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“I don’t know.”

“Who else would run?” Keith asks. “No one ever has.”

“Patrick Connelly.”

His name tastes rotten.

Keith grimaces. “Christ. He’d use the Order to carry himself all the way to Washington, then leave it behind. The selfish cunt. No respect for rules.”

“Maybe letting him drag it down wouldn’t be such a bad thing,” I say. “It could free us all.”

Keith stands and looks down at me. “Don’t let our family fall like that, Edwin. Change it. Tear out what needs tearing out. Set your own rules. But don’t let it die.”

The back door flies open.

Aunt Jacqueline stands there, breathless, her eyes already wet with panic.

“Come quick,” she says.

And I know.

My world is about to end.

I’m moving before she finishes stepping aside. The house blurs around me as I take the stairs two at a time, lungs burning, heart punching against my sternum like it wants to flee before grief swallows it.

My mother’s final day comes back to me—how sudden it felt, how unreal, how I never got to say what mattered.

I can’t lose him in silence too.

When I reach their room, I freeze in the doorway.

The room is crowded with relatives. Faces turned towards the bed. Waiting.

I want every last one of them gone.

Their sorrow clogs the air. Their presence makes the room feel smaller, as if the Reaper himself is having trouble fitting in around them. But when they see my face, they part. My brothers step away from the head of the bed silently. Grandpa Wallace’s hand settles onto Keith’s shoulder when he joins.

My father opens his eyes as I come near. He tries to smile and speak. Every movement steals another scrap of life from him.

“Edwin…”

His voice barely reaches me, but it tears open my chest all the same. I try to breathe through it, but my throat is too tight. I don’t want to cry. Not here. Not in front of all of them. But the tears in his eyes leave me nowhere to hide. I am not strong. I’m only a son about to lose the man who made him.

For months, I’ve known this was coming. I’ve watched him die inch by inch. But now that it’s happening, I’m not ready to let go.

I kneel beside the bed and take his hand. It’s ice cold, almost weightless. I remember that same hand wrapping around mine to steady a rifle, clapping my shoulder after he handed me the keys to my dream car, lifting me when I was small enough to run to him without shame.

Now it’s cold. Fragile. A hand made of memories.

“Don’t want to see you too soon,” he whispers.

The words hit me so hard I almost make a sound. I nod too fast, because if I try to speak before I’m ready, I’ll break in front of this entire room.

“Take care of them.” His voice trembles.

His fingers press weakly into mine. The plea in that touch says more than his words. He needs to know his life won’t simply collapse into silence the moment he stops breathing. That all the years he spent carrying this family, this burden, will not end in this room.

I swallow against the ache in my throat. “I will, Dad. I promise.”