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The scope of it settled over me until breathing took effort. I had wanted a culprit—a face grief could hate, a body justice could reach. A person could be confronted. Exposed. Killed.

What frightened me was the possibility that Salvatore had died for something no single death could end.

The Society was not a woman, a board, or a hidden room deciding who deserved to survive. It was architecture. Generations old. Break one window and the building still stood. Someone else would inherit the records, the leverage, and the belief that controlling innocent lives preserved order.

That was why Salvatore had watched windows, ended calls when I entered the room, and checked Henry’s crib as if danger might materialize beside it. He had not been searching for a single threat. He had been measuring the machine.

“I don’t know how he carried this alone,” I whispered.

“He should not have.”

I turned toward Rurik. “You agreed with him before.”

“I agreed that telling you might lead the Society to Henry.” His expression stayed controlled, regret moving beneath it. “That doesn’t mean he should have searched alone.”

“What should he have done?”

“Walked away.”

The answer hardened something inside me. “He couldn’t.”

“He chose not to.”

“You think there was a difference?”

“There is always a difference.” Rurik leaned forward, forearms against his thighs. “Salvatore knew the investigation could kill him. He continued because he believed what he might prevent mattered more than surviving.”

“He was trying to protect children.” The defense sounded thinner aloud than it had inside my head.

“He had a child.” The words came sharper than anything Rurik had said inside the Red Duck. “A wife waiting for him. People who would be destroyed by his death. And still he convinced himself that carrying the burden alone made the sacrifice honorable.”

My anger rose in defense of the man I had spent four years resenting for the same decision. “You don’t get to judge him.”

“No.” Rurik looked directly at me. “But I am allowed to learn from what loving someone like that costs.”

Understanding moved quietly through me. “You want me to stop.”

“Yes.”

“I haven’t even started.”

“You walked into the Red Duck carrying Salvatore’s files and left with proof that the same people who killed him are still protecting what he uncovered.” Rurik’s voice lowered. “You have already started.”

“And you knew I would.”

“I hoped finding Reagan would give you enough truth to understand why you should leave the rest buried.”

A humorless laugh escaped me. “You really don’t understand me at all.”

“I understand you better than you want me to.” His gaze moved over my face. “You believe the truth is the last thing you can give Salvatore. You couldn’t save him, so you intend to finish what killed him and call that love.”

“It is love.”

“No, Madigan. It is grief looking for a shape dangerous enough to deserve it.”

The accusation struck deeply because part of me had already wondered the same thing. “You think I’m trying to die.”

“I think you stopped caring whether you survive.”