He takes one breath before he continues.
"The 413 calls. Seven or eight of them. Six-second silences. She's been deleting every one."
My hands go still against my mug.
"There's a letter," Cole says. "Hand-delivered to her apartment door. No postmark. No return address." He pauses. "Her old name on the front. The sealed name. The one she buried at thirteen."
The name I know exists but have never seen lands between us. A birth certificate filed under something else. The sealed record. The name she carried in the life before Maddox.
"Who?" I say.
"Her father." Cole's hands are steady on the mug. His knuckles are white. "David Ashford. Released on parole."
"Released."
"Eight years served. Out on good behavior." Cole's voice stays flat and steady, both hands locked around the mug. "He broke her ribs when she was thirteen, Dante. Fractured her arm. Put her in a hospital bed for three weeks with internal injuries. That was when Suzanne called Richard. He drove four hours in the middle of the night and brought them home."
Ribs. Arm. Hospital. Thirteen years old. My hands are on the counter, the granite is cold, and my vision narrows.
"The name change took months," Cole says. "The conviction took longer."
"And now he's out."
"And now he's out. And he knows where she lives."
I put my mug down, walk to the sink, and brace both hands on the counter before I do something stupid with them. My jawlocks hard enough for pain to flash through my molars. The granite is cold under my palms, but my hands are shaking so badly the counter might as well be moving.
Her ribs. Her arm. Thirteen years old. Three weeks in a hospital bed.
A man did that to a child, served eight years, walked out on good behavior, found her sealed name, found her address, and stood outside her door close enough to place an envelope against the wood.
My chest clamps first. Then my shoulders lock. Heat burns down my arms into my fingers, and for three seconds, the only thing I hear is my own pulse. My phone is in my pocket.
"Dante."
"Don't talk to me for a second."
The counter is cold under my palms. The kitchen is quiet. Cole is behind me giving me the second I asked for, which is more discipline than I have right now. What I want is to pick up the phone and call Marco and say I need a name and an address in Massachusetts. The name and the address would be in my hands by nightfall. David Ashford would learn exactly what happens when a man touches something protected by a Voss and mistakes the silence afterward for mercy.
Milan is still in my head. The family's infrastructure waits under my skin.
My hand is on the counter. The phone is in my pocket. My hand starts to lift, and I flatten my fingers against the stone because fuck, I want to make the call.
"Does she know you're telling me?" I ask.
"No."
"She's going to be angry."
"Probably."
"She'll be right."
"I know." Cole sets the mug down. "And I'm telling you anyway because he knows where she lives and she won't call Richard and I can't carry this alone."
I turn around. Cole is standing at the counter with his arms crossed, his jaw set and his eyes wet. He lets me see it. Tears sit on his face, and he makes no move to wipe them.
"What do you need from me?" I say.
