That Time in Rio, Logan Ryles [i have read the book a hundred times txt] 📗

slid it out to feel its heft. It felt good in his hands, and he suddenly realized that next to his Mercedes, this had to be the nicest thing he’d ever owned. “Thank you,” he said.

This time Nigel smiled, but it wasn’t a warm expression. The way his lips curled, so stiff and tight, sent a chill into Wolfgang’s blood. It was like the smile of a shark.

“Enjoy it,” Nigel said. He shut the trunk, slid into his car, and then both Cadillacs drove off the tarmac and disappeared on the road.

Wolfgang watched them go, at once confused and intrigued by the strange exchange. He looked down at the watch again, then slid it on and snapped the clasp shut.

Strange man.

Thoughts of Nigel vanished as Wolfgang found Megan standing by herself, watching him. As their gazes met, he felt a tug deep inside—an overwhelming urge to run to her and hold her—to rekindle whatever it was they had in Rio and make it last.

But Megan smiled sadly, dropped her eyes, and shook her head.

Wolfgang Returns in…

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That Time in Tokyo

A Wolfgang Pierce Novella

February, 2012

Winter descended on Buffalo like a grey blanket, blocking out the sun and flooding the streets with snowdrifts so high they reminded Wolfgang of Moscow three months prior. The streets crunched under his feet, littered with salt particles and chunks of ice—a constant nuisance from the fluctuating temperatures and endless precipitation—and the wind penetrated his peacoat as if it were a T-shirt.

Wolfgang stood outside the Jordan Fletcher Home for Children and watched a particular window on the third floor. Through it he could see the bright pink walls of a child’s bedroom decorated with flowers and fairy dust. One of the nurses who worked at the home informed Wolfgang via email that Collins had a special affinity for fairies, and he’d paid for a local artist to surprise her with custom designs.

He hoped his little sister liked them. He hoped she found some comfort in the decorations and stuffed animals and that they helped her assuage the loss of a normal childhood. At her age, Collins should’ve been enjoying elementary school and dance recitals and sleepovers with her girlfriends. She should’ve been talking about ponies and what she was learning in school and harassing her parents to take her to Disney World.

Instead, she lay alone in a hospital bed, her fragile body ravaged by an especially severe case of a disease every doctor in America was familiar with and none knew how to cure. She lay alone, her only friends the other children of the home, her only parents the in-house teachers and nurses.

Jordan Fletcher was an exclusive facility founded by some millionaire with a heart for kids and now funded by the generosity of other millionaires, as well as the hefty monthly costs of housing a child there. Collins was one of Jordan Fletcher’s full-time residents, spending her entire life at the facility save for occasional trips to the zoo or the local ice cream shop. Wolfgang paid for all of it, anonymously dropping envelopes stuffed with cash at the donation box next to the door and never going inside. Even though he was listed as Collins’s legal guardian, Wolfgang had assigned full control of her daily life to Jordan Fletcher, trusting them more than he trusted himself where parenting was concerned.

Premier service such as that carried an additional price tag, of course. Wolfgang didn’t care. Whatever she needed, he would provide it. Whatever could bring her happiness, he would make it happen. The only thing he didn’t do—something he couldn’t do—was face his sister. He never went inside the facility or did more than call her a few times a year. Every time he approached the door, every time he almost forced himself up the elevator, searing memories ripped through him. Shadows of years gone by when little Collins lay crying on a dirty couch, lost and alone, while her mother bled out on the floor next to her.

And Wolfgang cowered in the corner like a dog.

Wolfgang stood on the sidewalk, a box wrapped in pink paper clamped under one arm. The wind stung his face, turning the tears that slipped past his guard into ice in mere seconds, but he didn’t care. He pictured Collins lying in that bed, only three years old but looking far younger, her frail body ravaged by illness. Alone. Abandoned.

He forced himself across the street, ducking through the glass doors and wiping his nose with the back of one hand. It was warm in the lobby, and he kicked ice and mud off his shoes before walking to the reception area.

The woman sitting behind the desk looked up and smiled like the sun, a genuine expression that made him feel better about this place. It wasn’t like a lonely nursing home for kids. It was clean and bright and operated by people who cared.

It was a good place for Collins. He could feel good about leaving her here.

Right?

“May I help you, sir?”

Wolfgang cleared his throat. “I’m here to see Collins Ward, please.”

She smiled again, then tapped something into her computer. The smile widened—he wasn’t sure how that was possible—and she motioned to the box.

“You must be here for her birthday! Collins will be so happy.”

Wolfgang shoved his free hand into his pocket and looked at his feet.

“Okay, sir. I’ll just need to see your ID to verify that you’re on her approved guest list.”

Guest list. What a joke. Only one name is written on that list. Only one person outside of these walls knows or cares that Collins exists.

He fumbled for his wallet, then hesitated, imagining he could smell the dominating odor of spilled whiskey on the dirty linoleum floor of the trailer. He heard his father stumbling outside, slamming into things at random, and cursing. He saw Collins standing up on the couch and crying, gasping for breath between every few sobs.

And he saw