Z

I left Declan Walsh’s mansion at seven thirty that morning despite three separate people telling me not to.

Declan was one of them.

Ronan was another.

The third was Mrs. Callahan, Declan’s sixty-two-year-old housekeeper, who threatened to lock my shoes in the pantry if I attempted to go to work.

I went anyway.

People assumed exhaustion made me weak.

They were wrong.

Exhaustion made me stubborn.

At Ellis Diner, I tied my apron around my waist and started pouring coffee before eight.

My manager, Keith, stared at me.

“You look dead.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Then your people skills still need work.”

He shook his head.

For three hours, life almost became normal.

Truck drivers ordered pancakes.

Construction workers complained about traffic.

An elderly couple shared one piece of apple pie like they had every Wednesday for eleven years.

Then at eleven fourteen, the bell over the diner door rang.

Conversation died.

Declan Walsh walked inside.

He wore a charcoal suit beneath a dark overcoat, looking completely wrong beneath the fluorescent lights and laminated breakfast specials.

Ronan came in behind him.

Keith nearly dropped a plate.

I closed my eyes.

“Of course.”

Declan took a booth.

My booth.

I approached carrying a coffeepot.

“What are you doing?”

“Ordering breakfast.”

“You have cooks.”

“I wanted pancakes.”

“You don’t eat pancakes.”

One eyebrow rose.

“You’ve been keeping track?”

Unfortunately, I had.

Black coffee.

No sugar.

Eggs occasionally.

Toast left untouched.

Never pancakes.

I put a menu in front of him.

“Order quickly.”

He looked at the menu for perhaps half a second.

“Coffee.”

“That isn’t breakfast.”

“Neither is whatever you ate.”

I froze.

His gaze dropped toward the untouched granola bar beside the register.

“Sit down.”

“I’m working.”

“Lena.”

“I said I’m working.”

Something almost resembling respect passed through his eyes.

Then Ronan slid into the opposite booth and placed a folder on the table.

My stomach tightened.

“What’s that?”

“Your debt,” Declan said.

I didn’t move.

He opened the folder.

“Sophie Mercer borrowed twenty-eight thousand dollars from a company called Grayhaven Emergency Funding nineteen months before her death.”

I knew the number.

Twenty-eight thousand.

The amount Sophie needed to enter an experimental treatment program after insurance refused to cover it.

“According to their records,” Declan continued, “the contract charged nine percent monthly interest.”

“That’s what Rourke told me.”

“It also includes penalties that compound every fourteen days.”

My fingers tightened around the coffeepot.

“So?”

“So your sister’s contract was predatory even by criminal standards.”

Ronan snorted.

“Which should tell you something.”

Declan turned another page.

“There’s a second problem.”

“What?”

“You never signed it.”

I stared at him.

“Mason said Sophie listed me as guarantor.”

“She listed you as emergency contact.”

My heartbeat slowed strangely.

I sat down without meaning to.

Declan pushed a photocopy toward me.

There was Sophie’s signature.

Then beneath it—

mine.

My name.

My handwriting.

Except it wasn’t.

“I didn’t sign this.”

“I know.”

“How?”

“Because whoever forged your signature wrote the M differently than you do.”

I looked up.

Declan nodded toward my apron.

My name was written on the back of my order pad where I practiced my new signature after Sophie died.

He had noticed.

Of course he had.

“How much have I paid?”

Ronan answered.

“Approximately sixty-eight thousand dollars.”

The diner sounds seemed to fade.

Sixty-eight thousand.

Two years.

Three jobs.

Skipped meals.

Sleeping on buses.

Christmas morning cleaning offices while other people opened presents.

All because I believed I was honoring Sophie’s debt.

I felt sick.

“Why would he do this?”

Declan’s expression hardened.

“Because you paid.”

The answer hurt more than I expected.

Because you paid.

Because I had been useful.

Because grief made me easy to manipulate.

