Total pages in book: 78
Estimated words: 73233 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73233 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
“I know.” Julian closed his eyes. “I know you have. I know what you did for me. I know why you did it. I’ve known since I was thirteen.”
The silence that followed wasn’t surprise. It was a man rearranging an entire life’s worth of assumptions in real time, and Julian could hear it happening, could hear Luciano’s understanding restructure itself around this single fact: He knew. He always knew. And he kept the silence too.
“Thirteen,” Luciano repeated softly.
“Tita’s closet. The documents. The birth certificate. Your letter.”
Another silence. Then: “Why now?”
The question was gentle. Not accusatory. The voice of a man who had waited twenty-eight years for this phone call and wasn’t going to rush it, wasn’t going to push, wasn’t going to do anything that might spook the brother who’d finally reached across the dark.
“I need to find someone.” Julian’s voice cracked. He let it. He was done with composure. Done with walls, done with armor, done with the fortified empire of a man who’d spent his life proving he couldn’t be discarded. He let his voice crack and he let the crack be audible and he said: “I can’t do it alone.”
“Tell me.”
Two words. Immediate. No hesitation, no qualifiers, no questions about who or why or what Julian had done to lose the person he was searching for. Just: Tell me. The response of a man whose entire life had been organized around the principle that when his brother needed him, he would be there.
Julian told him. Not all of it. Not the garden or the grove or the sound she’d made when his hand discovered her skin. But the shape of it. A girl. A lie. A destruction he’d authored with his own hands. And the fact that she was gone, sealed away by connections he couldn’t reach, and three investigators had come back empty, and he was sitting in the dark at eleven o’clock at night calling a brother he’d never spoken to because he had run out of walls to hide behind and the only thing left was the truth.
Luciano listened. When Julian finished, the line was quiet for five seconds.
“I’ll find her,” Luciano said. Not a promise. A fact. Stated with the calm certainty of a man who had spent two decades building a cybersecurity network that could find anyone, anywhere, and who was now going to point that network at the single task his brother had ever asked of him. “Give me forty-eight hours.”
“Luciano.”
“Yes.”
Julian opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. The words were there, twenty-eight years’ worth of them, stacked up behind his teeth like a dam about to break: Thank you for stealing me. Thank you for giving me to Tita. Thank you for guarding me from a distance and never asking for anything in return. Thank you for answering the phone.
What came out was: “Thank you.”
“You don’t need to thank me.” Luciano’s voice was quiet. Rough at the edges, in a way that told Julian his brother was holding himself together with the same white-knuckled grip Julian had been using for a month. “You never needed to thank me.”
The line stayed open. Neither of them hung up. For thirty seconds, two brothers sat in the dark on opposite ends of the country and breathed into the same silence, and the silence wasn’t empty. It was full. It was twenty-eight years of love expressed through distance, and it was enough, for now, to hold them both.
Julian hung up first. Set the phone on the nightstand. Lay back on the bed and let the ceiling blur above him and waited.
Luciano called back in thirty-six hours.
“Rhode Island,” he said. “A non-profit flower farm outside Providence. She’s been there for three weeks. Reid Jamieson’s family foundation funds it.”
Julian closed his eyes. Rhode Island. Three thousand miles. A flower farm. Of course it was flowers.
“I have the address,” Luciano went on. “I’ll send it to this number.”
“Luciano.”
“Go get her.”
The line went dead. Julian sat in the dark with his brother’s voice still in his ears and an address glowing on his phone screen and the first clear thought he’d had in a month:
Don’t be your father. Don’t be the man who had the power to find what he lost and chose not to.
He booked a flight for the morning.
Chapter 7
THE FLOWER FARM SAT at the end of a dirt road three miles outside Providence, behind a stone wall covered in climbing roses that hadn’t bloomed yet. Early June. The canes were green and thorny and full of tight buds that would open in a week, and Katy knew this because she’d been counting. Counting buds. Counting days. Counting the small, visible things that made the invisible ones survivable.
She’d been here for twenty-six days.
The farm grew cut flowers for farmers’ markets and local florists. Zinnias, dahlias, sunflowers, sweet peas on trellises that caught the morning light. The owner asked no questions and paid cash and let Katy sleep in the converted potting shed behind the main barn, a room with a single bed and a window that faced east and a shelf where someone had left three paperback romance novels that Katy hadn’t been able to read because romance, at the moment, felt like pressing on a bruise.