I study the back of his head, the rigid line of his shoulders. He’s been like this since Monday—present but distant, going through motions. Wyatt told me he found Chris alone in his apartment, headphones on, listening to recordings of my therapy sessions. Vicente’s voice on a loop. I don’t know exactly what he heard or why he was torturing himself with it, but I know it cost him something.
And I know he’s walking into that man’s home right now, about to share a meal with him, and there’s nothing I can do to make that easier.
The car rolls to a stop in a parking area beside a long expanse of open bays. Through the window, I can see vintage chrome gleaming inside the large garage—Arturo’s collection that Callie mentioned.
“Ready?” Wyatt asks, turning to look at both of us.
“No,” Chris says flatly. Then he opens his door and gets out.
Wyatt helps me from the car, his hand warm and steady at my elbow. I’m moving carefully—the incision sites don’t hurt exactly, but there’s a tenderness that reminds me not to push.
“You good?” he murmurs.
“I’m fine.” I smooth my dress—a deep burgundy wrap that Callie helped me pick specifically because it’s forgiving on my midsection. “Just need to pace myself.”
Chris is already scanning the property, cataloging exits and sightlines the way he does everywhere. His body language screams tactical assessment even as he tries to look casual. I wonder if Vicente will notice. I wonder if that’s the point.
The front entrance is a heavy wooden door set beneath an archway, flanked by terracotta pots overflowing with bougainvillea. Before we reach it, the door swings open and Elena appears—silver-streaked hair pulled back, quiet authority in every line of her posture. Decades of running this household have settled into her bones.
“Nina.” Her smile is warm. “Welcome. And your guests?”
“Wyatt Booth and Chris Longo,” I say. “Thank you for having us.”
Elena’s gaze lingers on Chris a beat too long—watching him watch the perimeter, maybe cataloging his vigilance. But she recovers quickly, stepping aside to usher us in.
“The family is gathering in the courtyard. We have tapas out now, and we’ll sit down for dinner in about an hour.”
“That sounds lovely,” I say. “Thank you.”
The interior is exactly what I expected from my sessions—tasteful, expensive, art everywhere. But seeing it in person adds dimension. The hallway opens onto a vast living area, comfortable despite its size, with more of those elegant arches framing the space. French doors stand open to a central courtyard embraced by the wings of the house: a fountain at its center, three nymphs in classical bronze with water cascading from the shells they hold aloft, garden beds lush with bird of paradise, sage, and agave. Beyond, I can see a fenced pool area and the flat expanse of the helipad, the city sprawling beneath us in layers.
Last night’s storm left the air crystalline, that particular Los Angeles clarity that makes the hills look close enough to touch. The afternoon sun pours gold across the terra cotta tiles, and somewhere in the garden, jasmine is blooming—sweet and heavy on the November air.
“Nina!”
Callie appears from the courtyard, Zoey balanced on her hip and a diaper bag slung over her shoulder. The knot between my shoulder blades eases at the sight of her—cream sweater, loose dark slacks, hair loose, looking more relaxed than I’ve seen her in weeks. She’s heading toward a powder room off the foyer, but stops short when she sees me.
“You made it.” She pulls me into a one-armed hug, careful of my midsection. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired but good.” I nod toward Zoey. “Emergency?”
“She has impeccable timing.” Callie shifts Zoey higher on her hip. “I swear she waits until the worst possible?—”
“I’ve got her.” Mason appears behind Callie, Marcella at his side. He lifts Zoey from Callie’s arms and snags the diaper bag in one smooth motion. “Go. Catch up.”
Zoey reaches for me with grabby hands as Mason turns toward the powder room, but he redirects her. “Not today, mija. Aunt Nina needs gentle.”
“Nee-na,” Zoey says solemnly over his shoulder, as if confirming she understands.
Marcella pulls me into a careful hug before following them. “You look tired, chérie,” she says, studying my face with that maternal concern I’ve come to expect from her. “Are you taking care of yourself?”
“I’m fine. Just a long week.”
She doesn’t look convinced, but she squeezes my hand and heads toward the kitchen, leaving me with Callie.
“How are you really?” Callie asks, her voice lower now. “And don’t give me the polished answer.”
“Nervous,” I admit. “It’s one thing to treat them in my office. It’s another to eat turkey with their entire family.”
