Nash’s mouth twitches. “Good. Because he’s terrible at it on his own.”
Mack snorts. “Facts.”
We get the introductions out of the way, everyone meeting Riley for the first time.
Then, we move upstairs to a private lounge. Nash chose the place, which means it’s quiet, secure, and has an exit route he’s already clocked. Old habits don’t die. They just get invited to meetings.
Riley sits beside me on the couch. Mack drops into a chair across from us, sprawling like he’s made of confidence and good decisions he absolutely does not plan to make.
Nash doesn’t waste time.
He sets his phone on the table between us and taps the screen.
“Dean Maddox is putting together a team,” Nash says. “Maddox Security. They’re good. The best kind of good—quiet, competent, and hard to kill. Dean believes Dad is alive.”
Mack’s grin fades by a fraction. “We’ve been over this.”
Nash lifts his eyes. “Not like this.”
He hits play.
A grainy video fills the screen. It’s surveillance footage—street-level, slightly angled, the kind you’d miss if you didn’t know what you were looking for.
A man steps into frame.
My breath stops.
It’s not just the shape of his shoulders. Not just the way he walks—like the world should move around him. It’s the tilt of his head. The pause before he turns, scanning the street like he’s counting threats without thinking.
And then he looks up—just for a second—and the camera catches his face.
Older. Hardened. Beard rough along his jaw.
But it’s him.
Dad.
Mack sits forward so fast his chair legs scrape. “That’s?—”
Nash pauses the video. His voice is quiet. “That’s our father.”
Mack swallows. “That footage is old. It has to be. Some archived clip from years ago.”
Nash shakes his head once. “No,” he says. “It was last week.”
Silence slams into the room.
My heart pounds so hard it hurts. My hands go cold, then hot, like my body can’t decide if this is real or a dream I’m not allowed to have.
Last week.
Dad’s alive.
Out there.
Breathing.
I feel Riley’s fingers tighten around mine. I look at her, and she’s watching me—not the video. Me. Reading the storm inside my chest like she’s learned my weather patterns.
