All In Read online

  In every school there’s always a group like this. The chatty chick and her minions. Too bad Abby’s a minion.

  “There’s a dance next week—are you going? You should totally come. We can go together.”

  “Nah. Not my thing.” Jenna looks forlorn at the rejection. “Can anyone point me toward the library? I'm in a class called Peer Coaching.” The school assigned me to some stupid crap that I have to go to every day. Coaching is just a nice way of saying tutoring. Yes, this town is that polite. Apparently, my grades at my other school didn’t impress them, and I have no other choice but to comply with this bullshit. I hope the dude doesn’t have a stick up his ass. I can’t imagine spending thirty minutes five days a week with a complete douche.

  One of the girls, one whose name I can’t remember, points her thumb at Abby.

  “Abby’s in that. She can show you.”

  She looks up, those huge eyes looking wider than before. “Uh…yes.”

  “Yes? As in, yes you can show me where I have to go?”

  “Y-y-y…”

  “Jesus, Abby, just spit it out,” Jenna snaps with a roll of her eyes and a flip of her hair. The rest of the posse giggles.

  Abby looks down, her face beet-red. Instead of continuing, she stands up and runs down the steps.

  “What’s up with her?” I ask.

  “She stutters. So annoying. Takes her, like, a million years to say anything,” some other girl replies.

  “Anyway, so why don’t you want to go to the dance?” Jenna dives right back into the conversation, but I feel terrible for this Abby girl, who was just humiliated. Being the new kid in a new school, I know what it’s like to not always fit in.

  “Nah. I’m good. Plus, that was kinda a bitch thing to do, don’t you think?” I stand, ignoring their stares and gasps, and jog down the steps and try to catch up to Abby. These girls are definitely not my scene.

  “Hey!” I holler, but she just starts walking faster. “Hey, Abby. Wait up.”

  She stops but doesn’t turn. I tap her shoulder and walk around her. She quickly swipes her fingers under her eyes. I feel so bad for her, but I think it’s best to pretend not to notice. I don’t want to embarrass her further. “So, are you gonna show me the way to the library or should I just jog behind you?”

  She giggles.

  Hell, she has a dimple, and when she’s smiles her green eyes light up.

  I was wrong before.

  She’s fucking beautiful.

  “T-t-this way,” she says softly and we begin to walk together. We don’t talk, and I’m careful not to touch her or make her feel uncomfortable. I don’t know why. We just met, but I want to make her feel at ease for some reason.

  When we walk into the library, she heads straight to the desk where the teacher hands her a paper. She looks down at it, and her shoulders sag.

  “What?” I ask. She just hands me the paper.

  Well, lucky me. The dude who’s 'coaching' me is none other than my pretty new friend, Abby.

  “I can tell by your reaction that you’re super excited you’ve been assigned to me.”

  A smile forms on her face. She gestures for me to follow her, and we sit at the back of the classroom. She takes out her books from her bookbag and waits for me to do the same. I watch as she flips through her book to the assigned story. She looks at me expectantly. I guess I’m supposed to the same thing. I find the story and the assigned questions and, following her lead, start to read quietly to myself. When she begins to work on the questions, I do the same. I take longer, however. But she waits patiently for me to finish.

  I guess we’re not talking.

  I look around. There are other pairs chatting as they study together, so it’s not like speaking is not allowed or anything.

  That bitch Jenna embarrassed her, and now she doesn’t want to talk to me. She takes my paper from my hand and reviews my answers.

  “Hey.” I tug my paper back. She looks up, surprised. “Jenna’s a bitch.”

  Again, her eyes are wide.

  “Don’t let her get to you.”

  “I don’t.” Her voice is soft.

  “She speaks!” I tease.

  She smiles and shakes her head. “N-numb-ber o-one i-is r-r-r-r-right.” She shuts her eyes tightly. I can tell she is really frustrated. I watch her lips move, her words silent. I think she’s counting. I let her do her thing, not rushing her. I’m mesmerized by her actually. Then she opens her eyes again, determination in her gaze. “Y-y-you n-n-need to ex-p-pand on the s-second.” She turns her book around and points to the paragraph. “Th-th-this i-i-s th-the m-main i-i-idea. A-and th-this is a m-meta-metaphor. We have to f-find a-ll the metaphors in this chapter. H-here are examp-ples of what a metaphor is,” she says, handling me a list of her neatly written notes, just as the bell rings, signaling that study time is over.

