And knowing I would do it all over again. For her.
My phone is in my hand before I step out of the warehouse.
I don’t stop to think about it. This needs to move, and the only person who can help me expedite my enquiries is Silas. The same way that universities keep Goliath on call for problems they don’t want traced back to them, I have one number I use when speed matters more than optics.
He answers on the first ring.
“Justin. To what do I owe the misfortune of a call so late in the afternoon?”
I roll my eyes, because he can’t see it and yet he deserves it.
Silas Mercer is my go-to when I need results. He doesn’t waste time, doesn’t ask unnecessary questions, and doesn’t pretend there are lines he’s not willing to cross. He’s efficient, focused, and entirely business-minded.
But he still enjoys needling me when he can.
And I let him—because if he ever stopped, that’s when I’d worry.
“That file you secured,” I say. “You kept a copy?”
“You know I did.”
“I need a full deep dive on William Scott-Evans and Marcus Delaney. Everything you can find.”
There’s a brief pause. “Outside of Goliath?” he asks.
“Yes. Deeper than that. There’s also a third man involved; he may or may not still be in the picture, but he was their third wheel ten years ago.”
Another beat. I can hear him thinking. “I didn’t come across anything pointing to a third man.”
“He’s there,” I say flatly. “You didn’t miss him—he’s buried. Dig again. I want everything on all three of them. Financials, movements, connections. Anything that doesn’t line up. Anything I can use against them.”
“And you want this when?”
“I needed it yesterday,” I say. “We’ll meet in person when you’re done.”
The line goes quiet for a second.
Then, “Understood.”
32
ROWAN
Bethany isn’t unlike her brother.
She tells me there are only two of them, and that they both work for Goliath. The difference is where. Justin operates where the damage is done. Bethany works in outreach.
Because what Justin didn’t tell me—what I’m only just learning—is that Goliath isn’t only about vigilante justice.
They help survivors. The families left behind when grief becomes unmanageable. The ones who lose jobs, friendships, stability. The ones who don’t bounce back.
I feel something shift as she explains it.
Recognition. This is the kind of organisation I needed, back when everything collapsed around me and there was no structure to the aftermath. When the world expected me to keep going as if nothing had happened.
First my sister died. Then my mother. Then my father, piece by piece, until he could no longer deal with his grief and he left. Until they were all gone. Somewhere in between, I lost myself. Not to sadness—but to purpose. Revenge gave me something solid when nothing else did.
I listen while Bethany talks, my chest tight, my focus sharp. This wasn’t offered to people like us. Not then. Not where I was. No counselling. No framework. No one telling me how to survive loss without letting it shape me into a different person. Someone unrecognizable even to myself.
