And that’s what I realize as our conversation turns toward him and the school he goes to—the public school in Robin’s Tree, not homeschooled inLa Lumierelike I guessed, given the place’s fondness for privacy. There’s a lot of Kissy in him. Her influence, even though I haven’t known her long, is shining through.
She wasn’t blowing smoke about her involvement with Micah through the years.
She didn’t have to be there, as far as I can guess, but she was.
Through the years, I’ve met many folks who have been in foster care. People who aged out of the system or were adopted. The ones who had their grown-ups work their plans and reunify. None of it was uncommon; a lot of people just don’t lead with it. Jesse used to joke that you could go to any crowded room in America and throw a warm beer across it and hit at least one person in the face who was familiar with foster care, adoption, or some variation of the two.
But I’m not in a crowded room.
My first experience in Robin’s Tree was with only one other person.
Kissy.
And there she was, orphaned at fourteen and a mother figure to a boy who’d somehow been legally tied to a man I couldn’t believe had been approved by any parish or state to foster or adopt.
Lee would’ve said it feltstaged. That I’d managed to find me the one person in the entire town who understood chosen family like I did. But who also had trauma and tragedy in her past.
Then again, my parents didn’t die trying to save someone.
And my trauma?
Well, that didn’t come until I first saw the Girl Beneath the Floor.
I pull another long drink from my coffee.
My gut takes the time to talk to me.
It likes Kissy; it likes Micah.
It wants to know where Guidry is so we can rectify his hold on them both.
It wonders if Ryan knew anything about the three of them.
I settle my coffee cup on the post again. I know what I need to do next. There might not be a badge on my chest anymore, but that doesn’t mean I can’t do something about Robin Tree’s problems.
Hey, I guess there might be something to this Bayou Cowboy thing after all.
Sheriff Roland makesan appearance ’round the same time Kissy does. She’s dressed in a flowy white top with sleeves that flair and a pair of long black exercise pants with a logo smack-dab on the thigh, while the sheriff is wearing an outfit that looks like it came out of a JCPenney’s catalogue spread about fishing. Kissy gets to me a minute before I hear the sheriff’s truck kicking up dirt.
She looks as awful as a beautiful woman can.
There are two bruises of note along her jaw and across the cheek not sporting a bandage. They’re in the stages between blue and purple with an added yellowing. Both are too big for her face and look all kinds of wrong across it. Her busted lip has scabbed and seems the least painful-looking thing on her. Bags hang heavy under her eyes. She might’ve slept, but I’m not sure it was good sleep.
Before she can close the gap between us, I use my coffee mug to cover up the fact that I’m whispering to Micah.
“Try not to say anything about her face,” I tell him.
Thankfully, the boy seems to understand. He nods and greets Kissy with a big smile. “I told Beau he needs to get a horse,” he proudly proclaims.
If Kissy’s still feeling cold about our conversation the night before, she hides it well. She beams back at Micah and laughs toward me. “I know a guy for that,” she says. “He actually owns and operates a horse sanctuary in North Carolina. He’s a good guy. His father used to…” Her words trail off when the sound of the sheriff approaching catches us.
She cusses low.
“Micah, why don’t you go into the house for a bit?” she asks when she sees who’s coming.
Micah cranes his neck around me to look. “Do you think he found Guidry?”
Kissy’s brows are pulled together tight. She doesn’t answer.