  She looks relieved. She grabs her books and quickly shoves them into her bag and stands, but I grasp her wrist and stop her. “Thank you. I’ll study tonight at home. Tomorrow I’m going to impress the hell outta you with all the metaphors n’ shit.”

  She smiles, and this time I get a genuine laugh.

  “See ya, Abigail Williams.”

  “B-b-bye, Ch-charlie.”

  * * *

  ABBY

  CHARLIE IS the cutest and sweetest boy I’ve ever met. He hasn’t laughed at me once, and he hasn’t rushed me or finished my sentences. I like that. But the problem is that he makes me nervous which makes me stutter even more.

  It’s mortifying.

  I have to get Mr. Larry to switch me to someone else. This will never work.

  He interrupts my thoughts. “I don’t really like when people call me Charlie,” he admits.

  Damn it. The ch-sound is hard to get out, and I’m going to end up spitting all over him. But he isn’t letting me off the hook. He just stares at me expectantly.

  Charles Iglesias. What a freakin’ mouthful!

  “Bye, Ch-charles Ig-ig-ig. Ugh!” He puts his hands on my shoulders. People are rushing past us trying to get to their next class, but he’s acting like he has all damn day. “Take a breath.”

  I do.

  “Like I said, Jenna’s a bitch. I promise you, I will never make fun of you. But, if we are going to work together, you need to be comfortable talking to me. You’re supposed to be tutoring me on English lit. If you can’t talk to me, that’s gonna be kinda hard.”

  I’ve been made fun of most of my life. My stutter is terrible, and it only gets worse when I’m nervous. And this tall, cute guy, who’s watching me with kind eyes, is making me very nervous.

  “Charles Iglesias,” he enunciates.

  “Ch-charles. Ig-Iggy.” I know I look weird when the words get stuck. My face contorts, I sound stupid, and then I turn beet red. It’s a vicious cycle.

  I’m done. He’s sweet, but I’m over this game, no matter how nice he’s trying to be. If years of speech therapy can’t fix me, this guy is certainly not going to. “Iggy.” That’s as close as it’s going to get at the moment. I’ll go home and practice but for right now, I’m done.

  “Iggy?” he repeats, and I shrug defeatedly. “Iggy. Yeah, I can live with that.” He winks at me. “Later, Abby.”

  And then he walks away with a smug look on his face.

  3

  Present-Day

  ABBY

  “…Don’t forget you have a test tomorrow on chapter five.”

  “Yes, Ms. Jones,” the class sing-songs in unison as the bell rings.

  “It’s worth double!” I yell after them as they run out of the class. I grab a pile of papers and tuck them into my bag, so I can grade them at home. Twenty-seven essays on the Boston Tea Party. Good times.

  “You have some interesting characters this year, Abby.” I look up to see Mr. Walker leaning on my door.

  “Yeah, there are a few handfuls, but they’re a good bunch of kids,” I reply, thinking of my know-it-all eighth graders. “Are they giving you a hard ti
me?”

  He guffaws. “Mark and Amy, mostly.”

  “I think Mark has a crush on Amy. He’s just trying to get her attention.” I’ve also noticed that Mark has been acting up a bit. I’ll have to have a talk with him.

  “I remember being that age. Hormones.” He chuckles.

  “Yep.” I zip up my bag and walk towards the door. “Anyway, have to run. See ya tomorrow.” I wait for him to scoot out of the way, and when he doesn’t, I motion to the door. “Mr. Walker…”

  “Oh, pardon me,” he says in his proper British accent as he moves aside. I close the door and lock it.

  “Have a good night.” I smile at him brightly.

  “You too, Abby.”

  As I navigate past the children still loitering around in the hallway, I feel my phone vibrating in my purse. I reach for it, careful not to drop all the other stuff in my hands.

  “Hello!” I huff, on the fifth ring.

  “Why are you out of breath?” Tim asks.

