Charlie pulls away to check the brownies, and I watch her move, memorizing every detail.
If this all falls apart, if we lose everything, I want to remember this.
Her.
Us.
This fragile, perfect thing we’ve built despite every reason we shouldn’t.
She pulls the brownies from the oven, and the scent of chocolate overwhelms the kitchen.
Domestic and normal and everything we’re pretending to be while our world crumbles around us.
Charlie sets down the pan and turns to face me, flour still dusting her dress, her hazel eyes fierce.
I look at the three of them, at their determined faces, and feel something crack open in my chest.
Love. Fear. Gratitude. Terror.
All of it mixing together until I can’t breathe.
But as I watch Charlie cut the brownies with shaking hands, as Marcus and Elijah exchange weighted glances, I can’t shake the image of Tommy Delgado’s predatory smile.
Can’t forget the way he looked at me across the street, like he knew exactly what I had to lose.
My past is coming for me.
And I’m terrified it will destroy everyone I love in the process.
15
MARCUS
The gray sedan sits in the church parking lot like a tumor, and I’ve had enough. I should have trusted Charlie when she first mentioned it.
I’ve spotted it three times this week.
Always at a distance, always with the same man behind the wheel, always with that camera pointed at St. Michael’s like we’re some kind of wildlife documentary.
My hands curl into fists as I cross the asphalt, my tattooed arms flexing with barely contained rage.
The man doesn’t even have the decency to look surprised when I rap my knuckles against his window.
He rolls it down slowly, and I get my first good look at him. Mid-forties, receding hairline, the kind of face that’s seen too much and stopped caring.
Ex-cop, if I had to guess.
The way he holds himself, the calculating assessment in his eyes as he sizes me up.
“Can I help you?” His voice is flat, bored, like I’m interrupting his lunch break instead of confronting him about stalking.
“You can start by explaining why you’ve been watching our church.” I keep my voice level, but my accent thickens the way it does when I’m fighting for control. “Dime la verdad.” Tell me the truth.
He smirks, and I want to wipe that expression off his face with my fist. “Ray Kowalski. Private investigator.” He pulls out a business card and offers it through the window. “I’m just doing a job, Deacon Reyes.”
The fact that he knows my name makes my stomach drop. “What kind of job?”
“The kind where I document activities at certain locations.” Ray leans back in his seat, completely at ease despite the violence I know he can see simmering beneath my surface. “A local church hired me. They’re concerned about…irregularities at St. Michael’s.”
