That’s the part that wrecks me. No matter how far I’ve gone, no matter how much I want to stay vanished, I can’t erase him. He’s my blood and the only person I could trust after my mother died. He swore he wouldn’t let our father turn me into something I wasn’t. He tried. And when I ran in the dead of night seven years ago, I left him behind to face the fallout alone.
Hospitals always smell the same—bleachand sorrow, like someone bottled the ache of every goodbye and pumped it through the vents. Time moves wrong inside places like this. Either it crawls in agonizing inches or slips past in a blur, never in between. I pull the hood of my sweatshirt lower over my forehead and step up to the reception desk, already feeling the weight of eyes I can’t risk catching.
“Can I help you?” the nurse asks. Her voice is polite but detached, like she’s said those words a thousand times today already.
“Yeah,” I answer, keeping my tone even, flat. “I’m here to visit my cousin. Declan Kavanagh. Room 718. His wife called me.”
Her gaze flicks to the visitor log, scanning. “Name?”
The pause is short but it feels like a lifetime. I swallow, let the alias sit on my tongue like it belongs to me. “Dani Rivera.”
I’ve practiced it enough. Memorized the backstory until it’s second nature. Distant cousin. Lives out of state. Flew in as soon as the news hit. I even picked up a sympathy card from a gas station rack, something small to make the lie believable if anyone bothers to ask.
She studies me for a moment longer than I like, then hands over a sticker badge withD. Riverascrawled across it in rushed handwriting. “Take the elevator to the eighth floor. ICU’s to the left.”
I nod and walk away, every instinct screaming not to glance over my shoulder. The elevator ride feels endless, the walls pressing closer the higher I go. When the doors finally open, the smell is sharper here—more sterile, more final.
I follow the signs until I reach the room. 718. My pulse is a drum in my throat. I hesitate, my hand on the doorframe, and knock softly before pushing it open.
And then I see him.
The man lying in that hospital bed doesn’t look like my brother. Declan was larger than life, broad-shouldered and unshakable, the kind of man who could scoop me up and toss me over his shoulder during water fights at the lake until I shrieked with laughter. This man looks hollowed out, as if someone carved away half of him and left only the shell. His skin is pale, sallow under the harsh hospital lights. Thin tubing curls beneath his nose and loops around his ears, feeding him oxygen in soft, steady streams. Bandages wrap tight around his torso, and the hand I used to cling to as a child lies limp and lifeless against the sheet.
The doorway steadies me when my legs threaten to give. I grip the frame until my knuckles ache, trying to reconcile the image in front of me with the brother who never let me fall.
Movement pulls me back. Kelly rises from the chair beside his bed, her brown curls yanked into a knot that’s already loosening, her blouse wrinkled, her eyes rimmed in red. Exhaustion hangs on her shoulders, but when she sees me, something sparks. “Oh my God,” she breathes, and before I can prepare for it, she’s crossing the room and wrapping me in her arms.
I stiffen, caught off guard by the sudden embrace, but I don’t push her away. There’s too much grief between us for that.
“You came,” she whispers against my shoulder.
I nod once when we pull apart. My voice is strained. “Only for him. What happened, Kelly?”
Her gaze drifts back to Declan, softening with a kind of helpless fury. “I told him not to go. He wasn’t under protection anymore. He told your father he wanted out, that he wanted a lifeaway from all of this. Lachlan gave him one last mission, promising him freedom if he did it. And this…” Her voice cracks. “This is what it cost us.”
“God damn it.” The words scrape out of me, bitter and sharp. “My father isn’t a man you can trust.”
Her shoulders sag as she looks at her husband again, tears sliding down her cheeks. “We know that now.”
The guilt tastes like metal on my tongue. “Kelly, I’m so sorry. Declan deserved better than this.” My throat tightens as I point toward him, broken and still. “Can I talk to him?”
She nods and gestures to the chair beside the bed, her hand brushing the air in quiet permission. “I’ll give you a minute.”
When Kelly slips out, the room shrinks around me. The only sounds are the steady beeping of machines and the soft, uneven pull of Declan’s breathing. I lower myself into the chair, every movement heavy, and stare at the hand lying limp on the bedspread. For a long moment, I hover, afraid that touching him will make it real, and will confirm just how fragile he’s become. Finally, I curl my fingers around his, the familiar shape of them both comforting and devastating.
He doesn’t stir.
My throat closes tight, but I force sound through it. “Hey, D.” The words scrape out, barely more than air. I clear my throat, try again. “I’m here. You got yourself shot and scared the hell out of everyone, so…good job with that.” My attempt at levity falls flat in the sterile quiet.
Still nothing. His hand stays heavy and unresponsive in mine.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here sooner,” I whisper, pressing my palm over his. The apology feels too small, too late, and the guilt that’s been gnawing at me for years tears deeper into the raw edges of my chest.
My eyes burn, and I blink hard, but it doesn’t stop the sting. I haven’t cried since the night I climbed out of that window seven years ago—not when I slept in the backseat of a broken-down car in Kansas, not when I opened a death threat in L.A.from a man who thought I owed him my body, not even when I found out my mother’s grave had been left to crumble into moss and anonymity. I didn’t cry then. I wouldn’t give anyone that power.
But now? Sitting here with the one person who ever loved me without condition, I feel my ribs strain against the dam I built. Every memory of Declan—braiding my hair, sneaking me out to the lake, swearing he’d protect me—presses against the cracks until I can barely breathe.
“I shouldn’t have left you in that house alone,” I choke out. “I should’ve taken you with me. I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve—” The words break apart, shredded by regret.