  “Just trying to get out of work. I have my hands full. What’s up?”

  “Is everything else okay? Nothing unusual?”

  “Yes. Everything else is fine, Tim. Why wouldn’t it be?” I awkwardly wave goodbye to the security guard by the main entrance.

  “I have some news.”

  He doesn’t have to tell me what it’s about; I already know by the tone of his voice. This isn’t going to be good news.

  “What? Tell me.”

  “I just found out the identity of the man who was shot.”

  My heels hit the pavement of the sidewalk, and the Florida sun is shining bright against my eyes, making me squint.

  “Should I be worried? You said I had nothing to worry about.” I push my shoulder up against my neck to adjust my bag as it starts sliding down my arm. I’m suddenly unnerved. “Tim? Tell me. You’re scaring me." But then the phone call disconnects. What the hell?

  A tap on my shoulder startles me and I see it's Tim, but it's too late. My phone goes flying out of my hand, landing on the asphalt with a loud crack. “Oh God!” I shriek.

  “You have zero concern for your safety.”

  I place a hand over my heart, which is thumping out of my chest. “Jesus Christ, Tim. You almost gave me a heart attack.” I reach down and grab my phone, which now has a cracked screen. “I do concern myself with my safety but you said I had nothing to worry about.”

  “Well, things have changed.”

  “You’re freaking me out, Tim. Why are you even here? We were just on the phone…”

  “Sorry about that, Abby. I’ve been waiting for you for the last ten minutes and I’ve watched you look down into your purse at least ten times since you walked out of the building. And the whole time, you’ve been distracted, chatting with me while trying to balance all that crap in your hands. You have not looked up, not even once. Anyone could have whacked you over the head and you would never have seen them coming or been able to defend yourself.”

  “No one’s going to whack me over the head,” I look around. “There’s a dozen people around. It’s daytime.”

  “But you’re parked in the last row, far away from everyone, next to this tree where anyone could hide.”

  “When did you go from attorney to CSI detective?”

  He looks at me and shakes his head in annoyance. “We need to talk about Vincent Rogers, Abby. He’s the guy who was murdered.”

  “Okaaay? Am I supposed to know him? Did you come all this way just to tell me his name?”

  “I came down here because I needed to talk to you face-to-face.”

  I chuckle. “What? Why? Is my phone bugged or something?”

  My eyes widen when he remains quiet, his face tense.

  “Rogers is the accountant for a handful of gang members. If someone killed him, then they either wanted him quiet or needed something he had. Regardless, this is going to stir shit up and you’re the only person who can single-handedly identify the guy who shot him, most likely a gang member.”

  “Oh shit.” Shit fuck shit.

  “Yeah, ‘oh shit’ is right. I know you already gave your description to the police. And they have a video from a security camera, but it’s not great. It’s grainy and dark, so we still don’t know who we’re dealing with. I’ve had your name blacked out of all of the police records so that only a select few know your information but these kinds of people pay off officials all the time and if someone is arrested and you have to come down to identify the guy… Well, that worries me, Abby.”

  Shit. Fuck. Shit.

  “So, here’s the deal. I’m getting you protection and you need to accept it. I know you don’t like accepting help, and you think me and Claire do too much for you and the kids already, but this is different.”

  I stare at him silently.

  “Okay, Abby?”

  “Yes. Fine. Of course.” What else can I say? It’s true that I don’t really feel comfortable accepting assistance from people or giving up control, but my kids need to be safe, so whatever I need to do, I’ll do.

  “You promise? You’re going to accept the help? No matter what?”

  “I said okay. I can’t have the kids in any sort of danger.” Why is he being weird about this?

  “Exactly.” He opens the door to my car and I get inside, still a little shell-shocked. “I’ll follow you home and then just stay put until I tell you otherwise, okay? The guy I hired will be arriving tonight. I spoke with him just now and he’s going to make sure nothing happens to you or the kids. He’s the best.”

  “Tim. You’re scaring me. Plus, I don’t know how to repay—”

  “Repay me by doing everything you need to do to stay safe and to keep my niece and nephew safe. Because if you guys aren’t safe, my wife will worry and that doesn’t make me happy.”

