“Paxton. Juliette. They love him. And Paxton has resources.”
My father nods slowly. “I’ll work the FBI from here. The moment I have word they’re ready to move, I’ll let you know. But Genevieve, the footage has to come first. Without it, the case is strong but not airtight. With it, it’s bulletproof.”
“I’ll get it.”
“I know you will.” He cups my face in both hands, and his palms are rough and cold and they smell like thyme from the coq au vin, and I lean into them because this might be the last time I stand in this kitchen.
“You are the bravest person I’ve ever known,” he says. “And I’m not just saying that because you’re my daughter.”
“You’re biased.”
“Extremely. Doesn’t make it less true.”
“Papa, if something goes wrong—”
“Nothing is going to go wrong.”
“But if it does. If…if Cassandra was lying, or they know you go back to the Feds…”
He pulls me into his chest. I press my face against his shirt and breathe him in, coffee and the ghost of wine sauce, and I count.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.
“I love you, Genevieve. Always and in all ways,” he whispers.
“Always and in all ways.”
When I pull back, I’m steady.
He helps me fix the front door as best we can, propping it closed and securing the chain. He packs me food I won’t eat and presses cash into my hands and makes me program the burner phone number into mine twice, because he’s a father and that’s what fathers do.
At the door, he holds my face one more time.
I kiss his cheek. Walk down the steps past the dead lavender and the iron railing and get into the car Lance drove here.
The engine turns over. The headlights cut through the dark.
And I drive.
I don’t stop except for gas, and even then I’m in and out in under five minutes. Every mile that passes feels like a countdown, every highway sign a reminder that Lance is somewhere in Boston being held by a woman who spent over twenty years pretending to love him, and I’m driving in the wrong direction.
But the wrong direction is the only direction that leads to saving him.
I replay Cassandra’s words on a loop. The calm in her voice. The way she called himchildlike she still had the right. The way she catalogued his skills like items on an inventory list.I built you. I shaped you. You were always mine.
He’s not hers. He was never hers. He’s a man who makes terrible coffee and teaches his dog to shake with the wrong paw and loves so deeply but feels like he doesn’t deserve it.
And she stole him from me in the same kitchen where his plate is still sitting on the table.
By the time I reach Rosebrook Falls, the sun is up. The town looks the same as it did when I first arrived months ago, quaint and picturesque, with cute brick storefronts and tree-lined streets and the kind of charm that makes you believe nothing bad could happen here.
I know better now.
I don’t go to the cabin. I don’t go to the tavern. I don’t go anywhere near Art or anyone connected to the Lye.
I go to Montgomery Manor.
And I demand to be let inside.