I shoved the documents away.

“I need air.”

I walked out the back door.

Cold wind hit my face.

I pressed both hands against the brick wall and tried to breathe.

The door opened behind me.

I expected Declan.

It was Ronan.

He leaned against the wall several feet away.

“He didn’t come because he wanted pancakes.”

“I figured.”

“He came because Rourke’s men were parked two blocks away.”

I turned.

“What?”

“They followed you here.”

My blood chilled.

“Where are they?”

“Gone.”

I didn’t ask how.

Ronan looked toward the alley.

“Declan told them to leave.”

“And they listened?”

“No.”

That explained enough.

I wrapped my arms around myself.

“I don’t want this.”

“Want what?”

“A war.”

Ronan laughed once without humor.

“This isn’t a war.”

“Then what is it?”

“A boundary.”

I looked at him.

“Mason Rourke has spent fifteen years surviving because he knows whose territory not to touch.”

“I’m not Declan’s territory.”

Ronan’s gaze moved toward the diner window.

Declan was visible inside, seated alone in the booth.

“No,” Ronan said.

“But Rourke doesn’t know that.”

Neither, I suspected, did Declan.

When I went back inside, Declan had ordered pancakes after all.

He had not eaten them.

“You scared my customers.”

“They’ll recover.”

“You scared Keith.”

“He should recover too.”

I sat opposite him.

“I want to pay you back.”

His face went blank.

“For what?”

“Whatever this investigation costs.”

“No.”

“Declan.”

“No.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

His gaze sharpened.

“Correct.”

That surprised me.

He leaned back.

“So decide what you want.”

I looked at him.

Nobody had asked me that in years.

I knew what Sophie wanted.

Treatment.

More time.

I knew what Rourke wanted.

Money.

I knew what three employers wanted.

Labor.

But what did I want?

“I want proof,” I finally said.

Declan’s expression changed.

“That the signature is forged?”

“All of it.”

“What do you mean?”

I swallowed.

“Mason wasn’t surprised when Sophie died.”

Declan became very still.

“He came to the hospital.”

“What?”

“The morning after.”

I had tried not to remember it.

Sophie’s room empty.

Sheets stripped.

Flowers already removed.

Mason waiting beside the elevators in a blue suit.

“He said Sophie had explained everything. He said she knew the treatment probably wouldn’t work, and she wanted me to understand the debt would still have to be paid.”

Declan’s eyes narrowed.

“Did he show you paperwork?”

“No.”

“Did anyone from the lending company contact you officially?”

“No.”

“Then why did you pay him?”

The question cut.

I stood.

“Because my sister was dead.”

He said nothing.

“And because he knew where I lived. He knew where I worked. He knew which bus I took. He showed me pictures of women inside one of his clubs and told me debt could be settled in different ways.”

Declan’s hand flattened against the table.

His voice became dangerously soft.

“He showed you pictures?”

“Yes.”

“What club?”

“Velvet Saint.”

Ronan, who had just entered, stopped moving.

Declan looked at him.

“What?”

Ronan pulled out his phone.

“We’ve heard that name before.”

“Where?”

“Three missing-person cases.”

My skin prickled.

Declan rose.

The untouched pancakes remained between us.

“You asked for proof.”

He buttoned his coat.

“I’ll get it.”

“I’m coming.”

“No.”

I stepped closer.

“You just told me to decide what I want.”

His jaw tightened.

“Yes.”

“I want to know what happened to those women.”

“This isn’t cleaning a dining room, Lena.”

“And I’m not asking you to protect me from knowing the truth.”

For several seconds, neither of us moved.

Then Declan reached for my coat hanging beside the register.

He held it out.

“Put this on.”

I blinked.

“That’s your answer?”

“No.”

“What’s your answer?”

His eyes met mine.

“My answer is that if I can’t stop you from walking into trouble, I’m going to make damn sure you don’t walk into it alone.”