"The hell it wasn't," I growl, cradling my hand. "They took you because of me. Used my name to control you. And I believed their setup. Stopped looking after three months because some fucking security footage convinced me you'd left willingly."
She crosses the room, stopping just short of touching me. "You couldn't have known."
"I should have," I insist, self-loathing thick in my throat. "I knew you. Should have known you wouldn't just leave like that. Should have kept looking."
"And then what?" she challenges softly. "They would have killed you if you'd gotten close. That's not guilt talking—that's fact. They were professionals, Falcon. Everything they did was calculated."
I stare at her, this woman who endured five years of hell yet stands here trying to absolve me of guilt. The weight of it is crushing.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, the words pathetically inadequate. "God, Cara. I'm so fucking sorry."
Something in her expression cracks, the clinical distance giving way to raw emotion. "I used to imagine this conversation," she admits, voice barely audible. "In the worst moments, I'd picture you finding me, saying those exact words. It kept me alive some days."
The confession shatters what remains of my composure. I reach for her without thinking, then freeze, hand suspended between us. "Can I?—"
She nods once, and I pull her carefully into my arms, mindful of injuries both visible and hidden. She's stiff at first, then gradually relaxes, head resting against my uninjured shoulder. We stand like that, two broken people holding each other up, as rain continues to drum against the window.
"I did look for you," I say eventually, needing her to know. "Those first months, I tore this town apart. Called in every favor. But they led me away with that credit card trail, the footage. Made it look like you'd chosen to start over somewhere else."
She pulls back enough to look at me, eyes wet with unshed tears. "I know. I figured out what they'd done after the fact. It was a good plan—making you believe I'd left by choice. Easier for everyone if you hated me instead of looking for me."
"I never hated you," I confess. "I wanted to. Would have been easier. But even believing you'd left, I couldn't hate you. Just myself, for not being enough to make you stay."
A tear escapes, tracking down her cheek. "I never wanted to leave. Never stopped trying to get back to you. Even when I forgot what your face looked like, I remembered how you made me feel. Safe. Loved."
The words cut deeper than any knife. Five years of believing a lie, while she fought to survive horrors I can barely comprehend. And now we stand in the aftermath, broken in different ways, connected by a past that seems like another lifetime.
"Whoever took you," I say, resolve hardening my voice, "whoever used my name to control you, they're going to pay. I swear to you, Cara. I'm going to find them, and they're going to suffer for every moment they made you suffer."
"It won't change what happened," she points out softly.
"No," I agree. "But it might keep it from happening to someone else." I step back, needing to regain some control. "This wasn't random. They targeted you specifically because of me. Which means it was personal."
"Or business," she suggests. "Not everything is a vendetta, Falcon. Sometimes it's just business."
The observation is troublingly insightful. "Either way, I need to understand why. And how it connects to what's happening now. The ambush today, the encrypted ledger, all of it."
She nods, exhaustion evident in the slump of her shoulders. "I've told you everything I know. I swear it."
"I believe you," I say, realizing as the words leave my mouth that I truly do. "Get some rest. We'll figure this out in the morning."
I move toward the door, stopping when she speaks again.
"Falcon." Her voice is tentative. "The man who came monthly, the one they feared. He had another tattoo I only saw once. On his forearm, partially covered by his sleeve."
"What was it?"
"A club symbol," she says. "Not Reapers. Different. A crown with three points."
The description sends ice through my veins. "You're sure? Three points, not five?"
She nods. "Three. Why? Do you recognize it?"
I think of a rival club that disappeared five years ago after a territorial dispute. A club whose president vanished rather than face the Saints Outlaws in open conflict. A club we believed was defunct.
"Kings of Purgatory," I say grimly. "They were supposed to be gone. Disbanded after their president disappeared."
"Gone underground, maybe," Cara suggests. "Not gone completely."
