"Makes sense," I managed. "Once everything settles down."
"Yeah." She smiled again. It didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Anyway. I'm going to try to get some sleep."
She stood, scooping Watson into her arms despite his protests. At the door to her room, she paused. Glanced back.
"Get some rest, Brian."
"You too."
The door clicked shut.
I sat on the couch alone. Stared at the empty space where she'd been.
Neighbors. Friends. Nothing more.
The lie didn't even make it to morning.
The lie didn't last.
The diner in Astoria was everything the Midtown restaurant Ava described wasn't—fluorescent lights, cracked vinyl booths, coffee that tasted like it had been brewing since the Nixon administration.
Neutral ground. Public enough to feel safe, anonymous enough to disappear into. Shane had arranged the meeting using the contact he’d kept from the Tommy Vickers coverage. Sloane had agreed without hesitation—said the Lang family had been on her radar for years.
I slid into the booth, Ava beside me, our shoulders brushing. Shane and Maya sat across from us, Maya's hand resting on Shane's knee under the table. Garrett took the chair at the end, eyes on the door. Always watching. Always calculating.
We ordered coffee. Waited.
I recognized her the moment she walked in. Sloane Harper had covered enough FDNY stories over the years that her face was familiar—the sharp focus, the purposeful stride, the way she scanned a room like she was already cataloging details for a story. Dark hair pulled back in a low ponytail, blazer over jeans, a leather messenger bag slung over one shoulder.
She spotted Shane immediately. Raised a hand in greeting. Started toward the table?—
And froze.
Her eyes had landed on Garrett.
I watched it happen in slow motion. The way Sloane's step faltered, just barely, like she'd walked into an invisible wall. The way her expression flickered—surprise, then something painful, then nothing at all as she locked it down behind a professional mask.
Garrett was looking back at her. His face was unreadable. His hands curled into fists on the table.
Neither of them said anything.
Then Sloane moved again. Crossed to the table. Sat in the only available seat—directly across from Garrett.
"Shane." She shook his hand, voice steady. Professional.
"Thanks for coming," Shane said. If he'd noticed the tension, he was pretending otherwise. "This is my brother Brian, Dr. Ava Rothwell, and Garrett."
Garrett nodded once. Said nothing.
I glanced at Ava. She'd caught it too, something running beneath the surface. History. The kind that left marks. She gave me a small look.Later.
Shane took the lead. He'd rehearsed this. I could tell by the way he laid it out. Clean. Linear. The kind of briefing that didn't leave room for questions until the end.
Sloane listened without interrupting, taking notes in quick, precise shorthand. Her pen moved across the paper with practiced efficiency, but I noticed her eyes flicking to Garrett more than once. And each time, she looked away quickly, like looking at him too long would burn.
"We need the full story out there," I added when Shane finished. "The cover-up, the witness tampering, Richard Lang's involvement. The DA won’t move without public pressure. Otherwise, this disappears."
Sloane tapped her pen against her notebook. "The Langs have deep pockets and long reach. Investigating them won't be easy. Or safe."
