Page 129 of Fatal Pattern

“Don’t you want to open it?” Harlee’s brow pinched.

Tori tucked the envelope against her chest. “Later.”

“But—”

“My real family is inside that hospital, waiting for me.” Tori looked at Blade, then tapped the envelope. “This . . . this can wait.”

36

The first thing was sound. A soft, rhythmic beeping. Distant. Then voices. Muffled. Like listening underwater.

A woman’s voice, low and steady. Tori. A man’s, a deep rumble. Blade.

His eyelids dragged like sandbags, every twitch a battle.

He pried one open, and light knifed in. White. Searing. Splitting across his skull. Needles drove behind his eyes. He slammed them shut again.

His stomach pitched sideways, threatening to heave.

A hand closed over his. His fingers twitched.

The motion drew in a sharp breath. Tori.

He dragged his eyes open again, lashes scraping dry. White glare bled into outlines, then into faces crowding the bedside. Tori clutching him. Blade standing tall, shoulders squared like he could take the hit for him. Harlee hovering back, arms knotted across her chest. Jett restless, shifting from foot to foot. Luna angled sharp, watchful. Corbin standing rigid, jaw locked.

All of them. His kids. His family. Here.

But where was here? The smell was antiseptic. The bed was wrong. He tried to speak, but only a dry, rasping sound came out.

“Stryker? Can you hear me?” Blade.

He wanted to nod. To speak. A tear escaped the corner of his eye, tracking a hot path into his hairline. Frustration. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t talk.

“You’ve been out for almost a year, Stryker. A whole year.” Harlee.

A year? The word didn’t compute. A year was a lifetime. Where . . . where had he been for a year?

His gaze found Tori. She was the anchor in the disorienting sea. She looked different. Older.

He saw an envelope in her other hand. A plain, white envelope that she held like it was both a treasure and a bomb. He didn’t know what was in it, but he saw the question in her eyes.

Memories bounced around the silent chambers of his mind, and with them came the cold, hard face of Dean Barclay.

He knew what he must do. Tell her. About everything. He squeezed her hand again, trying to pour a lifetime of apology and explanation into that single point of contact.

His throat felt like it was full of sand. He forced a sound out, a dry whisper. “T-t-t-t.”

“He’s saying your name, I think,” Jett said.

Yes. Her name. Tori. He owed her the truth, no matter how much it hurt. He looked around at the faces of his family, then back to her. He needed them all to hear this. To understand the burden he’d carried.

“Tori.” His voice was a broken rasp, each word a struggle. “That night . . . in . . . house . . .”

Why was this so hard? Each word exhausted him. He paused, gathering strength.

“Bar . . . clay . . . found me . . . with . . . Nikos.”

“Stryker, stop. You don’t have to do this. Rest.”