He's not cruel. That's the thing people don't understand when I don't explain. He's not neglectful, not abusive, not any of the words that would make the story simple. He's just absent. Present in the house, absent in every way that counts. A man doing his duty and waiting, patiently, for it to be over.
I left as soon as I could. Scholarships back to the States, loans, Yale, an ocean between me and the quiet house in Kensington. Cass is still there. A few more months until university, and then she'll be out too, and Martin will finally have what he's wanted for twelve years — his house back, organized, efficient, and empty.
"A few months," I say. "Summer. I'll come for a week before you start at uni."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
"A real promise? Not an 'I'll try' promise?"
"A real promise. I'll book a flight."
"Okay." She sounds relieved, and the guilt lands before I can brace for it. She shouldn't have to be relieved that her brother is going to visit. That should just be a given. But we're the kind of family where nothing is a given and everything has to be negotiated from across an ocean.
"Love you," she says. Easily, the way she says everything.
"Love you too. Wear the green."
"Already decided. Bye!"
She hangs up. The bar is still quiet.
I put my phone facedown. Stare at my laptop screen without seeing it. There's a nachos chip in my hand that I don't remember picking up.
When I look up, Ezra is watching me from behind the bar. Not with the curiosity from the past few days — this is something else. Softer. Almost careful. Like he heard something he wasn't supposed to and doesn't know where to put it.
I hold his gaze for a second. Then I eat the chip and go back to my spreadsheet.
Lions. They're probably lions.
Chapter 5
Ezra
I dream about nachos.
Not in a sexy way — in a pathetic way. I'm standing behind the bar watching someone eat nachos in a window booth, and in the dream I'm cataloging the order he eats them in, and when I wake up I lie in my narrow bed above the bar staring at the ceiling and think: this is a problem.
It's six AM. The bar is quiet beneath me — Knox's apartment is on the other side of the hall, and I can hear the low murmur of Toby's voice through the wall. Silas is silent in his room, which could mean he's asleep or reading or astral projecting. With Silas you never know.
I shower, dress, make tea in the bar kitchen. The morning routine hasn't changed in years — check the overnight security footage on the laptop Knox pretends isn't recording, scan the parking lot, open the register, start the coffee maker for everyone else. I don't drink coffee. Tea is civilized. Coffee is what people drink when they've given up on enjoying things and just need to function.
Knox appears at seven, Toby trailing behind him in one of Knox's shirts and a pair of sweatpants that are comically large. Toby heads to the library by seven-thirty — he walks most days, ten minutes, same route every day. Knox watches him go from the doorway and doesn't come back inside until Toby rounds the corner. Every single morning.
Jason arrives from Ash's house at eight, smelling like motorcycle exhaust and whatever Ash cooks for breakfast, whichis always eggs and always slightly wrong. Jason takes over the kitchen, starts prepping bar food for the day. He's humming something. He's always humming something. Ash will probably join us later.
Vaughn's already in the garage. I can hear the pneumatic wrench. He doesn't do mornings in the bar — mornings are for engines, before the metal heats up in the afternoon sun.
I settle at the bar with my laptop and my tea and open the Coldwell tab I left up last night.
I'd stayed up until one, following breadcrumbs. Coldwell's website was useless — all renderings and mission statements and stock photos of diversity. But their SEC filings are public, and I know how to read a 10-K the way most people read a menu. Revenue, expenses, acquisition targets, asset disposition. The numbers tell stories that press releases don't.
What I found wasn't damning. It was just — odd.
Coldwell's core business is mixed-use development. Shopping centers, office parks, residential complexes in suburban corridors with strong infrastructure. That's their lane. That's what they're good at. Ninety percent of their acquisitions over the last five years fit that profile perfectly.
The other ten percent don't.
