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Holt blinks, confused. “Holy hell. What has happened to you since the last time I was here? No pink? I thought that was your signature.”

“Maybe I’ll put it back one day.” I’ll miss the pink, to be honest. “But for now? I think I’ll blend in better with it blonde. I need to avoid being the girl everyone notices.”

“Smart. You’ve come a long way since you got here, sis.”

Yes, I have. Regardless of how my heart may be hurting, my pride is doing just fine.

I drop my tray onto the bar, my hands still vibrating from the adrenaline of the workout with Holt and the awareness I’ll be heading back to New York soon. The club is a different beast tonight. It feels louder, darker, and thick with the scent of expensive cologne and superiority.

I scan the room, looking for a flash of dark hair or a pair of intense, blue, calculating eyes, but Max is nowhere to be found. A week has passed since I walked away from him. The man who made me stir-fry feels like a distant fever dream.

My breath hitches seeing him walk through the doors. I try to look away so he doesn’t catch me staring. This Max is a different person. Replaced by a version that looks like he’s been hollowed out from the inside. He wanders toward a shadowed corner instead of the VIP section he normally inhabits. Does he have a new project causing him stress?

“Cass, can you take that tray of drinks to table six?” Fern asks, nudging my arm.

I ignore her, my gaze locked on Max. Why does he seem so lost? Did something happen?

I navigate the crowd, moving with a newfound grace. I’m not just a cocktail waitress anymore. I’m a woman with a mission. Setting a fresh scotch down next to him, I wait for him to acknowledge me. However, his attention stays glued to his laptop.

Ugh! Fine. If that’s the way you want to play it, fucker. Why do I still care about this asshole?

I refuse to beg for his attention. I return to the bar, and that tray of drinks Fern asked me to handle, and watch him wander off. I can practically feel the tension pouring off of him in waves. Is he second-guessing coming back here?

After delivering the drinks to table six, I notice Max has apparently thrown back that scotch before leaving the table. Something is off. He’d never leave his laptop unattended under normal circumstances. I decide to grab his empty glass, if only to have an excuse to close his laptop until he returns.

Reaching down to retrieve it, my eyes land on the familiar data stream. He’s returned to those same phone forensics I was working on at his hotel and his home. Hell, he’s probably pissed off he’s left to deal with this now.

Yet before I can close the laptop, a familiar bright yellow flashes on the screen. That imaginary highlighter that has helped point the way in projects past. My eyes sharpen. It’s the same number from before.

It’s not a breakthrough, but it’s definitely worth investigating further. “I found it,” I whisper, the words barely audible over the bass. There’s no way to explain it. This feels like the needle in the haystack we’d been looking for.

He’s clearly upset. I can’t risk him thinking I’m using this as a way to get back in his good graces. Instead, I tear a page from my notebook, scrawl the outlier phone number down, and slide it onto the table next to his bag.

Look into this one. It doesn’t belong here.

33

CASSIDY

I’m nervous, but I need to face my fear. And to breathe air that doesn’t smell like expensive scotch and secrets. I pull up at the local county airport and spot Holt. He flies so often for his personal training business that he has a jet at the ready. This trip isn’t nearly as electrifying as flying to Max’s house had been.

Holt and I fly to New York without much conversation. It’s an emotional trip. The weight of standing at Dad’s grave is tugging heavily at my heart.

The cemetery is a sea of gray stone and dormant grass, dancing under a warm summer wind. We walk in silence until we reach his headstone.

Allen Firestone: Devoted Father & Proud NYPD Police Officer

Seeing Dad’s name carved in granite feels like a physical blow to my sternum, catching my breath before I can form a thought. I stand there for a long time, my fingers numb as I try to push down the boulder in my throat.

Holt rubs my back as he says a few things to our father.

Then it’s my turn. “I’m doing it, Dad,” I whisper. “I’m taking classes and getting my life back.” I tell him about the digital forensics. About how I’m finally feeling like me again, or at least a pre-attack version of me. “You’d be proud of me. I’m not letting anyone take anything away from me. I’m going to fight for victims like you always did.”

Holt watches me for a moment, his hand squeezing my shoulder briefly before he turns to head back toward the car. He knows I need this. He knows I need to say the things I can’t say in front of anyone else.

The moment the car door clicks shut in the distance, the dam breaks. I drop to my knees in the dirt, the damp ground seeping into my jeans. “I’m so sorry, Daddy,” I sob, the words ragged and raw. “I’m so, so sorry.”

The guilt I’ve been carrying crashes down on me. He hung the moon and the stars for me. He was the one who cheered loudest at the academy graduation. And he’s gone because of me.