Falling Harder (16 page)

Probably, the
glimpse I caught of Trace as he was lowered into that cop car will be my last.
Maybe they’ll call me in to testify at his trial, but I doubt they’ll even need
me. The case against Trace is clear, to them. He’s a foster kid, a reject, a
bad seed. They’ll put him away for however long they please and never think
twice about it. No one but me will ever know that he was in the right,
attacking Paul. No one else will care.

Just when I was
starting to think that at least law and order were the slightest bit cut and
dry, I’m proved wrong yet again. There’s nothing fair or easy about this world,
this life, and I won’t forget that again. All we can do is stand up for what we
think is right and support those who do. Even if I never see Trace again, I’ll
never forget what he did for me. What he sacrificed in order to keep me safe. I
can only hope that, somewhere down the line, he finds it in his heart to
forgive me.

I turn my face
toward the window to hide my fresh wave of tears from Miss MacCoy. Wordlessly,
we make our way once more to the unknowable next best thing.

PART II

Chapter One

Nadia

All Grown Up

“Nadia, look!” my roommate Carly squeals, “You made the
front page!”

I reach across the kitchen table and grab the morning paper.
Sure enough, there’s my picture—splashed beneath the top headline of the
morning: “Kiddie Porn Mogul Found Guilty of All Charges.”

“Well. Would you look at that?” I say, handing the paper
back to Carly.

“That’s it? That’s all you have to say?” Carly asks,
bewildered by my nonchalance.

I shrug my shoulders, holding a steaming mug of coffee in my
hands. “What do you want me to say, Carly?” I ask.

“I don’t know. How about ‘Hell yeah!’ or ‘Take that!’ or
‘Who’s the best goddamn lawyer in the state of Illinois’?” she suggests. “You
just took down one of the most abominable criminals in the country, Nadia.
You’re allowed to be proud of yourself.”

“I’m very proud,” I say, “But it’s not like this changes
anything.”

“How can you say that?” Carly asks, shoving her fingers
through her short red curls, “This guy can never hurt another kid, and all
because of you.”

“This guy’s locked up, sure,” I tell her, leaning my
forearms on the kitchen table, “But more will pop up. Fighting organized crime
in this country is like playing an endless game of Whack-A-Mole. You slam one
criminal, four more spring up in his place.”

“Not exactly an optimistic view, is it?” Carly sighs.

“Well, I’m not an optimist,” I tell her, “I’m a realist. A
pragmatist.”

“Even pragmatists can pat themselves on the back once in a
while,” she says.

Grinning, I bend my arm backwards and gently tap my
shoulder. “There,” I say, “Are you satisfied now? Can I finish my breakfast in
peace?”

“Whatever,” Carly says, “I’m putting this article up on the
fridge, and you can’t stop me.”

I shake my head as my roommate fetches a pair of scissors.
We’ve been living together since our first year at law school, and Carly has
always been my number one cheerleader. Even though our specialties are
completely different—she focuses on corporate law, I’m concerned with putting
dangerous criminals away for good—Carly’s always had the utmost respect for my
work.

Still, I wish she could understand why I don’t do cartwheels
every time I win a case. Even when I manage to bring one of these assholes to
justice, the people they’ve harmed are still left hurt and broken. I know full
well that feeling justified and feeling happy are not the same thing.

“So what’s next for the great Nadia Faber?” Carly asks,
snipping the front page article out of the paper.

“Not sure,” I tell her, “I have to wait to be assigned
another case, I guess.”

“I’m sure that won’t take long,” she says, “You’re in demand
right now.”

“I suppose,” I allow, “I’ve been lucky, lately.”

“Luck’s got nothing to do with it,” Carly says, “You’re
amazing at what you do. You work harder than anyone I’ve ever met. You’re a
rock star.”

“Good Lord, Carly,” I groan, pushing myself up from the
breakfast table, “If you don’t stop it with the praise, my head’s not going to
be able to fit through the front door!”

“Sorry,” she winks, bouncing back toward her bedroom. “But
also...so not sorry.”

She disappears into her room as I make my way back toward
mine. With our combined incomes, Carly and I are able to afford a pretty
spacious two bedroom in one of Chicago’s nicer neighborhoods.

Pretty soon, we plan to split up and buy places of our very
own, but we’re not in any major hurry. We’re good company for each other, and
neither of us wants to live alone. Of course, that might change if things with
Carly’s boyfriend, Jesse, keep looking up. They’re an odd couple—the corporate
lawyer and the recording studio operator—but they’ve been going strong for over
a year, now. They might be ready to move in together before too long.

