Charles was right. Parker’s return by itself would have been a big deal, but to return with two sons that no one knew existed made a lot of the bosses uneasy. Parker had disappeared six years ago with little explanation from Dominic regarding the decision to disown her.
He was nervous after she left. I had thought for maybe a second that he probably missed her, maybe he actually cared about her, but that was a short second. He tightened the reins around all of us, pulled all the surveillance Cal had done on her over the years, logged every fucking call, scoured travel itineraries—we couldn’t have looked for her without setting off alarms. It was his way or the incinerator.
The man was old, but he was crazy as hell.
Behind me, Cal’s fingers fly across his keyboard with that particular intensity that means he’s hunting. Chasing digital shadows. Looking for answers in places most people don’t know exist.
“Anything?” I ask, not turning from the window.
“Nothing.” Frustration bleeds through his normally controlled voice. “Birth certificates are sealed under her mother’s maiden name—Richardson. Medical records from California are locked down tighter than most government facilities. I can get through it, but it’ll take time and leave traces I’m not sure we want right now.”
“Traces that lead back to us hacking into records for two children,” I say quietly. “That Charles might ask about.”
“Exactly.” Cal’s chair creaks as he leans back. “She built her digital fortress well. Too well for someone who used to panic when her laptop froze.”
The implication hangs heavy. She learned. She prepared. She knew she’d need to hide.
From us? From the Carter name? From whoever their father is?
Except we know. Weknow. The timeline is screaming it. January to October. Nine months. Two boys that were born on October tenth, and we’d had her in January. The night of Charles’s wedding. The night everything changed.
“They’re five,” Silas says from his position sprawled in the leather chair by the fireplace. It’s the first thing he’s said in an hour. Maybe longer. His voice is rough, like he’s been gargling gravel.
He’s been like this since the funeral. Since we saw them. Since Parker stood at the graveside with one arm around each boy, looking like she was holding the only things in the world that mattered.
“We don’t know for certain—” I start, but Cal cuts me off with a sharp laugh.
“Don’t we?” He spins his chair to face us. “Jace, I saw that kid’s eyes. Amber. My exact shade. The same way they catch light, the same shape. And the other one—” He looks at me. “Dark hair, blue-gray eyes, serious as hell. Looks like you did in every childhood photo I’ve ever seen.”
“Circumstantial,” I say, but my voice lacks conviction.
“Math isn’t circumstantial.” Cal stands and starts pacing. “She left January twentieth. The boys were born on October tenth. The timeline is exact.”
“So what?” Silas finally moves, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees. “We demand a paternity test? Corner her and force answers? That’ll go over well with Charles.Hey man, we need Parker to give us DNA samples of her sons because we all fucked her six years ago.”
The mention of our brother—Parker’s twin—makes us all pause. Because that’s the other bomb waiting to detonate. Charles has no idea what happened six years ago. No idea that the night he got married, his three best friends crossed every line with his sister.
No idea that his nephews might be?—
“He volunteered us to help her move in,” I say, redirecting before we spiral further. “Said she’d need muscle for the heavy furniture.”
“Of course he did.” Cal’s laugh is bitter. “Because why wouldn’t he have the three men who are losing their minds put his sister’s bed together? It’s a great idea.”
“We’re not losing our minds,” I correct. “We’re maintaining operational focus during a transitional period.”
“You sound like a manual,” Silas mutters.
“Better than sounding like I’m about to put my fist through a wall.” I drain my scotch, set the tumbler down with controlled precision. “Which is what you look like.”
Silas doesn’t deny it. His hands are clenched into fists, knuckles white. That particular stillness he gets before violence radiates from him like heat.
“Five years,” he says again. “She’s been raising them for five years. Alone. While we were here, thinking—” He stops, jaw working. “What were we thinking, Jace? That she was happy? That she’d moved on? That some other man?—”
“Don’t.” The word comes out harder than I intend. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
Because the thought of another man touching her, of someone else being the father of those boys, makes something violent and possessive rise in my chest. Something I’ve spent years trying to bury.
“Charles said they’re coming over in twenty minutes,” Cal says, checking his watch. “We’re supposed to help carry boxes and pretend we’re not dying to know if those kids are ours.”
