This is a real emergency. We are officially out of both choices and time.
SEVENTEEN
DOMINIC
The front doorof Casa Daniels opens before I can knock, revealing Maybelline Daniels in flannel pajama pants and an oversized Harmony Harbor High sweatshirt.
She squints against the morning sun, but lets out a huge sigh of relief when she catches sight of me on the doorstep.
“Took you long enough,” she says by way of greeting, stepping aside to let me in. “I texted you an hour ago.”
“Some of us have jobs, princess.” I ruffle her hair as I pass, earning an elbow to my ribs that I pretend hurts more than it does. “Not everyone can live off the family lobster fortune.
Mabie rolls her eyes, but there’s no heat behind it. At twenty-one, she’s grown into herself in a way that makes my chest ache with something like pride. The awkward, gangly kid who used to follow me and Judah around like a stray puppy is now a confident young woman with her brother’s ocean eyes and none of his brooding temperament.
“He’s in the attic,” she says, closing the door behind me. “Been up there since last night.”
The worry in her voice is impossible to miss. Mabie might give her brother endless shit, but she loves him with the fierce protectiveness that runs in Daniels blood.
“How bad?” I ask, shrugging off my leather jacket and hanging it on the antique coat rack that’s probably worth more than my bike.
She chews her bottom lip. “He took the good whiskey.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah.”
I head for the narrow staircase at the back of the house, the one that leads to what used to be servants’ quarters back when people had servants. Now it’s Judah’s sanctuary—half storage space, half workshop where he carves the intricate scrimshaw pieces he pretends are just a hobby.
The stairs creak under my weight, each step a familiar complaint. This house knows me almost as well as my own skin. I spent more nights here than at my foster homes, especially after Judah’s parents took me in when I was fifteen—a half-feral kid with too many bruises and not enough trust.
The Daniels family saved my life. Not in the dramatic, pull-you-from-a-burning-building way, but in the quieter, more profound way of showing me what family could be. What safety felt like. What it meant to belong somewhere.
Even now, years after I moved out, this place still feels like home in a way my apartment above the bar never quite manages.
The attic door is slightly ajar. I can smell the whiskey before I see it—good stuff, aged and expensive, the kind Judah’s father used to save for special occasions. The kind Judah only drinks when something has cracked open inside him that can’t be fixed with beer.
I push the door open without knocking.
Judah sits on the window seat, silhouetted against the night sky. The bottle of Macallan is open beside him, already a thirdempty. He doesn’t look up when I enter, just takes another sip from a glass that probably hasn’t been refilled in a while.
“If you came to lecture me, save it,” he says, voice rough at the edges. “Not in the mood.”
I cross the room and drop onto the ancient leather armchair across from him. “When have I ever lectured you about drinking?”
“There’s a first time for everything.”
“Yeah, well, today’s not that day.” I reach over and take the bottle, examining the label. “Though if you’re gonna drown yourself in something, at least you picked the good stuff.”
Judah makes a sound that might be a laugh if it wasn’t so hollow. “Dad always said if you’re gonna poison yourself, do it with quality.”
“Smart man.”
“He was.”
The silence stretches between us, comfortable in the way that only comes from knowing someone for most of your life. I take a swig directly from the bottle, letting the whiskey burn a path down my throat. It tastes like smoke and honey and money—the kind of thing people who didn’t grow up like me take for granted.
“So,” I say finally. “You gonna tell me what happened at the bar, or are we just gonna sit here until one of us passes out?”