For my part, I can’t even comprehend wanting to move in with
someone at this stage in my life. In my nearly 28 years on this planet, I’ve
never been able to find someone I’d like to share a life with. That is...not
anyone with whom it would be possible.

I strip my pajama shorts and tank top off my body and cast
them into the clothes hamper in the corner. As I rifle through my dresser in
search of running clothes, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I’ve
never been a vain person, but even I have to admit that I’m looking good these
days. My height’s peaked at around five foot eight, and after taking up running
as an antidepressant during undergrad, my body’s become lean and athletic.

My chest and ass are still plenty curvy, but everything’s
nice and toned just the same. I think I look even better now than I did when I
was teenager—though I can’t very well hold any aspect of those years against
myself. So much was out of my control that I’m just glad to have made it out
alive.

Most of the time, I try and keep my mind from retracing its
steps through my troubled past. But with my next birthday creeping up, it’s
hard not to let some reflection creep into my day. As I pull a sports bra over
my head, it hits me how much time has passed since I was freed of my “former
life”; namely, the foster care system.

In a couple of weeks, it will have been a decade since I
turned eighteen and said goodbye to that terrifying, unpredictable life
forever. Time sure does fly when you’re trying to stitch a life together from
leftover scraps.

I lace up my baby blue running shoes and head for the front
door. Spring is just starting to assert itself in the Windy City again this
year, and I’ve been loving running in the warmer weather.

“Be back in an hour or so,” I call to Carly.

“How the hell can you have fun running for an hour?” she
calls back, “Are you sure you’re not some sort of cyborg?”

“Just a freak, I guess,” I laugh. But even in joking, the
other “f” word makes my gut ache. I had the term leveled at me so often as a
kid that I can’t even think of it now without feeling some residual heartache.
As ever when I’m feeling alone or upset, I find myself clutching onto my charm
necklace—the one piece of jewelry that I’ll never take off. The feel of my
compass and map charms calm me at once as I step into our building’s elevator.

I sidle further into the car as it stops at the very next
floor below us. As the doors slide open, I feel my heart kick excitedly against
my chest. Our new neighbor, a handsome man in his early thirties, steps into
the elevator beside me. He just moved into the building a couple of weeks ago—alone.
And after double and triple checking, I’m certain that there’s no ring on that
finger.

I venture a friendly smile his way, letting my gaze rest on
his sculpted features, his dark hair and eyes, his clean, sharp jaw. He’s
wearing the uniform of someone in finance, or maybe advertising? It’s tough to
say. By the time I realize I’m staring, it’s too late—he’s noticed too.

“Where are your ear buds?” the man asks me.

“What?” I reply, feeling remarkably nervous.

“Your headphones,” he clarifies, “Don’t you listen to music
while you run?”

“Oh, no...” I say, crossing my arms across my chest, “I
prefer to have that time to myself. To think.”

He lets out a low, appreciative whistle. “Power to you,” he
says, “I can’t be alone with my thoughts for more than fifteen minutes without
going a little batty.”

“No mediation for you, huh?” I ask.

“No time,” he says, “Work pretty much eats up my life.”

“Let me guess...” I say, knowing full well that I’m flirting
up a storm, “You’re a hedge fund guy?”

“Nope.”

“Marketing?”

“Nope.”

“Tech genius?”

“Getting colder,” he laughs, “I’m a therapist.”

“Ah...” I say, “That I would not have guessed.”

“And why’s that?” he asks.

“Well, because you must have patients falling in love with
you all the goddamn time,” I say. My neighbor raises an eyebrow at me, and I
feel a hot flush rise to my cheeks at once. “Smooth,” I mutter, wanting to
dissolve into a puddle on the floor.

“No worries,” he grins, “I’ll just go ahead and take that as
a compliment. But, actually, most of my patients are children. So, you know,
not too much to worry about.”

“You work with kids?” I ask.

“Yep,” he says, “A lot of lower income families, kids who’ve
been abused, others who have been through the foster care system. I get around.
As a therapist, I mean. Not—”

“Now who’s got his foot in his mouth?” I smile.

“That’d be this guy,” he says, pointing his thumbs straight
at that balanced body of his. “This guy’s name is Gerard, by the way.”

“I’m Nadia,” I tell him, “Nadia Faber.”

“Nadia Faber...” he muses, “Why does that name sound
familiar?”

