Detective Samuel Reed steps inside.
Late fifties. Gray hair combed back like he still believes in professionalism. Lines carved deep around his mouth, the kind grief leaves behind when it settles in for good. His eyes flick to Raelyn—and soften immediately.
That alone makes me hate him.
“Raelyn Hart,” he says quietly. “You look just like him.”
She inhales sharply beside me. “You knew my father?”
“Knew him,” Reed replies. “Worked with him. Trusted him.”
My hand tightens at her waist.
“Why are you here?” I ask. “And what news do you think you have the right to bring into my house?”
Raelyn moves anyway, slipping forward despite the restraint in my grip, as if pulled by something stronger than fear.
“Please,” she says. “Just tell me.”
Reed’s shoulders sag. The weight of years presses him downward.
“I was hoping,” he begins, then stops. Swallows. “I was hoping you wouldn’t have to hear this from me.”
My jaw locks.
“Your father is dead, Raelyn.”
The words fall softly. Carefully. Like that makes them kinder.
Her breath catches—sharp, broken.
“He was declared KIA,” Reed continues, voice low and solemn. “His body was never recovered. Classified complications. The kind that don’t leave room for funerals or closure.”
She shakes her head. Once. Twice. Like she can physically refuse the sentence.
“He tried to protect you,” Reed says. “Everything he did was to keep you out of it. He would have wanted you to let go. To move on.”
Something breaks.
Not loudly. Not all at once.
A sound tears out of her chest—raw, devastated, animal. Her knees buckle.
I catch her instantly.
She collapses into me, fingers fisting in my shirt, face pressed hard against my chest as sobs rip through her body. Not quiet tears. Not restrained grief.
This is ruin.
I hold her tighter, one arm locking around her shoulders, the other cradling her head, absorbing every shudder like it’s my duty to take the pain into my own body.
Her grief soaks into my bones.
I lift my head.
Over her bowed crown, my gaze finds Reed.
Cold. Flat. Murderous.