Z

We bought the house.

That surprised me more than Julian being alive.

Not immediately.

Nothing in my relationship with Declan happened immediately except gunfire and arguments.

We negotiated.

Who owned what.

Security.

Finances.

Whether Ronan could install cameras.

No.

Whether Declan could install cameras.

Also no.

Whether the backyard needed armed patrols.

Absolutely not.

Whether one discreet alarm system was reasonable.

Fine.

Eventually we signed.

Half mine.

Half his.

The realtor survived.

Barely.

The house with the blue door became ours in early October.

The oak tree dropped leaves across the lawn.

Sophie would have loved it.

Julian hated the kitchen cabinets.

“They’re yellow.”

“They’re cream,” I said.

“They’re ugly.”

“You’ve been alive for twelve secret years and this is your concern?”

“Yes.”

Declan walked in carrying a box.

“Ignore him.”

“I tried for three decades.”

Julian threw a dish towel.

Declan ducked.

Something inside me warmed.

Their relationship remained difficult.

Some mornings they spoke like brothers.

Some nights they exploded over things that happened when I was still worrying about algebra homework.

Julian didn’t forgive easily.

Declan didn’t apologize easily.

But they kept showing up.

That mattered.

Evelyn did too.

Not often.

Not comfortably.

Her father had been found at a rehabilitation clinic two states away.

Julian had moved him after learning Patrick was alive.

Thomas was weak but safe.

Evelyn had not forgiven Julian.

Probably never completely would.

But she no longer believed Declan murdered her father.

Progress did not always look like peace.

Sometimes it looked like people agreeing not to lie anymore.

I was unpacking plates when the doorbell rang.

Declan looked toward the entrance.

“You expecting someone?”

“No.”

Instant tension.

Some habits survived every happy ending.

Ronan checked the camera on his phone.

“Woman. Older. Alone.”

I opened the door.

A woman in her late sixties stood on the porch.

Elegant.

Silver hair.

Green coat.

She held a leather folder.

“Lena Mercer?”

“Yes.”

“My name is Anne Whitmore.”

That meant nothing.

Then she said:

“I was Sophie’s oncologist.”

The world tilted.

I grabbed the doorframe.

Declan appeared beside me.

Dr. Whitmore looked at him nervously.

“Mr. Walsh.”

He nodded.

“What is this about?”

She looked at me.

“I received a letter from Sophie shortly before she died.”

My chest tightened.

“She wrote everyone letters apparently.”

Dr. Whitmore smiled sadly.

“She was organized.”

“That was Sophie.”

“She asked me to wait until you were no longer paying Rourke.”

I froze.

“How did she know?”

“She knew more than you think.”

Of course.

My sister had apparently spent her last months fighting an entire criminal financial network while I yelled about strawberry ice cream.

Guilt rose.

Then I remembered what Declan told me.

Love and failure could exist in the same room.

I let the guilt pass.

Dr. Whitmore handed me the folder.

“Sophie left instructions for a medical fund.”

I stared.

“She had no money.”

“No.”

Dr. Whitmore shook her head.

“But she had evidence.”

Inside were copies of emails.

Doctors.

Patients.

Families.

All targeted by emergency lenders connected to Rourke.

Sophie had been collecting names.

“Why didn’t you come forward sooner?”

Dr. Whitmore looked ashamed.

“I was threatened.”

That answer no longer shocked me.

“By Patrick?”

“No.”

She swallowed.

“By somebody else.”

Declan became still.

“Who?”

“A hospital administrator.”

The story widened again.

Dr. Whitmore continued.

“Rourke’s company had agreements with several private hospitals. Staff referred desperate families to his lenders.”

My stomach turned.

“They were feeding people into the debt scheme.”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know.”

Declan took the documents.

“This is bigger than Grayhaven.”

“Yes.”

Dr. Whitmore looked at me.

“Sophie knew.”

I stared toward the framed photograph on our temporary mantel.

Sophie smiling.

Alive.

“Why didn’t she tell me?”

“She said you were already carrying too much.”

That sentence hurt.

“She was dying.”

“Yes.”

“And protecting me.”

