"I came onto the circuit with Mom's maiden name and a press badge I fabricated and enough rage to burn the whole thing down. I lied to everyone. I manipulated sources and broke into offices and did things that would have made you furious and proud in equal measure, because you taught me both of those things." I wipe my face with the back of my hand.
"The investigation is over and I still feel like I'm reaching for you. Like if I just dig deep enough, follow one more lead, pull one more thread, I'll find you at the end of it instead of a conviction."
I sit back on my heels and look at the mountains turning gold above the headstones. "But I didn't find you. I found him." I look over my shoulder. Colt is still at the truck, watching me with the patience of someone who understands that some conversationsdon't have a timeline. "That man you kept telling me about. Your buddy Colt. The impossible one who's too stubborn to lose and too mean to die."
I turn back to the stone. "You were right about him. Every annoying thing you ever said. I love him, Grant."
I stay a few more minutes with my hand on the granite and the wind in my hair, and then I stand and brush the dirt from my knees and raise my voice enough to carry. "Holloway. Come say hi to my brother."
He pushes off the tailgate. His boots crunch on the gravel path, and he stops beside me, looking down at the headstone with his jaw tight and his hands hanging at his sides.
"Grant," I say to the stone, "this is the man you kept telling me about. Properly, this time. No fake name, no cover story, no lies between any of us."
I look at Colt. He looks at me.
"You were right," I say to the headstone. "He's impossible. I love him anyway."
Colt's breath catches. The sound is small, barely audible over the wind, but I hear it because I've spent months cataloging every sound this man makes.
"Kenna."
"I'm talking to my brother. Don't interrupt."
"You just said?—"
"I know what I said. I'm telling Grant first because he's the one who introduced us, technically, and he'd be insufferable about it if I didn't give him credit."
He stares at me. Then he looks down at the headstone, and the corner of his mouth lifts.
"She's just like you," he says to the stone. "Worse, actually. You at least had the decency to announce things at a normal volume."
"I'm standing right here."
"I know you are." He turns to me, and his hands find my waist, pulling me toward him with the proprietary certainty that used to make me furious and now makes me feel like the ground beneath my feet is solid. "Say it again."
"Say what?"
"Don't play games, Corbin."
"I love you." The words come out simple and clear, stripped of every protective layer I've ever built. "I love you, and Grant would think it's hilarious, and I'm telling you in a cemetery because apparently our entire relationship has been defined by terrible timing and poor venue selection."
His hands tighten on my waist. "I love you too."
"I know."
"You know?"
"Colt, you drove to a storage yard to meet a man who might have been trying to kill you because you thought it would help my case. You put yourself between me and danger without flinching. You stayed on this circuit when walking away would have been easier and safer and smarter." I put my hand on his sternum, over the heartbeat that's kicking hard. "You've been saying it for weeks. You just haven't used the word."
"The word matters."
"The word matters," I agree. "And you just said it. In front of Grant. Who is definitely laughing."
He pulls me against him. I go willingly, fitting into the space between his arms that's become the place I think of when someone says the wordhome, and we stand in front of my brother's grave while the sun climbs over the mountains.
"I want to show you something," he says into my hair.
"What?"
