I opened my mouth to ask him what the fuck was going on, but then a familiar face had me snapping my jaw shut. Nicky stood on stage behind the news anchor, except gone was the vibrant red hair and brown eyes. In place of her usual jeans and faded t-shirt, she wore a crisp police uniform, with auburn hair tied in a tight bun at the nape of her neck, and a thin smile on her face—like she had been dragged onthe stage against her will. But I would recognize the woman I loved anywhere.
Dalton stood slowly, creeping closer to the monitor like he might spook it, and I gestured at Jackson to turn it up.
“… undercover for over a year under the alias Nicole Moore, Detective McGrady is credited with gathering critical evidence leading to the arrest of multiple high-ranking members of the DiAngelo family. Detective McGrady had reportedly been working on a related case when the FBI’s Organized Crime Task Force enlisted her assistance. Now, it’s our understanding that you’ve never done an undercover operation of this magnitude—is that correct, detective?”
Nicky’s—or whoever she was—eyes flicked from the anchor to the camera and back again before a man standing next to her gently guided her forward. She gave the microphone shoved in her face a dirty look and cleared her throat. “Um… yeah, that’s right. My lieutenant here,” she gestured at the man who had prodded her forward, “recommended me for the case. I’m still adjusting to my old life, this life. But it was an opportunity I couldn’t turn down, and I wouldn’t change anything that happened even if I could.”
“Absolutely—still, it must be hard returning home after over a year away. But you took down some really bad people. That must feel good.”
“Well, yeah. But I didn’t do it alone. There are a few really brave men and women who did some really great things. Honestly, it’s them we should be thanking. They’re the heroes, not me.”
The anchor gave her a confused look, and you could’ve heard a pin drop in the room as Detective McGrady was ushered off stage by her supposed boss.
I wondered what her real name was. No wonder we couldn’t fucking find her—Nicole Moore had never fucking existed. She was a lie. She wasn’t ours. She never had been. She was a prettylittle thing who had come for one thing and one thing only. She left in the night because she had come to do a job and, once the job was done, what reason would she possibly have to stay?
Certainly not me. She had gotten what she wanted from me.
I remembered her fight with Daniel. The blood. The panic. The way she clawed her way back from the edge like she’d done it before. She was a fighter—I always knew that. But maybe if I hadn’t been so consumed by the fear of losing her, I would’ve seen it for what it was. Tactical. Trained. Controlled, even in chaos. Not just instinct. Not just survival. She fought like someone who had fought before. And I didn’t see it, didn’t want to see it. Because loving her had already blinded me.
I couldn’t move. Holly began to laugh, a completely unhinged and lost sound. “A cop. Holy fucking shit, she’s a cop. She fucking lied to us. Sheliedto us.” Her voice cracked, and Jackson reached for her, but she took a staggering step back—like the thought of physical touch pained her.
I ran my hands through my hair, and glanced at my brother. Dalton hadn’t said a word. He just stood there—stone still. But I saw it. That shift in his expression. Like something was cracking open inside him. Not loud. Not sudden. Just the kind of break that happens after too much pressure on old glass.
“Dalton,” I said, to get his attention. To get him to look away from the screen that just shattered our reality. He looked at me, and I’d never forget the way his face looked in that moment. Rage and grief all twisted up in a way that made my stomach churn.
“She lied,” he said, almost to himself, “right to my face.”
“Brother—”
“She said it was a stray bullet. Wrong place, wrong time.”
I blinked. “What?”
“There’s a scar. On her hip. Did you notice? It’s small. But I knew what it was. I touched it. I asked. I wanted to protect her from whoever had hurt her.” His voice was shaking now, teeth clenched. “And she fed me some bullshit story, and I bought it. Because I wanted to. Because I—” He cut himself off, turning away, fists clenched at his sides.
I stepped toward him. “She threw a knife at me once.” Everyone looked at me. “It was right after Daniel, and I wasn’t thinking. Just wanted to surprise her. She walked in like she didn’t see me. Next thing I knew, I felt the breeze on my cheek as I barely dodged the knife she threw. She was so calm, the throw was so precise. But she started freaking out, and I dropped it. I should’ve questioned her. But all I could think about was calming her down. There were signs. We missed them.”
Dalton laughed bitterly. “I loved her. She said she loved me. I believed her.”
“We all did.”
He didn’t answer, just dropped into the nearest chair like he’d been hit. “Doesn’t make it hurt less,” he whispered.
I glanced back at the TV, but I didn’t see anything as images and sounds instead played in my mind. The fire in her eyes the first night we met. The way she said my name. That soft smile she gave me when we were in a room full of people, the one that narrowed my entire world down to just her. I had been a fool to trust her. And an even bigger one to love her.
I couldn’t stand being in that damned room for another minute. Grabbing my keys out of my jacket, I pulled on the worn leather as I all but ran out the door. Trying to forget every time she had put my jacket on.
The house was too quiet. I wasn’t really sure what brought me here. I had just gotten on my bike and next thing I knew, I pulled up outside a familiar door. Steppinginside, I locked the door behind me more out of habit than need. She wasn’t here. But the scent of her still clung to the walls—vanilla, lavender, and something warm. I stood by the door, chest tight, heart thudding like it was waiting for a fight.
I didn’t know what I was looking for. Closure? Another letter? A fucking explanation? Something—anything—that said this wasn’t just a job to her. That it wasn’t all one long, elaborate lie. That she had meant it. Meant every touch. Every word. Every look. But the silence screamed at me. I closed my eyes like I could will her back—will back what we had.
I moved to the kitchen, opened a drawer. Just silverware. Moved to the bookshelf. Ran my fingers over the spines. Hemingway. A worn paperback with a cracked spine and a folded page—the same book she’d given Dalton. I froze. It was a stark reminder that I wasn’t the only one she had betrayed. My brother was back at the clubhouse, and I left him to deal with everything alone. But I wanted answers. Needed them. So I kept looking.
The moment came sudden. I bumped the potted fern in the corner with my boot. The thing had already begun to wilt, and I paused to spare it a glance. But then something shifted in the soil. I stilled completely. Leaned down. Moved the leaves aside. A sliver of black plastic, barely visible. A mic. A fucking mic. My blood ran cold as I pried it free.
And then the next twenty minutes disappeared in a blur of rage and pain.
I ripped apart every inch of the apartment. Yanking books off shelves. Tearing through drawers. Dragging the mattress from the frame. I pulled down the vent cover, hands shaking so bad it took three tries. Another mic. And another. Five in total, laid out like sins on the coffee table. I sat on the couch. Barely able to move. To think. I just stared at them. Breathing like I’d run miles.
