My hands clung to his shirt, fingers curling tightly in the fabric as my body shook with silent sobs. His quiet understanding and the soothing cadence of his words offered comfort that seeped through my sadness as I pressed my face against his shoulder—grateful for the gentle acceptance in his embrace.
Throughout the night, Sinclair sat there with me, holding me while I mourned a man, a brother I barely knew.
“Unka Row.”
Her small voice drifted up, uncertain but sweet, tethering me to the present. I glanced down at her, her toes buried in the cool, damp sand, and answered aloud, “Yes, sweetheart.” I tried to sound steady for her sake, though the ache inside me felt exposed in the glow of sunrise.
She’d found me before dawn, creeping into my room with hungry eyes and tangled hair, barely awake. I’d asked about her parents—her father lost in sleep, perhaps, and her mother lost in a way she could not fathom—and she only shrugged, answering with silence.
The house had been hushed, its corridors thick with the residue of sleepless sorrow—grief heavy as fog, pressing into every corner. Not even Sinclair’s familiar footsteps could be heard. I dressed her and myself in silence, the ritual oddly soothing, then carried her down the creaking stairs, careful not to disturb the slumbering weight of mourning that filled each room. In the kitchen, I made her a simple breakfast—a quietrebellion against emptiness—before bringing her outside, where the world was new and the tide whispered possibility.
“Where is Daddy Ghost?”
Her question hovered between us, fragile and searching. I drew a shaky breath, brushing a stray curl from her forehead, stalling as I listened to the hush of waves and the hush behind us—a house holding its breath, a family not yet able to speak of absence. The salt air was sharp on my tongue, the sand cool against my feet, grounding me as I searched for gentleness. I wanted to guard her from the hard truth, to bottle this moment before the world pressed in.
I held her close, the warmth of her small body steadying my own trembling. The scent of seaweed and distant sun-warmed pines mingled in the air. Softly, I answered—not just for her, but for myself, “Daddy Ghost had to go away, sweetheart.” My words tasted strange, both tender and bitter. “Sometimes the ones we love aren’t far, even when we can’t see them. He’s with us—in here.” I pressed her little hand to her chest, hoping she’d feel something other than loss.
“Will he come back?”
Her fingers twisted in the hem of her shirt, and I saw confusion flicker in her eyes, hope clinging stubbornly to the edges of heartbreak. My mind scrambled for words that might offer comfort, wishing I could promise more than memory.
I tried to smile, though the morning breeze stung my eyes. “No, sweetheart,” I said, keeping my voice gentle as the hush of foam at our feet. “But we’ll hold him close in our memories, and in that way, he never really leaves us.”
As I spoke, the gulls wheeled overhead, and the cold, wet sand clung to our toes; the ocean’s steady rhythm was a small comfort against the vast and echoing quiet left by those who vanished far too soon.
Chapter Seventeen
Rowen
Days seemed to blur together, the passage of time marked only by the gradual arrival of new reports about the war. Each piece of information was slow to reach us, trickling in bit by bit, and every update brought with it fresh devastation. Despite the heartbreak carried by these reports, the war pressed on relentlessly, casting a shadow over our daily lives and leaving little room for hope or relief.
Sypher stayed only a few days before Reaper called, needing him once more. His departure infuriated Dante and damn near broke his mother’s heart. As for Melissa, she never left her room. Refusing to see anyone. Roxy assured us she was keeping an eye on her, watching her like a hawk, but even I could see the worry on her face. Dante, Sinclair and I tried to keep Danika distracted with games and whispered stories, but each day she grew quieter, her laughter fading like sunlight at dusk as she waited for her mother’s footsteps that never came.
“This is bull—absolute bullshit!” Roxy barked as she burst into Sinclair’s office, her boots thudding against the wood floor. Her voice was ragged, edged with sleepless nights. “She’s not living; she’s fading—she’s killing herself by inches, day after day.”
Sinclair—always the calm one, his glasses perched low on his nose—folded his hands, the lines around his mouth deepening. “You’re the doctor here, Dr. Franks,” he said in that measured tone, his voice as steady as the tick of the old clock by his desk. “What would you have us do?”
“Pack up!” Roxy snapped, her words cracking in the air like thunder. “Get her out—leave this damn mausoleum behind!”
Sinclair hesitated, the leather of his chair creaking as he shifted. “And go where?” he asked quietly, his voice a low rumble beneath the storm.
Roxy threw her arms wide, bracelets jangling. “Anywhere but here!” she spat, frustration vibrating in every syllable. “This place reeks of everything she’s lost. I’m not watching her waste away in shadows and silence. I don’t care if it’s a motel or a shack by the lake—just find us somewhere and do it now!” Her voice lingered in the hallway after she stormed out, leaving the scent of peppermint and impatience behind.
Sinclair leaned back, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if trying to erase the ache that pulsed behind his eyes. The office, usually bright and orderly, felt dim and close, the air heavy with decisions and regret.
“She’s right, you know,” I spoke up, my voice rougher than I intended. “If we don’t get Melissa out of here, Danika is going to lose another parent.” My chest tightened at the thought, the memory of her last loss still fresh in my mind.
Sighing, Sinclair sat forward, his fingers steepled together as he looked at me with weary resolve. “I’m headed back to Chicago. Take them to New York. Call Mr. Conway and tell him to expect guests in a few days.” A flicker of guilt crossed Sinclair’s face, betraying his true reason for the trip.
I narrowed my eyes, folding my arms across my chest. “Why are you going to Chicago and not New York with us?”
“Because I have business to attend to in Chicago.” Sinclair’s words were clipped, but his gaze darted away for a moment.
“You mean you want to see your daughter.” My words hung heavy in the air, the accusation soft but pointed.
Sinclair straightened, adjusting his glasses. “She has requested a dinner to discuss her mother and brother.” His voicewent oddly formal, revealing just how much the topic unsettled him.
“Tank?” I arched an eyebrow, picturing the familiar stubbornness of Sinclair’s son.