“Uh, this is going to sound douchey,” I say, “But I was in
the paper this morning. Maybe you glanced at the article?”

“Of course!” he says excitedly, “You prosecuted that
monster, Bud McNally. Man, am I glad that guy is gone for good. Would it be
weird to say that I’m a fan of your work?”

“Not at all,” I laugh, “Just doing my job.”

“It’s about as meaningful a job there is,” he says.

“I think your profession takes that particular cake,” I tell
him.

“Well...let’s just say we’re both fighting the good fight,
then,” Gerard smiles. I’m about to reply when the elevator doors open with a
ding
. “After you,”
he says.

I step out in front of Gerard and make my way to the front
door. All the way across the lobby, I can practically feel his gaze on the
shapely swell of my ass. Usually, that sort of behavior pisses me off. But
usually, the ogler isn’t a wildly attractive, single, and gainfully employed
man who lives in my building, either.

I step out into the May sunlight, breathing in a deep gulp
of fresh air. My eyes flick back toward Gerard just as he’s turning away from
me. The smile that he flashes me is all charm, with just a dash of fuck-me
eyes. I savor the little shiver of delight that passes through me at the
prospect of letting those eyes wander all over me and finally giving them their
wish.

“Easy girl,” I murmur to myself, taking off along my jogging
route, “You’ve gotta let him come to you.”

I fall into my familiar running rhythm, drawing in deep
breaths until my lungs grow accustomed to it. The first mile to the park flies
by as my body settles into the task of my morning run. Shamelessly, I let my
imagination linger on Gerard. I wonder what kinds of tricks he has locked up
behind those dark, brooding eyes. It isn’t often that someone as seemingly
intelligent and kindhearted as him wanders into my path, and I have to say that
I’m intrigued.

My rules when it comes to men are simple: Always let them do
the chasing, know how to get out while the getting’s good, and never
ever
go for the bad
boys. For the last ten years, these three simple rules have saved me a lot of
heartache. They’ve also kept me from getting entrenched in any real,
long-lasting relationships...but hey, I’m not complaining.

I’ve always had better things to do than stay cooped up in
the house watching Netflix with some dude I only kind of like. With the
childhood I had, making the most out of the rest of my life has become
something of a calling in and of itself.

As I fly through the park, I can’t help but let my mind
wander further down memory lane than I usually allow. Without a case to obsess
over, my thoughts are free to do as they like. My mind rewinds through my early
professional years, back through law school and college, all the way back to
the last years of my childhood—to a time when it seemed that there would be no
end to the unhappiness that had engulfed me.

It’s strange when the best and worst time of your life is
the exact same stretch, but that’s precisely the case for me. After my parents
were killed by a drunk driver when I was twelve, I spent four solid years of my
life in foster care hell. I bounced from house to house, never feeling loved or
comfortable for a moment. That is, not until I landed at the home of Nancy and
Paul Daniels, on the cusp of my sixteenth year.

I only lived in that shoddy row house for about six months,
but more occurred during that time than could easily be believed. The person I
am today was forged during that half of a year, I’m certain. In that time, I
became a young woman. I found out what it was like to be a friend, and a
sister.

I discovered what it felt like to be loved and wanted, and
how being desired was at once a beautiful and terrifying thing. My entire
existence, my ideal future, was built up and destroyed during that time, and I
had no other choice than to give in or to rise like a phoenix from the ashes.
Luckily, I went with the latter.

There had been three other children living with the Daniels
during my stay in their home. Garrick, the friendly giant with a heart of gold;
Conway, my pixie-like soul sister; and Trace...the first boy I ever loved, the
only person I could have imagined spending the rest of my life with.

For six months, those three people were closer to me than
family, but tragedy ripped us away from each other forever. Just before
Christmas during my sixteenth year, I was attacked by my foster father. I’m
thoroughly certain that he would have raped me, had Trace not intervened. But
though that intervention saved me from that horrible fate, it turned deadly all
the same. Paul Daniels was killed in the altercation, and our little home of
four was disbanded.

Even as Trace was loaded into a squad car that night, I knew
that it was the last I’d ever see of him. Garrick was arrested too, after the
police found the drugs and booze he’d tried to hide. Even Conway and I were
separated, shipped off to homes across the state from each other. The strange
thing was that as close as we’d all been, we never tried to get in touch again.
Maybe we all knew that it would be too painful a reminder of the almost-decent
life we’d managed to cobble together.