“Yes.”

I laughed through sudden tears.

“Idiot.”

Declan’s hand found mine.

Dr. Whitmore smiled.

“She said the same about you.”

“What?”

“One of her letters says, ‘Lena is an idiot about people she loves.’”

I laughed harder.

That sounded exactly like Sophie.

“Can I see it?”

Dr. Whitmore handed me an envelope.

This one was longer.

Lena,

If you found this, then congratulations, you probably ignored every reasonable instruction I left and got involved anyway.

I smiled.

Declan leaned closer.

“Accurate.”

“Quiet.”

I kept reading.

I found something ugly.

Not just Rourke.

Hospitals know which families are desperate. Some people are selling that information.

I tried to gather enough evidence.

I failed.

You’re going to hate that word.

Don’t.

Failure is sometimes just unfinished work.

If you ever have enough peace to choose what comes next, maybe finish it.

But only if it’s your choice.

Not because I died.

Not because you owe me.

You owe me nothing.

I love you.

Go eat something.

I burst into tears at the last line.

Of course.

Even dead, Sophie was worried I wasn’t eating.

Declan wrapped his arms around me.

I cried into his shirt.

Nobody moved.

Eventually I stepped back.

“What do we do?”

Declan didn’t answer immediately.

That mattered.

Once, he would have decided.

Now he looked at me.

“What do you want?”

The question still affected me.

Every time.

I looked at the documents.

The Sophie Mercer Fund already helped families.

Now we knew some of those same families might still be walking into traps.

“I want the hospitals investigated.”

Nora, who had arrived halfway through Dr. Whitmore’s explanation because apparently privacy remained fictional, nodded.

“That’s federal territory.”

“Can you get it there?”

“Yes.”

Declan looked at me.

“And the fund?”

“Expand it.”

“How?”

“Legal counseling.”

Julian entered carrying paint samples.

“What did I miss?”

“Systemic financial exploitation.”

He looked at the papers.

“Again?”

“Apparently.”

He sighed.

“Can’t we have one normal month?”

“No,” Declan and I said together.

Julian threw up his hands.

“Terrifying couple.”

That night, after everyone left, Declan and I sat on the back steps.

No furniture yet.

No curtains.

Boxes everywhere.

But it felt like home.

He handed me a cup of tea.

I leaned against him.

“You regret buying this place?”

“No.”

“Even with Julian insulting the cabinets?”

“I’m changing the cabinets.”

“No.”

“They’re hideous.”

“They’re cream.”

“They’re yellow.”

I laughed.

Then became quiet.

“Sophie would have liked this.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t know that.”

“She liked oak trees.”

I looked at him.

“You remembered.”

“You told me.”

Months ago.

Once.

He remembered.

My chest tightened.

“Declan.”

“Hm?”

“Do you ever think about getting married?”

He choked on tea.

I stared.

The feared crime boss of Grayhaven coughed for twenty seconds.

“This is excellent.”

He glared.

“You weaponized tea.”

“I asked a question.”

“At night.”

“Is marriage only legal before sunset?”

He set down the cup.

Then looked at me seriously.

“Yes.”

I froze.

“Yes what?”

“I think about it.”

“How often?”

“Enough.”

My heart beat faster.

“Are you asking me?”

“No.”

I frowned.

He took my hand.

“When I ask, you’ll know.”

“That sounds threatening.”

“It probably will.”

I smiled.

He kissed my knuckles.

The house creaked behind us.

Leaves moved across the yard.

For once there were no sirens.

No blood.

No men demanding payment.

Just the two of us under an oak tree beside a house we chose.

Then Declan’s phone rang.

He closed his eyes.

I laughed.

“Normal month?”

“Apparently not.”

He answered.

Ronan’s voice came through.

“Boss.”

“What?”

“The hospital network just transferred twenty million dollars offshore.”

Declan looked at me.

I looked at Sophie’s letter lying beside us.

Failure is sometimes just unfinished work.

I sighed.

“Looks like we’re not finished.”

Declan stood.

“No.”

He offered me his hand.

“But this time…”

I took it.

“…we know what we’re fighting for.”