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“Thank you.” I kiss the tip of her nose.

“Now it makes more sense why Briar is so intent on Sunday Dinners and is so protective of your family.”

“Yeah. I think our upbringing bothers her more than me because… well, I’m a guy. I’m good with a frozen pizza in front of the TV on a Sunday night. She’s the one who made me—all of us really—want a more traditional family. The friendship between us guys happened organically, but when Briar had Frankie, she was determined to give her child the life we didn’t have. Even if it was subconscious at first.”

“That makes sense. I don’t recall having a family life, to be honest,” she says after a moment. “I have no memories of my father, and then my mom threw herself into making me a star. There were no Sunday dinners, or intimate family get-togethers, or fun holiday trips. It was all work and diets and casting calls and photo shoots.”

“That doesn’t sound like a great childhood,” I say gently.

“No.” She shakes her head, her eyes shrouded, as if she’s somewhere far away. “I just hate that I can’t remember my dad but I can…watch him die.”

“What?” I frown in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“He’s one of the people who jumped. He was a fireman, but according to his best friend, he found a pregnant woman on the stairs. She was scared and didn’t want to burn to death—she wanted it to be over quickly. He did everything to get her and some of the others out, but when they realized there was nowhere to go… they jumped together. There’s footage. My mom used to watch it when I was a kid.”

“Jesus.” I hiss out a breath. “That’s fucked up. I’m so sorry, baby.”

“He was in contact with the rest of his battalion. His last words were ‘tell my girls I love them.’ And then he was gone.” She swipes at a tear and I tighten my arms around her.

What the hell is wrong with some people? Why would anyone traumatize a child like that? It’s different for her mom—she was married to the man and had to deal with the reality of his death. But Willow never knew him.

I really want to shake her mother.

“You want to see his picture?” she asks after a moment.

“Sure.” I nod, hoping that brings her comfort.

She slides off the bed and goes to the box of her father’s things. She keeps it in the closet, so I can’t see it, but I know that’s where she’s going. I hear her rustling, then some muttering, and finally a curse.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, getting up and padding to the closet where she has a murderous look on her face.

“He took it,” she hisses. “That bastard took it!”

“A picture of your dad?”

“The picture I put in a little silver frame. He’s in his fireman’s uniform, holding me. It’s the only picture I have of us together.” She puts her hands on her hips. “It’s my favorite, and he knows it.” Her eyes close, more tears sliding free. “We have to go back.”

“Babe.” I approach her slowly and put my hands on her shoulders. “Short of breaking and entering, you know we can’t. You have to be patient.”

“It’s theft!” she protests, her eyes flying open and searching my face. “It’s the one damn thing I have of him and I together. He knows it means the world to me—that’s why he pulled it out. He knew there was a chance I’d get my personal things back, so he took the one thing that would hurt me most.”

“I know. And we’ll get it back, but we need to be patient while Madeline and Atlas work on things behind the scenes.”

“What if he destroys it?” she whispers.

The pain in her eyes breaks my heart.

“Someone, somewhere, must have a copy. The negatives. Whatever. I promise you, Willow—if he did destroy it, I will move heaven and earth to get you another copy.”

At that, she falls into my arms.

“Thank you,” she whispers softly.

Is it wrong that I want to tell her I love her?

That she’s the part of me I didn’t know was missing?

That I want to give her the world and never let go?