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"Find anything interesting?"

My heart slams against my ribs. I didn't hear him approach — how does someone so large move so silently? I turn to find him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. He's wearing a charcoal suit that fits him perfectly, his dark hair slightly tousled from the day.

"Just...catching up on messages." I quickly lock my phone screen, but from the knowing look in his eyes, I can tell he's not buying it.

Sam crosses the courtyard in a few long strides and sits beside me on the stone bench. He smells like expensive cologne and something distinctlyhim. "Let me see."

"It's private."

"Nothing's private when you're living in my house." His voice is gentle but firm. "What were you looking at, Olivia?"

The way he says my name makes my skin prickle. I consider lying, but what's the point?

"You," I admit, meeting his gaze. "I was looking you up."

Something flickers across his face — surprise, maybe even vulnerability — before his expression settles back into careful neutrality.

"And? Satisfied your curiosity?"

"Not really." I twist the phone in my hands. "I found articles about your…arrest."

Sam's jaw tightens. "You shouldn't believe everything you read," he says. “Come. Dinner’s ready."

And then he spins on his heel, leaving me in the courtyard, wondering what really happened to land him in New Orleans Parish facing murder charges.

TWENTY-THREE

Sam

Ipour myself a bourbon and settle into my seat at the head of the table. My phone is gripped in my hand, finger hovering over the tracking app I installed on Olivia's phone.

I want to know what she read.

Tapping the app, it comes to life on my screen. A small blue dot shows her location in the mansion. Currently upstairs, getting changed before dinner.

I tap over to her search history."Sam Costello New Orleans."

She's been digging, trying to understand who I am. I can't say I blame her, but still. There's something intimate about knowing she's researching me, picking through the digital breadcrumbs of my past like she's trying to solve a puzzle.

The first article she read was about my release. Does she think I killed my father? My fists clench, annoyed that anyone could possibly think that. But she never knew my father; she has no idea what our relationship was like or what we meant to each other. And she watched me kill my uncle.Why wouldn't she think I'm capable of killing my blood?The thought sits heavily in my chest.

I scroll through the images of my mugshot and photos of me from before I was arrested. A different man stares back at me from those pictures — younger, with fewer shadows behind his eyes.

With my finger hovering over the next article, I’m frozen as I read the headline.

"Giulia Costello Murder Remains Unsolved After 18 Years."

My mother.

I take a long swallow of bourbon, feeling it burn all the way down, hoping it might cauterize something inside me. The memories flood back without permission, breaking through every mental barrier I've built.

The small room. The screw. The feeling of rope against my wrists as I worked them free, my skin raw and bleeding. Mama's frightened eyes as I untied her, that moment of hope before everything shattered. The gunshots. My father's voice, desperate and broken. The stick in my hand, useless and pathetic.

Mama jumping in front of me.

The blood. So much blood. It seemed impossible that one person could contain so much of it.

I close my eyes, but it doesn't help. I still see her there on the floor, life draining from her eyes as my father screamed her name, a sound I've never been able to forget. The moment that taught me the most important lesson of my life: everyone I love becomes a target. Everyone I care for dies.