“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I’m going to visit him. In prison. Face to face.” Blaze’s eyes burned with the same quiet, unshakeable determination I’d seen in our father’s newspaper photograph, the one that ran above “Empire of Blood” in 1995. “I want to look him in the eye and ask him who he sent to kill Michael and Shelly Gracen.”
“Blaze, you can’t just walk into a federal prison and?—”
“I can. And I’m not going unprepared.” He paused. “I’ve been in contact with a criminal psychologist who specializes in cartel cases. She’s agreed to consult. Help me prepare for the interview. Read his responses.”
“Who?”
“Her name is Dr. Sera Summers. She’s—” A flicker crossed his face. Unreadable. “She’s good at what she does.”
I studied my brother. The flame-red hair, the jaw set like concrete, the barely contained intensity of a man who’d been carrying this for over two years.
“We need to tell Fury,” I said.
Blaze was already shaking his head. “Not yet.”
“He’s our brother, Blaze. He has the same right to?—”
“I know he does. And we will. But you know Fury.” Blaze’s voice was careful, the way it got when he was choosing words like someone defusing a wire. “The second he finds out, he’ll want to take over. He’ll throw money at it, hire private investigators, call in favors, bulldoze every lead I’ve spent two years building. He’ll burn it all down, and I understand that, because part of me wants to burn it down too. But this thing needs discretion, Rose. Whoever killed Mom and Dad planned it to look like an accident and got away with it. If we come in loud, we lose every advantage we have.”
I wanted to argue. Fury deserved to know. But Blaze was right. Fury’s first instinct was always a wrecking ball, and a wrecking ball was exactly the wrong tool for something this delicate.
“After,” I said. “After you talk to Ochoa. After you know more. Then we tell him.”
“Agreed.”
“And you’ll be careful.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Promise me, Blaze.”
He held my gaze. “I promise.”
The music from the tent drifted across the pasture, something slow, something Graham had probably picked. In the field, Cassie raised her head again, ears pricked toward the sound.
“Call me,” I said. “The second you’ve talked to him, you call me.”
“I will.”
Then Blaze put his arm around my shoulders and pulled me close.
“Happy wedding day, Rosie. I’m so proud of you.”
Later that night,much later, after the dancing and the toasts and Patrick’s tearful speech and Kaya catching the bouquet with a whoop that scared three horses and Fury pretending he wasn’t crying, I stood on the porch of my house and looked at the stars.
Graham was behind me. His arms around my waist, his chin on my shoulder, his breath warm against my neck. The guests had gone to their cabins. The caterers had packed up. The string lights were still glowing in the tent, swaying gently in the mountain breeze.
The barn was a dark shape against the sky. Inside it, four horses were sleeping. Or Cassie was sleeping. Brutus was probably plotting something. Starlight was watching the moonlight through her stall window. And Ricky was pressed againstCassie’s side, because some fears never fully go away. They just find something warm to lean against.
“Good day?” Graham asked.
“The best day.”
He pressed his lips to my shoulder. “Mrs. Kincaid.”
“Don’t push your luck.”
