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The cold air slaps my face, but it doesn’t cool the heat boiling under my skin. My legs carry me faster than I mean, gravel crunching under my shoes as I push the heavy bathroom door open.

Inside, it smells of bleach and air freshener, the hum of the overhead fan filling the emptiness. I grip the sink with both hands, staring at the cracked mirror.

My reflection looks wild—eyes glassy, cheeks blotched, breath sawing in and out.

I squeeze my eyes shut, whispering to no one, “God, I’m so fucking stupid.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Lyle — Present

“Well, I fucked up,” I mutter, leaning against the car while Maria hides in the bathroom.

A man walking by tosses me a sad nod, like he knows, like the whole damn world knows. Great.

When Maria finally comes out, her eyes are puffy, her cheeks blotchy. I straighten. “Maria—”

“Don’t.” Her voice cracks. “Let’s just go.”

She slides into the passenger seat. I follow, getting behind the wheel, easing us back onto the highway.

For a while, the only sound is the tires humming against the asphalt, her shallow breathing, my fingers tapping restlessly against the steering wheel.

“I know you don’t want to hear it,” I say finally, “but… what do we do? I spent all of last night trying to come up with a solution, but for the life of me, I couldn’t.”

Her gaze stays locked on the window. “Why can’t we just get her to admit to the blackmail and threaten to turn her in?”

I shake my head. “We can’t. She was careful about not saying it outright. Besides—the fact isn’t whether the kid’s mine. The fact is whether I cheated on my wife with her.”

She shrugs, still refusing to look at me. “Technically, you didn’t.”

“They don’t care about technically.” I grip the wheel tighter. “And apparently, neither do you.”

I feel her gaze burn into the side of my face, but I keep my eyes glued to the road.

“I don’t understand why you’re so angry,” I say finally. “You knew I—”

Her sigh cuts me off. “There’s a difference betweenknowingit and having tohearabout it.”

My teeth clench. My chest twists. “Well… I get that.”

I don’t say the rest. That the thought of her and those two faceless men makes me want to track them down and—

No. Focus.

I pull into the lot at Fairview Nursing Home, the sign out front weather-faded but trimmed with neat little flowerbeds. My hands stay locked on the wheel even after I park.

I open my mouth—to say something, anything—but Maria’s door pops open. She gets out without a word.

I follow.

The air inside is warmer than outside, filtered and faintly chemical. There’s a mix of scents—bleach, lemon cleaner, something sharp and sterile—and underneath it all, a faint, sour note of age and medicine.

The lobby is dressed up to look cheerful: pale yellow walls, fake greenery, a bulletin board cluttered with flyers for bingo nights and hymn services. But it doesn’t mask the truth—this is still a place where people come to fade.

We approach the front desk, where a young woman in scrubs and a name badge is clicking through a computer screen. She glances up with the tired smile of someone who’s practiced it a thousand times.

Maria clears her throat. “We’re here to see Daniel Silva.”