, Gabe. I realize you’re suspicious of my intentions, and honestly, I can’t say I blame you. Journalists are pretty ruthless when they smell a story, and they’ve crucified you and your mother for daring to take on the US Army, but again, and I’m just being completely honest here, it’s exactly because of the behavior you’ve shown me in the past five minutes.”
    He hauls a breath to respond, but I don’t give him the chance.
    “You don’t have to explain. I get it. You lost a brother, you’re allowed to be angry. But your mother lost a son, and in my book that means she needs to be in the room when I hand over the name. Believe me or don’t. Call me or don’t. I’ve never met your mother, but I think I know enough about her to know that if she were standing here right now, she wouldn’t let that soldier just walk away.”
    And then that’s just what I do. I turn and walk away.
    Because even though my skills at approaching sources may be a little rusty, I can still read one like a book, and I know one thing for sure. Gabe might not want to, but he believes me, and he’ll call.
    * * *
    Twenty minutes later, I’m walking through my front door when the text pings my phone.
    Wednesday, 3 pm. 4538 Davidson Street. Gabe

8
    Jean Armstrong lives in a traditional brick colonial on a quiet, tree-lined street just outside the western beltway. I ease to a stop at the curb, gazing out my car window at the lace-hung windows, the perfectly clipped boxwood hedges that lead to the front door. So this is the house where the Armstrong boys grew up. Where they took first steps and left for first dates, where they swung from a tire on the hundred-year-old magnolia and roughhoused on the wide, grassy lawn, where only ten months ago, a solemn-faced chaplain and uniformed CNO trudged up to the sunny yellow door, carrying a task heavier than holding the front line.
    I reach for my bag and climb out of the car, smoothing my skirt as I make my way to the door. For some reason I didn’t give too much thought to at the time, I dressed to impress. Makeup, hair, heels, the works. Part of my effort is that the more that I read up on Jean, the more I really like her. The few quotes she’s given the media have been so smart and thoughtful, and I’ve always been drawn to smart, thoughtful people. And besides, it’s hard not to feel affection for a grieving mother.
    But there’s more to it than just wanting Jean to like me. As much as I hate to admit it, I can’t deny my glossy hair and five-inch stilettos are also a teeny tiny bit for Gabe. To remind him of the first time we met, before my accidental discovery torpedoed our connection, when he seemed to like me enough to ask my name. I don’t know what that says about me that I want him to like me again, but there it is. I do.
    I climb the few steps to the door and aim my finger at the bell, but before I can make contact, the door opens and Gabe steps out, swinging the door shut with a soft click. He’s in those same faded and worn jeans, but he’s traded his apron for a T-shirt and nice wool sweater, and accessorized them both with what I’m beginning to recognize as his trademark scowl.
    “Here’s how it’s going to go down,” he says without so much as a hello. “We go inside, you give Mom the papers and answer our questions, and then you leave. You don’t get to ask us anything, and you sure as hell can’t use