Z

Three weeks after Declan showed me the photograph of the little white house, a woman I had never seen before walked into Sophie’s and told me Declan Walsh had murdered her father.

She said it while I was carrying two plates of blueberry pancakes.

Which was inconvenient.

One plate tilted.

The other nearly landed in Detective Nora Reyes’s lap.

She caught it before disaster.

“Careful,” she muttered.

I barely heard her.

The woman stood near the entrance wearing a camel-colored coat, dark hair pulled into a low knot, and an expression so controlled it felt rehearsed.

She was probably around thirty.

Maybe younger.

There was something familiar about her eyes.

Not because I recognized her.

Because I had seen that kind of anger before.

In mirrors.

“You’re Lena Mercer?” she asked.

Every conversation in the diner seemed to quiet.

Great.

Apparently Grayhaven considered my emotional destruction a community event.

I put the plates down.

“Yes.”

“My name is Evelyn Shaw.”

Declan had never mentioned that name.

Reyes stood slowly.

Evelyn noticed.

“Detective.”

“You know me?” Nora asked.

“I know everyone connected to Declan Walsh.”

That sentence made the back of my neck prickle.

I stepped around the counter.

“What exactly do you want?”

Evelyn looked at me.

“Five minutes.”

“For what?”

“To tell you what kind of man you’re planning a future with.”

I froze.

The house.

Nobody except Declan, Ronan, Mrs. Callahan, and the realtor knew we had toured it.

We hadn’t bought it.

We hadn’t even decided whether we were ready.

Yet this stranger knew.

Nora moved closer.

“You’ve made your point. Now leave.”

Evelyn ignored her.

“My father was Thomas Shaw.”

Still nothing.

I shook my head.

“I don’t know who that is.”

“But Declan does.”

She reached into her bag.

Reyes’s hand moved toward her jacket.

Evelyn noticed and slowly removed a photograph.

She placed it on the counter.

An older man stood beside a younger Declan.

Declan looked maybe twenty-eight.

Harder.

Thinner.

More furious.

The man beside him had one arm around his shoulder.

“They were partners,” Evelyn said.

“When?”

“Twelve years ago.”

I looked at Nora.

Her face told me she knew something.

That irritated me immediately.

“You know about this.”

Nora sighed.

“I know the name.”

“Why don’t I?”

“Because it predates most of the current investigations.”

Evelyn gave a bitter laugh.

“Convenient.”

I looked down at the picture again.

“What happened to your father?”

“He disappeared.”

“When?”

“Twelve years ago.”

“And you think Declan killed him?”

“I know he did.”

The certainty in her voice was frightening.

“Do you have proof?”

Her expression hardened.

“I have the last voicemail my father ever left me.”

My stomach tightened.

“What did he say?”

Evelyn looked at me.

“He said, ‘If anything happens to me, Declan knows why.’”

Silence.

Even Nora stopped moving.

I swallowed.

“That isn’t the same as saying Declan killed him.”

“No.”

Evelyn’s gaze became colder.

“But three hours after that voicemail, my father entered a warehouse owned by Walsh Industries.”

She paused.

“He never came out.”

I didn’t answer.

Evelyn took the photograph.

“I’m not asking you to believe me.”

“Then why are you here?”

Her eyes moved toward my left hand.

No ring.

But apparently the absence of one didn’t matter.

“Because men like Declan don’t change.”

My jaw tightened.

“You don’t know my relationship.”

“I know his history.”

“And I know what it’s like when somebody reduces your entire life to the worst thing someone claims about you.”

For the first time, her expression shifted.

Pain.

Real pain.

That made this harder.

“I’m sorry about your father,” I said. “But if you came here expecting me to turn against Declan based on five minutes and a photograph, that’s not happening.”

She nodded once.

“I expected that.”

Then she placed a card on the counter.

“Ask him about Dock Nine.”

She walked out.

The bell rang behind her.

Nobody spoke.

I picked up the card.

On the back, three words were written.

ASK ABOUT JULIAN.

I stared at them.

Nora exhaled slowly.

“Do not go anywhere alone.”

I looked at her.

“That sounds ominous.”

“It is.”

“What do you know?”

“Not enough.”

“Nora.”

She rubbed her forehead.

“Thomas Shaw was connected to organized crime. He worked with Declan’s father first, then Declan.”

“And Julian?”

Her silence told me enough.

“You know.”

“I know the name.”

“Whose?”

Nora looked toward the window.

“Declan’s brother.”

My chest tightened.

