Page 44 of In the Dark of the Past

The last time I’d been in his house, it had been an echoing bachelor cave. Bare walls, pizza boxes, a couch that looked more like a suggestion than actual furniture. Now, there were framed photos on the wall—his niece and nephew, Sean at some awards ceremony, a candid of Finn holding up a fishing pole with what looked like a very unimpressed rainbow trout dangling from the line.

Bookshelves lined one wall filled with case files but also dog-eared novels, a few true-crime tomes, and one shelf of cookbooks I absolutely did not see coming.

He’d built a life here while I’d been gone. Layered it over the same bones I remembered until the old version was almost unrecognizable.

Almost.

He took the diner bag from my numb fingers. “Greasy hash browns and extra bacon. You still eat like a hungover frat boy when you’re stressed?”

A surprised sound escaped me. Half laugh, half sigh. “Some things are sacred.”

He huffed something that lived in the same neighborhood as a laugh and turned toward the kitchen. I followed, pulling the flash drive out of my pocket and dropping it onto the island like I was afraid it might melt into my palm if I held it for too long.

Lightning flashed again, bright enough to bleach the world white for a breath. The power dipped, lights flickering, then steadied.

Finn handed me a couple of dish towels and moved around the kitchen with the ease of someone who actually used it. He emptied the bag, divvied up the food between two plates, then reached for the cabinet above the fridge.

He set the plates down, then a bottle of Baileys and two mugs filled with coffee.

“Eat first,” he said. “Brain works better when it’s not running on only rage and caffeine.”

“I have a degree in psychology,” I said. “I’m pretty sure this violates at least three peer-reviewed⁠—”

The smell of bacon hit me. Crispy edges, salty, warm. My stomach betrayed me with a loud, hollow clench.

“Fine,” I muttered. “Science can wait.”

We ate standing at the island, elbows occasionally bumping, shoulders almost but not quite touching. The storm pounded on the roof like an impatient fist, thunder rolling in waves that made the cabinets tremble. It felt like the whole house was holding its breath with us.

When we’d demolished everything in the bag, grease-slick paper all that was left, Finn poured a glug of Bailey’s into each mug and slid one toward me.

“To the dead who won’t stay buried,” he said.

I clinked mine against his. “And the living who won’t shut up about it.”

We drank. The Irish coffee was sweet and hot—a good burn. The kind that made the edges of things sharpen rather than blur.

Finn set his mug down with a soft clunk, then braced his palms on either side of it and looked at me.

Really looked.

“Talk to me, River.”

“I’m fine” rose automatically to my tongue, the reflexive lie I’d been doling out in microdoses since I came back. It died there.

“I keep thinking about her last letter. Mom’s,” I said instead. “The one she wrote me the week before she died.” My voice sounded foreign in my own ears. Thin. Too careful. “‘Leave here and don’t come back, baby. Some places eat their young.’” My throat tightened around the quote. “I thought she was being dramatic. I thought—” The words snagged on the jagged edge of memory. “I thought she was just sick,” I forced out. “Not scared.”

Finn’s jaw flexed. The muscle ticked once. Twice. His hand lifted, fingers twitching like he was going to reach for me, then curled back into a fist against the countertop instead.

“I should’ve seen it,” he said quietly. “Back then. I was a rookie detective, yeah, but I wasn’t blind. I knew your mom wasn’t suicidal. I knew the Fund smelled wrong. I let Sean convince me it was above my pay grade.”

He said Sean’s name like it hurt.

“Your brother’s in this up to his eyeballs, isn’t he?” I said, the words coming out more gently than I’d intended.

“I don’t know.” His voice was raw. “And maybe tomorrow I’ll tear him apart and make him talk to me. But today—” He stopped, exhaled through his nose hard enough to fog the nearest cabinet door. The storm outside growled in sympathetic vibration. “Today, I just needed you here,” he finished. “Safe. Where I can see you. I know you may not want me saying that, but it’s the truth.”

Something in my chest stuttered and then landed differently. Not softer—just…truer.