Once Alex is back in his seat, the dogs have repositioned themselves directly under his chair, having identified him as the most promising source of future food opportunities. Gus has his chin resting on Alex’s foot, gazing up at him with worshipful devotion, and Laila is pressed against his other leg, noticeably slobbering on his jeans. Alex still looks absolutely thrilled about this arrangement.
Calvin clears his throat and taps his fork against his glass. The table quiets down and everyone turns to look at him. “Alright, everyone, Maren and I actually have a little announcement.” He looks down at Maren. She reaches up and takes his hand, squeezing it tight, and I can see her eyes are already shining. Calvin takes a breath. “Maren’s pregnant,” he says. “We’re having a baby.”
For a single heartbeat, the table is silent, and then everything explodes.
Emma shrieks, a sound so loud and high-pitched my ears actually ring, and she’s out of her chair before I can blink, rounding the table at impressive speed for someone who could literally go into labor at any moment, and pulling Maren into a hug. Theo is right behind her, clapping Calvin on the back and saying something I can’t hear over the noise.
Chloe is on her feet dancing in place, her hands pressed to her cheeks. “I get a cousin and a baby sister! Oh my gosh, oh my gosh!” she squeals, evidently thrilled to finally have more kids joining the family.
Gus and Laila don’t know what all the fuss is about, but they’re caught up in the excitement anyway, tails wagging and bodies wiggling in the way dogs do when they can tell something good is happening.
I pull Calvin into a hug, solid and tight, and when I pull back he’s grinning so wide his face might split in half. I kiss Maren on the cheek and tell them both congratulations, and she laughs and squeezes my hand. The whole house is filled with noise and laughter.
Alex catches my eye across the chaos and grins. “The Midnights are taking over Dark River one baby at a time,” he says, raising his beer. “It’s basically a hostile takeover at this point. We’re going to outnumber the rest of the town by 2030.”
I laugh and raise my beer back at him. “God help Dark River.”
Maren wipes at her eyes with the back of her hand, laughing even as the tears spill over. “Ugh, I swore I wasn’t going to cry!” She takes a shaky breath. “By the way, Jack and Lark already know. We wanted everyone to find out at once, but I kind of spilled the beans while FaceTiming her last night. They’re both traveling today for Jack’s race this weekend, but they said to give everyone their love. But I’m sorry you didn’t all find out at the same time.”
“Honey, don’t worry for a second about that kind of thing,” Emma says, still holding onto Maren’s hands. “This is the best news. I’m so happy for you guys. And the kids all get to grow up together!”
I look around the room at my brothers and their partners, at Chloe already chattering about all the things she’s going to teach the new baby, at Mateo looking less like a stranger and more like someone who belongs here.
Jack and Lark are missing but not gone, just somewhere else building their own life the way everyone in this room is building theirs. Another baby on the way. The family keeps growing, keeps shifting, keeps making room for whoever needs it.
Mom would have loved this. Dad too. Sunday dinners were always their favorite, all of us crammed around the table talkingover each other, the house loud and warm and full. They’d be proud of what this family has become. All of us finding our way, building lives, making room for the people we love.
So why, in the middle of all this warmth and chaos, does Brooke’s face flash through my mind?
She’s the one that got away for you.
I take a long pull of my beer and push the thought aside. Alex watches too many movies. That’s all it is.
CHAPTER 10
Brooke
Aberdeen is the kind of town that peaked decades ago and never recovered. The ghost of industry lingers here, seeping into everything. I pass shuttered storefronts with sun-bleached GOING OUT OF BUSINESS signs that look like they’ve been hanging there for years. Kurt Cobain grew up here, which is the only reason most people have heard of it. Now it’s just rain and abandoned buildings and the slow, quiet death of a place the world forgot about.
I didn’t plan this trip, but I have Dominic’s voice stuck in my head on a loop.You had a story that confirmed what you already believed about me. So you stopped digging.
I know I’m a good journalist, but back then—when I was young and hungry and desperate for the kind of story that would put my name on the map, and the guy I’d hated since high school just happened to be at the center of it—could I have missed something?
The disturbing thought that I could have let that hatred blind me, that I could have seen what I wanted to see instead of whatwas actually there, has lodged itself somewhere behind my ribs and refuses to leave no matter how many times I tell myself I did everything right.
So here I am.
The gym is a converted warehouse off the main road, KOVACS BOXING painted on a sign so faded the letters look like they’re trying to disappear. Half the windows are boarded up. The parking lot is mostly potholes held together by gravel. I sit in my rental car and watch rain collect on the windshield, wondering what exactly I think I’m going to accomplish here.
Eddie Kovacs was one of my key sources for the original article. A respected coach in Pacific Northwest fighting circles who told me that Dominic ran a tight operation, that nothing happened in that gym without Dominic’s knowledge, and if Miles Webb was doping then Dominic had to be aware. I quoted him and let his words imply Dominic’s complicity without technically accusing him of anything.
And off the record, in a conversation I couldn’t quote but that shaped everything I wrote, Kovacs told me he was certain that Dominic knew.
I get out of the car and make my way toward the entrance, narrowly avoiding a puddle deep enough to swallow my heel. I’m wearing a pencil skirt and silk blouse from an interview with a promoter this morning. Professional clothes that are completely wrong for whatever this is going to be, but I didn’t exactly plan this trip. I just started driving.
Inside, the place smells like mildew and old sweat. There’s a boxing ring in the center with duct tape holding the corner pads together, and the heavy bags along the walls look older than I am. A handful of fighters are working out in various states of exhaustion.
Eddie Kovacs is in the far corner with a young woman who’s hitting pads, his gravelly voice calling out combinations thatcut through the ambient noise. “One-two. One-two-three. Slip. Again.”
