I tuned most of it out, scribbling notes without registering the words. Flowers. Catering. The usual parade of shallow decisions dressed up as legacy.
Then the door opened, and Elise swept in late—her hair perfect, her lipstick sharper than her smile. She didn’t glance my way—not once. But I caught the tremor in her hands when she adjusted her binder. Her eyes trailed down to her phone again and again, like she was waiting for something.
She wouldn’t take the fall for what she’d done. Not with Elise’s name, her father’s reach. But he’d have heard. He had to have. And if there weren’t consequences, then what did that mean? Was her dad pulling the strings, approving of her drugging students so long as it got her closer to their end result, whatever that was?
Something was going down—I could feel it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
LUKE
After practice, I drove straight to Mila’s. The sun bled out across the horizon, orange streaks drowning in the Pacific. By the time I pulled into her street, shadows stretched long over cracked sidewalks, the cul-de-sac hushed in that way neighborhoods got when everyone was inside pretending life was normal and not a struggle to make ends meet.
Her mom’s car wasn’t in the drive. Again.
Mila answered barefoot, leggings and an oversized tee enveloping her frame. Her dark hair was loose, slipping over one shoulder, eyes rimmed with fatigue but steady. She gave me a small smile—brave but worn at the edges—and stepped aside.
The house smelled faintly of cold coffee and laundry detergent, like someone had started things but never finished. We ended up on the couch, cushions sagging under us. She tucked her legs beneath her, curling into the corner. I stretched an arm along the back, and when she leaned into me, the world went still.
I pulled my phone from my pocket, thumbed it open, and handed it to her. The PI file on Darren Langley glowed againstthe dim light, stark black text cutting through the shadows. “Here.”
I handed her the report and stayed on the numbers. I didn’t open the still. Not yet. A blur wasn’t proof—it was a weapon that hit the wrong person.
She scrolled in silence. Her eyes moved fast, tension flickering across her face, mouth pressed thin. Transaction logs. Timelines. Bank names and dates in neat columns. Then she hit the last section—several large payments from Dunn Industries leading up to that night, then Darren Langley’s house sold, the deposit. And then—the sudden stop of all financial data.
Her breath hitched. Her voice came low, barely holding. “So that’s it? No record of him elsewhere after that night?”
“No. Nothing. He doesn’t surface anywhere.” I leaned in, tapping the line with my finger. “The house sold. Proceeds went straight into his account. And not a single withdrawal since.”
She lifted her head, eyes darker than the room. “So, he’s dead, and that’s a cover-up.”
“Or hiding.”
“Luke.” Her fingers hovered over the screen, trembling. “I know what I saw. He has to be dead. And this”—she jabbed at the phone, sharp, frustration bleeding out—“could all be someone’s way of making sure we never prove it.” Mila’s eyes narrowed. “Or maybe his killer doesn’t want Darren found. Dead or alive. If he vanishes, so does the evidence tying back to him.”
I held her gaze. “Yeah.”
The silence stretched. She didn’t move. Finally, she sagged back against the couch, the phone slipping into her lap.
“I thought I wanted answers. I thought I needed them. But now… I don’t know.”
“We’re in this together.”
She let out a shaky breath, her head tipping sideways until her temple pressed against my shoulder. “That’s what I’m afraid of—that we’ll find out something we can’t come back from.”
I reached over and threaded my fingers through hers. Her grip tightened like a lifeline, grounding us both.
“Then we don’t go back,” I said. “We build forward.”
Her eyes glistened. A silence pressed between us heavy enough to feel. Finally, she whispered, “I want to believe you.”
“Then do.”
She studied me for a long beat. I could feel her pulse racing through her fingers, but she nodded. “Okay.”
And sitting there, her hand warm in mine, the PI’s report still lit between us, it didn’t feel as though we were circling wreckage anymore. It felt as if we were building something that might actually last. Even if the foundation was cracked.
Her head stayed against my shoulder. She didn’t fall asleep, not fully, but her weight eased something in me. Her breathing slowed, steadier, even as her hand clung on, as though letting go might split the ground beneath us.
