Page 33

I hesitate. I know what I’m about to ask won’t sit well, but I can’t let it go.

“Can you… look into her file?”

She stiffens, eyes narrowing, and a frown forming.

“Ray, why?”

“Because something about it doesn’t sit right with me,” I say, low and steady. “She had pancreatic cancer. I looked it up. The average life expectancy’s over three years, but she died in less than one after diagnosis.”

“That’s why it’s called an average,” she says, her tone soft but tight. “Some people live longer. Some a lot less. It’s not an exact science.”

“I get that. But still—please. Will you look? See what you find. Maybe there’s something there. Maybe there’s not. But I… need to know.”

There’s a pause—long enough for tension to crackle in the air between us. Finally, she exhales.

“Fine,” she says. “I’ll look.”

“Thank you.” I meet her eyes, holding her gaze so she knows I mean it. “I’ll see you back in Dawson.”

I turn and walk out before she can change her mind. I feel her unease hanging behind me like smoke. I know she doesn’t get it—why I care or why I’m stirring up something that’s been buried almost a decade. Maybe she thinks it’s a fool’s errand.

Maybe it is. I hope it is.

But I can’t shake the feeling there’s more to the story. That a woman so full of life didn’t just fade out without reason. If I’m wrong, fine. I’ll take the hit. But if I’m right…

Then someone has to say it — put the truth on the table. Even if I’m the only one who sees it.

13

STACY

By all rights, I should call Erica. That used to be our ritual—hot gossip, steamier details, no filters. We never held back, not when it came to sharing the best parts of a wild night.

Erica lived for stories like that. Unlike Monica, who'd politely nod and steer the conversation elsewhere, Erica and I leaned into it. Laughed until we cried over dirty confessions. Rated lovers by their tongue skills and the ache they left behind. But this time... I don’t reach for the phone.

Because this isn’t the kind of story you tell. It’s the kind that brands itself into your bones. The kind that sinks deep and refuses to be spoken aloud.

Ray wasn’t just good in bed. He wasn’t only decent. He was a force of nature. Wildfire in human form.

His heat still lingers under my skin. His hands. His mouth. God, the way he moved—like fire given form—burned through me as if I were made of dry kindling and pure want.

I’ve had good lovers before. A few memorable ones. Skilled, attentive. But Ray… Ray is something else entirely. He doesn’t justdosex—hedevoursit. Devoured me.

I expected him to be good—I mean, look at his brothers.

Sam had Erica calling me at all hours, breathless and giddy with tales of kinky bliss. Monica’s quieter, but one look at her after a night with Raul tells you everything. So yeah, I thought Ray would be impressive. But this?

This was something else entirely.

I sit tucked into a corner booth at Michelle’s Blues and Piano Bar, nursing a glass of something dark and smooth. From here, I’ve got the perfect view of the stage—center spotlight, velvet curtains, smoke curling in the air.

Erica commands it like she owns it.

She’s radiant under the lights, fingers dancing across the keys like they’re a part of her soul. Voice smoky, seductive, pure blues. No one else performs like her. I’ve seen her up there more times than I can count, and every time she gives iteverything. No matter what’s going on in her life, she leaves it at the edge of the stage and bleeds into her music.

Tonight, she glows. Not from pain, like in the old days, when every note was an open wound.

This is different. She’s unburdened. Lit from within. Her joy thrums through every note, her voice lush and velvet-smooth. Our eyes meet across the room. She mouths one word.