Sabin’s brow furrowed in concentration. “I think... I remember the spoon. It had a chip in the handle.”
“Yes! Dad had dropped it on the tile floor the Christmas before.”
These moments were precious—Sabin fighting to reassemble the puzzle pieces of himself, clinging to memories that Praetorian had tried to erase.
“Tell me another one,” he said, shifting slightly in the bed. His injured hands—slowly healing from Raines’ torture—fidgeted with the edge of his blanket.
Vivi thought for a moment. “Remember the Lost Little Sister con? The first time we ran it on Bourbon Street?”
A spark lit in his eyes. “You were what, nine? Ten?”
“Nine,” she confirmed. “You had me crying on the sidewalk, pretending I was lost.”
“While I picked pockets in the crowd that gathered to help,” he finished, a ghost of his old mischievous smile appearing. “Three hundred dollars and a gold watch.”
“Dad would have killed us if he’d known.”
“Dad would have been proud of the technique and horrified at the application,” Sabin corrected, and for a moment, he sounded exactly like himself—the brother she’d grown up with, the partner she’d worked alongside for years.
She reached for his hand, careful of the healing fractures. “He’s coming today. Dad. To help with your treatment.”
Sabin’s smile faded, uncertainty clouding his features. “Does he know? About what we did?”
“Everything,” she admitted. “I told them everything after... after we got you back.”
He looked down at their joined hands. “How mad are they?”
“They’re not mad, Sabin. They’re worried. They want to help.” She squeezed his hand gently. “Mom’s been doing research non-stop. Dad’s pulled in every favor he had left from his CIA days to get information on the conditioning techniques.”
Sabin nodded slowly, then winced, pressing his free hand to his temple.
Vivi tensed. “You okay?”
“Just a headache.” But his voice had changed slightly, the words clipped at the edges. A warning sign she’d learned to recognize.
“Should I call Tessa?”
“No.” He took a deep breath. “No, I’m okay. Keep talking. The stories help.”
So she did, reaching back for memories from their childhood—crawfish boils and Mardi Gras parades, sneaking out to jazz clubs when they were teenagers, the time they’d “borrowed” their father’s car and gotten stuck in mud up to the wheel wells. With each story, Sabin seemed to relax, the tension easing from his shoulders, the pain lines around his eyes softening.
When Dom appeared in the doorway an hour later, Sabin greeted him with a nod of recognition. Another small victory.
“How’s the patient?” Dom asked, entering the room carefully. His sling was gone, but he still moved with the cautious awareness of someone in pain.
“Better,” Sabin said, studying Dom with clear eyes. “Sorry I shot you.”
Dom’s startled laugh brightened the sterile room. “Well, technically, you were aiming for your sister, so I’m not sure the apology should be directed at me.”
Sabin winced. “I have a lot to make up for.”
“I’m not keeping score,” Dom replied with a lopsided smile. “Getting shot for someone is basically a Tuesday in this family.”
“Dom!” Vivi glared at him, but there was no heat behind it.
“What? If we can’t joke about getting shot, what can we joke about?”
Sabin’s gaze shifted between them, something thoughtful settling in his expression. He cleared his throat. “Vivi, could you... could I talk to Dom for a minute? Alone?”
