“I’m not asking you to,” Nash says. “I’m asking you to keep your eyes open. If this drone sabotage smells like something bigger… it probably is.”
The cabin creaks. The wind sighs. The world feels like it’s shifting under my feet.
“I’ll talk more when I’ve got her secured,” I say.
“Yeah,” Nash replies. “Do that. And Crewe?”
“Yeah.”
“If you love her…” Nash pauses like the word tastes unfamiliar. “Don’t let fear decide for you.”
My throat tightens.
“I’ll call you,” I say instead.
“Be careful,” Nash says.
“I’m always careful.”
“No, be careful with her,” he replies.
And then the line goes dead.
I stand there for a long moment, phone still pressed to my ear.
Dad is alive.
That sentence repeats in my skull like a gunshot echoing in a canyon.
I can’t accept it.
I can’t reject it.
I can only feel the way it cracks something open inside me.
Behind me, the floor creaks. I turn. Riley steps closer wrapped in the blanket like a cape, hair messy, eyes sleepy and soft.
She blinks at me, taking in my face. “What’s wrong?” she asks immediately. Her instincts are sharp.
I force my shoulders to drop. I can handle my own spiral later. “Nothing,” I lie.
Riley’s eyes narrow. “Crewe.”
I exhale. “It was Nash. My brother.”
“The one who called yesterday?”
“Yeah.”
She pads closer, bare feet silent on the wood floor. She stops in front of me, gaze searching mine like she can read every thought if she looks hard enough.
“You look like you saw a ghost,” she whispers.
I swallow. “Maybe I did.”
Before she can press, I move—because if I stand here and talk about my father possibly being alive, the floor might fall out from under me and I refuse to let her see me break.
I reach for the coffee pot. “Sit,” I tell her.