Declan’s older brother had died two years after their father.

I knew that.

I knew Declan rarely spoke about him.

I knew his name was Julian.

What I didn’t know was why Evelyn Shaw’s missing father and Declan’s dead brother belonged in the same sentence.

“I need to call him.”

Nora shook her head.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because if Evelyn is being watched, whoever sent her may be waiting to see what Declan does next.”

“You think somebody sent her?”

“I think twelve-year-old accusations don’t usually walk into diners without a reason.”

I hated when Nora made sense.

“Then what do I do?”

She looked at me.

“You finish your shift.”

I stared.

“You cannot be serious.”

“I’m completely serious.”

“You just told me somebody might be watching.”

“Yes.”

“And you want me to keep pouring coffee?”

“Exactly.”

“Why?”

“Because panicked people reveal what matters.”

I understood.

If I ran straight to Declan, whoever watched would know Evelyn succeeded.

I glanced toward the window.

Nothing unusual.

That meant nothing.

Grayhaven had taught me invisible danger was usually the kind worth fearing.

For the next two hours, I smiled.

I poured coffee.

I carried pancakes.

I pretended a dead man’s photograph wasn’t sitting beneath the register.

At noon, Declan walked in.

He stopped immediately.

Not because of Evelyn.

Because he knew me.

“What happened?”

I forced a smile.

“Nothing.”

His eyes narrowed.

“Lena.”

“Sit down.”

He didn’t.

Nora approached from her booth.

“Sit.”

Declan looked between us.

“I dislike both of you suddenly.”

“Wonderful,” Nora said. “Sit.”

He did.

I locked the diner’s front door.

Keith looked confused.

“Lunch rush?”

“Five minutes.”

He took one look at Declan’s face and disappeared into the kitchen.

I placed the photograph on the counter.

Declan stopped breathing.

It was subtle.

But I knew him too.

“Who gave you this?”

“Evelyn Shaw.”

Something dark entered his eyes.

“She came here?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“This morning.”

“Where is she?”

“I don’t know.”

Declan stood.

I caught his arm.

“No.”

“Lena.”

“Sit down.”

His jaw clenched.

“You do not understand.”

“Then explain.”

His eyes dropped toward the photograph.

For several seconds, he looked older.

Not physically.

Just tired in a way I had rarely seen.

“Thomas Shaw was my father’s best friend.”

“What happened?”

“He betrayed him.”

Nora watched silently.

“How?”

“He gave Camden Vale information.”

My stomach dropped.

Vale again.

Declan continued.

“Routes. Accounts. Safe houses.”

“Was he responsible for your father’s death?”

“No.”

The answer came instantly.

“But he helped make it possible.”

I swallowed.

“And Julian?”

That was the one.

The name cracked something.

Declan turned away.

“Julian found out.”

“What did he do?”

“He went after Shaw.”

“Did you go with him?”

“Yes.”

“What happened at Dock Nine?”

Declan closed his eyes.

When he looked back at me, there was no legend left.

Only guilt.

“Julian shot Thomas Shaw.”

The diner disappeared.

“And then?”

Declan stared at the floor.

“Thomas shot Julian.”

My heart stopped.

“Your brother didn’t die two years after your father.”

“No.”

His voice was almost a whisper.

“He died that night.”

I stepped back.

Everything I thought I knew rearranged itself.

“Why did everyone say it happened later?”

“Because we lied.”

“Why?”

“Because I buried what happened.”

The words landed heavily.

“You buried Thomas too?”

Declan looked at me.

“No.”

That should have relieved me.

It didn’t.

“Then where is he?”

“That’s the problem.”

Declan’s face hardened.

“When I went back to Dock Nine the next morning, Thomas Shaw’s body was gone.”

Silence.

Nora straightened.

I stared at him.

“You mean Evelyn’s father might not be dead.”

Declan shook his head slowly.

“I mean somebody removed a bleeding man from a locked warehouse before sunrise.”

He looked toward the diner windows.

“And if Evelyn suddenly appeared after twelve years…”

His expression changed.

“…somebody wants me looking backward.”

That was when my phone rang.

Unknown number.

I answered.

Nobody spoke at first.

Then a man whispered:

“Ask Declan who buried Julian Walsh.”

The call ended.

I stared at the screen.

Declan saw my face.

“What?”

I looked at him.

“Someone just told me to ask who buried your brother.”

His skin went pale.

For the first time since I had known him, Declan Walsh looked afraid.

Not of violence.

Not of prison.

Of the past.

And somehow that was worse.