Jada couldn’t be sure that I was the daughter she’d given away any more than I could be sure the baby in the photo she’d carried around for twenty years was me—or that Rowdy was the man who’d sired me. Conjecture. For now, that was all it was. I sniffed and forced myself to pull away from him—to look into his green eyes and pretend I didn’t see his determination to keep me close, even if it meant damning himself. “So we just what…live in the gray until then?” The gray. The sliver of space between right and wrong, knowing and not knowing, salvation and damnation—between hope for a future and
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