  I nod.

  “And you know I worry too,” he admits, somberly. My sister and Tim never had kids, and they treat my children as their own. I love them even more for that.

  “I know you do and I promise I’ll do whatever you need us to do, okay?”

  “Alright, honey, let’s get you home.”

  * * *

  IGGY

  THE FOUR-AND-A-HALF-HOUR DRIVE from Miami to Tarpon Springs felt like an eternity. Even though I arrived in town after office hours, I refused to wait until the morning to know what happened to Abby and what Tim needed from me, so I asked him to meet me at his office. After our late meeting, where Tim gave me all the details, I had Josef, one of the owners of Iron Clad Security, the firm that contracts me to do some of their overseas work, prepare a dossier on Abby.

  Now it’s almost midnight, and I’m parked across the street and two houses down from hers. I’m close enough to see if any problems pop up but not too close to attract her attention.

  All the lights in her house are finally off, and there’s no movement in her neighborhood. Tim asked me to meet with her today and I was going to, but then I remembered the last conversation we had, and I’ll admit-- I couldn’t get myself to knock on her door. It was a brief conversation fifteen years ago, as I drove her home after having sex with her for the last time. Her face flushed and her green eyes shining with love for me. She asked me if everything was okay, and I lied. I lied right to her face. I smiled and told her everything was perfect. Just thinking about it makes me hate myself.

  And that’s why I’m sitting in a car in front of her house instead of knocking on her front door like I should.

  I try to get comfortable as I read what Josef was able to pull for me on such short notice.

  What I know so far is that Abby witnessed the murder of Vincent Rogers, who was known in the underbelly of society as the best accountant to have when you needed your cash moved around in creative ways. I have the team at ICS pulling all the intel on him. I also know that whoever killed him is on the loose and the only person who can identify him is Abby. It’s a recipe for a dangerous-as-fuck situation.

  From what my boys gathered on Abby, I’ve fou
nd out that she now goes by Jones and not Williams. Her deceased husband, Aiden Jones, was killed in a car accident six years ago. She has two children, Oscar Jones, who is ten years old and Liliana Jones, who is six, and Liliana’s date of birth is the same day as Aiden’s death. Even though I didn’t ask for intel on Aiden, I was easily able to locate some info through Google. He died in a car accident on his way to the hospital. It was all over the local news in Akron, Ohio where they lived. There was even a community donation program started by a local church to help Abby during that hard time.

  I always assumed her life was better without me in it. Now, reading all of this, I’m not so sure.

  I put down my phone. Oscar and Liliana. Abby’s kids. That makes me happy, and I can’t help but smile, ignoring the pain in my chest that stemmed from knowing that those kids weren’t ours, that she belonged to another man.

  I don’t have a lot of regrets in life, but the way that I left Abby is one of them. Which is why I haven’t knocked on her door yet. I spend the rest of the night in my car thinking of all the ways Abby will react when she sees me again after all these years.

  At the first sign of sunlight, I get out of my Jeep and stretch my arms over my head. My leg is throbbing from being in the same position for hours. I rub my thigh hoping it will alleviate the pain somewhat.

  I pop open the back of my trunk, unzip my duffle bag and take out a clean t-shirt to switch out with the one I have on. I also pull out my toiletry bag, fishing through it until I find mouthwash, which I swish in my mouth before I spit it out into the grass.

  I glance at her house and catch movement from her kitchen window. Now that I know she’s up, it’s time to see my Abby again.

  I don’t remember the last time I was this nervous. Well actually, I do.

  It was six hours after I dropped her off at home.

  It’s dark out still, the sun hasn’t risen yet. I leave my green duffle bag on the grass by her window. I slide her window up, something I’ve done hundreds of times, and climb in. She’s asleep. My Abby is a sound sleeper, and I know she hasn’t heard me enter. The soft glow from her alarm clock makes her look so sweet and innocent, cocooned in her thick white comforter. I sit on her bed and watch her. I don’t know how long I sit there trying to commit every single freckle on her face, every single contour of her body, every single conversation we’ve had to memory, but I’m there long enough to hear movement from the next room. Her mom must be getting up to go to work. That’s my cue to go.