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“And you work with murderers.”

Adrien arches a brow. “You understand those statements aren’t mutually exclusive, right?”

I narrow my eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means your father was a Navy SEAL, not a preschool teacher.”

“That doesn’t make him like you.”

“No.” The amusement fades from his face. “He was better than me.” He isn’t defensive or sarcastic, just resolute. “He was one of the best men I ever knew.”

Something about the way he says that makes me pause. Still, I look away and argue, “You could have just looked him up or something.”

“I could have.”

“So saying you knew Dad doesn’t prove anything.”

“You’re right,” he agrees. Adrien studies me for a long moment, then reaches up and hooks two fingers beneath the collar of his shirt.

I stiffen. “What are you doing?”

Without a word, he pulls out a thin silver chain. Two dog tags slide out from beneath his shirt, their metal edges worn and cold.

My breath catches.

Adrien takes one between his fingers and turns it toward me.

DELMONTE, ADRIEN J.

Then he shifts the second tag forward, and my whole body goes numb.

BLAKE, JOHN M.

No.

I stop breathing. My eyes snap to Adrien’s face, searching for the lie. He isn’t smiling anymore; rather, he looks sad as he closes his fingers around Dad’s tag gently, protectively.

“I served with your father.”

My throat closes. “You…” I can’t make the rest come.

Adrien lets the tags drop against his chest. They settle side by side, resting together over his heart. His name beside Dad’s.

“Your dad was my best friend.”

The walls suddenly feel closer, the room’s quiet growing dense. My eyes jump from his face to the tags, to the gun still in his waistband, to the soft pink cuff around my wrist chaining me to this bed. To this man who kidnapped, drugged me, warned me about drinking too quickly, patiently fed me toast and strawberries, and apparently carries part of my father around his neck.

My brain cannot make any of it fit.

“You’re lying.” My voice sounds tiny.

Adrien’s expression softens, weary with a truth I don’t want to see.

“No, Kamden.”

9

Adrien