Z

Declan broke three glasses that night.

Not intentionally.

That was what made it worse.

The first slipped from his hand.

The second cracked beneath his grip.

The third hit the kitchen floor when Ronan said the doctor who treated Julian had been found dead eight years earlier.

After that, Mrs. Callahan removed every glass within reach and replaced them with stainless steel tumblers.

Nobody questioned her.

Declan stood at the kitchen island staring at nothing.

I sat across from him.

“You need to eat.”

“No.”

“That wasn’t a question.”

His eyes moved toward me.

“That line sounds familiar.”

“I learned from an exhausting man.”

He didn’t smile.

That scared me more than anger.

“If Julian survived,” he said, “he let me bury him.”

“He may have had a reason.”

“Twelve years.”

“I know.”

“My mother died believing both sons had destroyed themselves.”

I flinched.

“Declan.”

“She stopped speaking to me for six months after Julian’s funeral.”

The pain beneath his voice was brutal.

“She blamed me.”

“For his death?”

“Yes.”

“Did you blame yourself?”

He laughed without humor.

“Of course.”

I walked around the island.

He didn’t move when I approached.

“You thought he died because you followed him to Dock Nine.”

“He did die because of that.”

“No.”

His eyes hardened.

“Lena.”

“You don’t get to use grief as proof.”

He stared at me.

It was risky challenging him when he looked like this.

I did it anyway.

“You saw him bleeding. You got him medical help. Everything after that was manipulated by Patrick.”

“I should have stayed.”

“You were told he died.”

“I should have seen the body.”

“Yes.”

That stopped him.

I continued.

“You should have.”

His jaw tightened.

“I’m not going to lie to make you feel better.”

Something shifted.

“But regretting a mistake and turning yourself into its punishment are not the same thing.”

He looked away.

For once, I understood his silence completely.

I had done exactly that after Sophie.

An hour later, Ronan entered.

“We found Evelyn.”

Declan straightened.

“Where?”

“At Dock Nine.”

Of course.

Rain hammered the city when we arrived.

The warehouse looked exactly like tragedy should.

Rust.

Broken windows.

Dark water slapping against concrete.

Evelyn stood inside beneath one hanging lamp.

Alone.

Declan stopped twenty feet away.

“Where’s Thomas?”

Evelyn’s face tightened.

“You found the farmhouse.”

“Yes.”

“Then you found the tape.”

“Yes.”

She looked at me.

I hated the grief in her eyes.

“He disappeared two weeks ago.”

“Your father?” I asked.

She nodded.

“I went to the farmhouse. His nurse was gone. Everything important had been removed.”

“Why didn’t you contact the police?”

“Because the police spent twelve years telling me my father was probably dead.”

Nora, standing behind us, wisely didn’t argue.

Declan stepped forward.

“You knew he survived.”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“Six years.”

Something dangerous entered his expression.

“You knew for six years and said nothing?”

Evelyn’s chin lifted.

“He was terrified of you.”

“That doesn’t answer me.”

“He told me you shot him.”

Declan’s face became stone.

“I did.”

“He told me Julian tried to kill him first.”

“Yes.”

“He told me you’d hunt him if you learned he lived.”

Declan breathed slowly.

“Did he tell you why Julian went after him?”

“He said my father betrayed yours.”

“So you knew.”

“Yes.”

Silence stretched.

I stepped between them emotionally if not physically.

“Why come to Sophie’s?”

Evelyn looked at me.

“Because my father disappeared after Vale was arrested.”

“Meaning?”

“I think someone is cleaning up what’s left.”

Nora spoke.

“Who?”

Evelyn’s gaze moved toward Declan.

“Julian.”

Everything stopped.

Declan stared.

“That’s impossible.”

“Is it?”

“You think my brother took Thomas?”

“I think your brother has been alive for twelve years and nobody knows what he’s become.”

Declan’s voice lowered.

“You have proof?”

Evelyn walked to a metal table.

She placed a photograph under the light.

It had been taken recently.

Parking garage.

Bad angle.

Grainy.

A man stepping into a car.

Tall.

Dark hair streaked with gray.

Profile only.

Declan looked at it.

His face emptied.

Ronan whispered, “Jesus.”

I understood.

It was him.

Older.

Different.

But enough of Declan in the face that the resemblance hurt.

Julian Walsh.

Alive.

“Where?” Declan asked.

“Grayhaven General Hospital, six weeks ago.”

“Why was he there?”

Evelyn produced another image.

Julian speaking to Patrick Crane.

My stomach dropped.

Patrick was supposed to be dead.

“What date?” Nora demanded.

“Eight days after Vale was arrested.”

Declan’s head snapped toward her.

“Patrick was reported dead before that.”

“Yes.”

“Then Patrick’s alive too,” I said.

Ronan looked sick.

We had celebrated too early.

Again.

Nora picked up the photograph.

“Who took this?”

“My father.”

Silence.

“He’d been following Patrick for months.”

“Why?”

“Because Patrick kept him hidden after Dock Nine.”

Declan’s eyes narrowed.

“Hidden or imprisoned?”

Evelyn looked down.

“I don’t know.”

That answer mattered.

Maybe Thomas had not stayed away voluntarily.

Maybe his daughter had not known everything.

Maybe nobody did.

Declan moved toward the back of the warehouse.

The exact spot where Julian had been shot.

A dark stain had long disappeared beneath years of oil and grime.

He stared at the floor.

I followed.

“You okay?”

“No.”

At least he was honest.

“Do you want me to leave you alone?”

“No.”

Another honest answer.

I stood beside him.

He spoke quietly.

“Julian raised me more than my father did.”

I waited.

“He taught me to drive.”

His mouth almost curved.

“Badly.”

“That tracks.”

“He broke my nose when I was fourteen.”

“Less charming.”

“I deserved it.”

“Probably.”

A breath that might have been a laugh escaped him.

Then vanished.

“He was reckless. Angry. Loyal to the point of stupidity.”

Declan stared at the floor.

“He would have burned the world for family.”

I looked toward the photograph.

“And if he thinks the family betrayed him?”

Declan’s face changed.

That was the real danger.

A man who once loved too fiercely could learn to hate the same way.

Ronan approached.

“Boss.”

“What?”

“We traced Julian’s car.”

Declan turned.

“Where?”

“Security cameras caught it near St. Vincent’s Cemetery yesterday.”

Declan froze.

His family cemetery.

“The graves.”

Ronan nodded.

We were there twenty minutes later.

The gates stood open.

No guard.

No caretaker.

Declan ran toward the Walsh plot.

Then stopped.

Julian’s gravestone had been smashed.

Not vandalized randomly.

Only his.

Across the broken marble, someone had painted one sentence in black.

YOU BURIED ME BEFORE I WAS DEAD.

Declan stared.

I reached for his hand.

He didn’t take it.

Not at first.

Then his fingers closed around mine so hard it hurt.

I didn’t pull away.

Because this time I knew what he was doing.

He wasn’t trying to hold me.

He was trying not to fall.