Chapter 123
Summer's POV
The note was there when I woke up on Wednesday morning, February 13th.
Mom's handwriting sprawled across expensive Hayes & Co. stationery, propped against my water glass on the kitchen counter. I'll make some calls. But you stay away from the danger zone—promise me. Beside it, a business card: Robert Bell, Criminal Defense Attorney, with a downtown Boston address embossed in gold.
My hands shook as I picked up the card. The edges were sharp, professional, expensive. Mom had already started moving. She'd probably made the call yesterday, maybe the day before. How long had she been sitting with this decision, weighing my safety against my desperation?
I texted her immediately. Thank you. I promise I'll be careful. I love you.
Her reply came within seconds, even though it was barely seven and she should've been in her morning meeting. I know you will. And I love you too. But if anything goes wrong, you run—understood?
Understood.
I stared at the card for another long moment, then slipped it into my wallet. Seven weeks. Seven weeks of sticky notes plastered everywhere Mom might look, of voice messages I'd left at midnight when I couldn't sleep, of newspaper clippings about Kieran's perfect USAPhO score that I'd left on her pillow. Seven weeks of watching her face shift from granite to something softer, more conflicted. And now this.
She'd given in. But the price was my promise to keep my distance, to let her handle the dangerous parts, to stay in the safe zone while Kieran's world imploded around him.
I looked at my phone. Still no new messages from him. The last one, from three days ago, was just Busy. Talk later.
Drake's release was seven days away now. One week. The countdown that had started at eight weeks was now measured in hours.
I couldn't just wait anymore.
At school, I pulled out my phone during homeroom and called Mom's assistant. My voice came out steadier than I felt. "Hi, it's Summer. I need you to arrange something for the marketing team. A lunch outing tomorrow, twenty people. There's this place in South Boston—The Happy Patty. Can you book it for noon? Budget's eight hundred dollars. Make sure they order the premium meals, at least forty per person."
"The Happy Patty?" The assistant sounded confused. "I'm not familiar with—"
"It's a local restaurant. We're doing a community support initiative." I was making this up as I went, my heart pounding. "Random selection to help small businesses. Very important that you emphasize it's purely a company initiative. Don't mention my name or anyone from the Hayes family. Just say it's corporate policy."
"Understood. I'll handle it."
"Thank you."
I hung up and stared at my phone. One item checked off the list I'd been building in my head for weeks. Restaurant support. Legal consultation channels. Safety housing information. All things I could do without Kieran ever knowing, without hurting his pride or making him feel like charity.
The confirmation email came through before lunch. Reservation confirmed for 20 people, tomorrow 12PM, The Happy Patty.
I read it three times, imagining the scene. Would Kieran be there? Would he see the sudden influx of business professionals and wonder? Would he ever know it was me?
Probably not. That was the point.
By noon, I'd made another call—this one to Robert Bell's office. I used a fake name, asked hypothetical questions about restraining orders, extended supervision, mandatory community monitoring for released offenders. The paralegal who answered was patient but firm. "For any formal action, we'd need the victim or their legal guardian to file directly. These processes can't be initiated anonymously."
I'd expected that answer. I still took notes, wrote down every detail. Maybe I could get the information to Catherine through someone else. Through the school counselor. Through Coach Anderson. Through anyone who wasn't me, so Kieran wouldn't know I'd been meddling.
I sat in my car after school, hands gripping the steering wheel, staring at the list on my phone screen.
✓ Restaurant revenue support
⚬ Legal consultation channel
⚬ Safe housing information (pending)
Everything I was doing felt both necessary and completely inadequate. I was throwing money at a problem that couldn't be solved with money. I was trying to protect someone who didn't want protection. I was standing in the dark, shining a flashlight at a door he wouldn't open.
But I couldn't stop.
I drove to South Boston.
I told myself I was just checking that the reservation was in the system. That I needed to make sure The Happy Patty was a real place, suitable for a corporate lunch. That I was being responsible.
The truth was simpler and more pathetic. I just wanted to see him.
I parked across the street, far enough that he wouldn't notice my car. The red-and-yellow striped awning of Catherine's food cart fluttered in the cold February wind. Through the restaurant window, I could see the lunch rush—Kieran moving behind the counter, his shoulders tight, his movements efficient and mechanical. He wore the same faded black hoodie from weeks ago. His hair needed cutting. Even from this distance, I could see the exhaustion carved into his posture.
A drunk stumbled past the food cart, deliberately knocking into Lily. She was holding a hot dog, wearing that ridiculous red-and-yellow puffy coat. The food went flying.
Kieran was out the door before the man could take another step.
He didn't shout. Didn't throw a punch. He just positioned himself between Lily and the drunk, his damaged right hand instinctively raised to shield her, his left hand clenched at his side. The man swore, spat something vicious, then staggered away. Kieran stood there for a beat longer, making sure the threat was gone, before he crouched down to pick up the ruined hot dog.
The way he touched Lily's shoulder—so careful, so gentle—made my throat close up.
He handed her a napkin. Said something that made her nod. Then he guided her back behind the cart, one hand on her back, protective and weary.
I pressed my palm against the cold window of my car.
He looked so tired. Not just physically, though that was obvious. It was deeper. The kind of tired that came from holding up the sky with your bare hands for so long you forgot what it felt like to let go.
Seven days left. One week until his father got out.
And he was still here, working lunch shifts, protecting his sister, carrying everything alone.
He lifted his head suddenly, like he'd sensed something. His gaze swept the street, slow and searching. I ducked instinctively, my heart slamming against my ribs. When I dared to look again, he was still standing there, staring in my direction. His expression was unreadable—blank, maybe, or just too far away to see clearly.
I started the car. My hands were shaking so badly I almost couldn't turn the key.
In the rearview mirror, I saw him watch my car pull away. He didn't move. Just stood there in his faded hoodie and his impossible burdens, getting smaller and smaller until I turned the corner and he disappeared.
I made it two blocks before I had to pull over.
The tears came hard and fast, the kind that felt like they'd been building for weeks. I gripped the steering wheel and let myself fall apart, alone in my car on a random South Boston street, crying for a boy who wouldn't let me help him and a future I couldn't fix and the terrible, unbearable distance growing between us.
When I finally stopped, my face was blotchy and my chest ached. I checked my phone.
Still nothing from him.
I drove home.
Mom was already there when I walked in, which was unusual for a weekday evening. The dining table was set with Boston lobster, strawberry cheesecake, and a vase of pink roses. Soft jazz played from the speakers. She'd gone all out.
"You're early," I said, dropping my bag by the door.
"I wanted to have dinner with you." She smiled, but there was something careful in it. "Tomorrow's Valentine's Day. I thought we could celebrate tonight instead."