Knox rolls us into our usual spot, then cuts off the engine. The sudden silence roars. For a second, I just sit there, arms locked around him, forehead pressed to his shoulder seam, as if letting go will drop me into open air.
He doesn't move right away. His hand slides to my knee, thumb dragging one stroke over worn denim. "Sweetheart. We can sit here all day if you need to. But when we go in…" He pauses. "I'm not letting you stand in that room alone. That's not up for debate."
I nod, small and jerky, then make myself peel away. The air is colder the second I lose his heat. He swings over and stands in that easy, predatory way he has, then reaches for me first.
He lifts the helmet off and offers both hands. I place my palms in his. He helps me down as though I'm something breakable and dangerous at the same time.
Twenty steps to the front door, and every one of them feels a hundred.
Inside, the sound hits first. It's a mix of a low thrum of voices, rustle of movement, and clinks of ceramic against wood. Then it all goes quiet and every head turns.
My eyes run the room the way they always do, mapping exits and bodies before I can stop myself. Two doors, one hallway,the window behind the bar that sticks when you try to open it. Malachi is at the end of the big table, arms crossed, the weight of his attention pinning the room down. Candace stands near the bar with a mug, posture deceptively relaxed, but her eyes are too sharp to match, cataloging me the way I catalog patients who say they're fine while their vitals tell a different story.
East is half sprawled in a chair but coiled underneath it, one knee bouncing. Darla sits on the arm of his chair, fingers ghosting over his shoulder, a tether neither of them seems to notice, and I catch the way East's hand finds her knee without looking, the way her body angles toward his center of gravity.
James and Maggie share the loveseat, her hand rubbing steady circles on his knee in that practiced rhythm that tells me they've been sitting together long enough for the motion to be automatic. Frankie sits by the coffee table, notebook open, pen trapped between her fingers. She looks tired, but not the way I expected. When Leo died, I braced for her to hollow out. Instead she looks as though she's carrying a secret that weighs more than grief.
Nash leans against a support beam, all quiet watchfulness. Arden leans near the hallway entrance, arms crossed, positioned where he can see the whole room without being in the center of it. Ruby claims an entire couch, one leg flung over the back, the picture of casual chaos.
Coffee, old leather, something metallic underneath. I breathe it in and check my hands. Steady enough. My pulse is elevated but controlled, the kind of controlled that comes from years of walking into trauma bays and telling my body it could fall apart later.
Knox steps in behind me, one hand settling at the small of my back, warm and immovable. He doesn't push. He doesn't have to.
"Sloane." Malachi's voice, all gravel and command. "You said you needed a meeting. We're here."
His gaze flicks once to Knox, then back to me with a readiness that says tell me where to aim. I curl my fingers into my hem to hide the tremor. Knox's thumb presses a circle into my lower back.
"Breathe," he murmurs so only I can hear him.
I do. In through the nose, hold, out through the mouth. The same rhythm I teach panicking patients in the ER. It works better when I'm not the one panicking.
Everyone is watching. I can feel the weight of it on my skin.
"I need to tell you something. About where I come from. About what's connected to Alice. To Donovan. And everything else."
Ruby straightens, swinging her feet off the couch. "That's one hell of an intro," she mutters, then snaps her mouth shut when Nash's eyes cut sideways.
Maggie gives me a small, encouraging smile, the kind she uses on prospects who keep insisting they're "fine" while bleeding on her floor. Frankie's pen stops spinning. Darla's posture softens, making space. Candace's knuckles tighten on her mug; it's the only tell in her body. I only catch it because I've spent years reading the small, involuntary signals people don't know they're giving.
I step forward, out of Knox's shadow, into the center of the room. The air feels different here, exposed, and my body registers the distance from the nearest wall before my brain can tell it to stop.
"My father." The word feels sour in my mouth. "He's not just some distant asshole with too much money and a good PR team. He's part of this. The auctions. The private sales. The political trades."
A ripple moves through the room. There are tiny shifts in posture, a straightened spine here, a tightened jaw there.
"He owns a hospital. Or technically, he sits on the board with his name on a wing. Donors, cameras, all the right photo ops. But there's a private level where the press doesn't go and the records don't match. That's where he kept the ones who needed to be prepped."
I fix my eyes on a knot in the wood floor, because looking at their faces while I say this will break me before I finish.
"I worked up there. At first, it was shadowing, learning, and feeling the honor of being allowed in. He told me the girls were patients in a discreet care program. Wealthy families who wanted privacy. He had me do vitals. Check charts. Sign medical clearance forms." I swallow hard. "I asked questions once. He told me I was seeing ghosts."
My hands clench, and I force them open, spreading my fingers wide the way I do when I'm resetting before a procedure. Steady. Controlled. Clinical. Be the nurse, not the patient.
"But I didn't just see it. I participated. Before I admitted to myself what was happening, I examined girls. Six, maybe eight. I can't remember all their faces anymore, and that's the part that keeps me up at night. I held a girl's wrist, counted her pulse, and couldn't tell you her name now if my life depended on it."
The room goes quieter, if that's possible. I can hear the refrigerator humming behind the bar.
"Vitals. Weight, height, general health assessment. Blood work when they were malnourished or showed signs of drug use." My voice steadies into the clinical register, the one I use when I'm charting, because the medical language is the only thing holding me upright. "I'd write it all down, sign my initials at the bottom. S.M. Medical clearance approved. I certified them as healthy and placement-ready, then told myself it was care. Discreet patients with complicated family situations. I built the lie one chart at a time because the alternative was admitting that my father was selling human beings and I was helping him do it."
