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Jazz stared up at me, his gaze holding a clarity I hadn’t seen before. “She knows who you are.” The words felt as if they carried the weight of years between them. “I used to tell her about the Alex Richardson I was friends with.”

“You told her about me?” I couldn’t hide the surprise in my voice. “Why? After everything I did, why did you do that?”

His confusion was obvious, almost as if he couldn’t comprehend why I would ask such a question. “You were my best friend. My entire life before enlisting was stories of you and me,” he stated, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He coughed and pressed a hand over his mouth, his chest still rattling. I almost reached for him but stopped myself.

“Did you tell Harper the bad parts?” I asked with caution, the words slipping out before I could weigh them.What the fuck, Alex?

Jazz’s gaze drifted to a point somewhere beyond the room, somewhere in the past. “I told her you were my best friend,” he repeated, his gaze returning to mine. “She probably thought you’d care about seeing me again.”

The room seemed to stand still around us, the bright morning light casting long shadows on the walls.

“Jazz, of course I?—”

“Please stop,” Jazz interrupted. His dark brown eyes brightened with emotion, and he pushed to stand upright, wavering a little. His fingers gripped the table, his knuckles white.

“Maybe it was a happy kind of luck that the card brought you here,” I said, not wanting to end this talk.

He huffed. “Bad luck,” he muttered and walked past me. “You don’t want to pull me back into your life, Alex.”

“Jazz, please.”

He left, and I couldn’t move. Grief hit me so hard that it was difficult to breathe. I knew I’d messed up—he was here at Guardian Hall for help. He needed some time to heal and find a new purpose. He’d already made it clear he wanted to talk to Marcus, not me, and there I was, trying to connect with him when he wasn’t interested.

I brought another coffee to the office, sat in the uncomfortable chair, and shuffled through the mail without caring.

At least he hadn’t left.

Yet.

Chapter Nine

JAZZ

The light filteringthrough the window of the medical room felt too bright, too real. Marcus had suggested that I move out of the welcome room—a space meant for newcomers to Guardian Hall, not for people who’d been here four days now. Or was it five? Or six? I forgot.

The room he said I would have would be mine. Smaller, but still with its own bathroom. Saying yes to the new room meant more than just a change of sleeping quarters. It meant I was committing to staying and everything that entailed.

“The room we have in mind for you… it’s part of accepting the program we offer here,” Marcus explained, his voice steady, trying to gauge my reaction. “Ground floor, with another door out to the yard, so you’d have space to get outside. Like I said, a bathroom with shower, TV, a decent bed, closet, desk.”

He was rambling, but I focused on the word "program." As he spoke, the word grew heavier, with implications of therapy sessions, group meetings, and a structured day that seemed too much. I’d lived on the streets for a while, and there’d been freedom away from the military.

Freedom.

That’s what I’d called it, but was itreallyfreedom when it came at the price of wintry nights, constant vigilance, or dying?

“I don’t know,” My tone sounded dead. WhywasI staying here? I’d just meant to be here to live through one more night, not get pulled into something bigger. Like talking about myself. Would they make me admit what I’d done? Or ask me to explain what I’d seen?

My hands trembled, and I laced my fingers in my lap to stop the obvious reaction, focusing on not shaking and instead on the layers of purple in Marcus’s hair. There was bruising on his neck—but not from violence, maybe enthusiastic sex? A hickey? Something that had happened as he lost control.

I don’t lose control.

I can’t.

Marcus leaned back, giving me space to process. “It’s tailored to each individual, Jazz. Yes, therapy is a part of it—that’s a big component. But it’s more than that. We have vocational training, education programs, physical rehabilitation, and community service projects. It’s about rebuilding your life, not just surviving.”

Rebuilding. The word resonated with a part of me I thought I’d lost. The idea of contributing again, learning, and finding an alternative path, was terrifying, but… maybe I could take a step that way? After all, I wouldn’t want Harper to see me again unless I’d taken steps to fix all the parts of me that were broken.

My daughter had given me that card for a reason.