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  The hand on her stomach turned over and she flipped him the bird. But the way her one finger wobbled belied the thin veil of humor and normalcy that’d settled over them.

  “How you doing, Edye?” Jamie bent over and pecked her cheek.

  “Better now,” she said with a wink.

  Jamie glanced over his shoulder at Cam. “You do come by it honest.” He smiled, likewise trying to lighten the mood, but Cam knew Jamie well enough to see how forced it was. How much he was hurting too at seeing his second mother like this.

  “I’d be doing better,” Edye said, “if you’d take my husband downstairs so he can eat and take his meds.”

  “Now, Edye,” his father said.

  “Now, Ken,” she returned.

  His father, like the rest of them, knew better than to argue.

  Cam waited for them to step out before dragging the chair closer to the bed. His mother tried to push herself upright, and Cam patted her arm, over the wires and IVs. “Nuh-uh-uh.” He fished out the bed controls from where they’d slipped between the mattress and bedrail. “You have a button for that.”

  She glared with eyes the same dark shade as his, and reluctantly took the controls, adjusting her position. “You look tired.”

  Always looking out for everyone else, never for herself.

  “Was helping a friend move last night.”

  She swiped at her blond-and-gray bangs. “She pretty?”

  Cam bit back a laugh. No one would ever describe Nic as pretty. Ruggedly handsome, yes. But pretty? Never, not with cheekbones cut like glass, eyes like ice, and lips just this side of thin, which, when pressed together, made him look like he was deciding your fate. In many cases, he was. Pretty didn’t even describe him when dressed in that light gray suit Cam loved so much, or when covered in come.

  “Sharp, intense, older,” he answered instead.

  “Good,” Edye said with a nod. “Will keep you in line.”

  He did chuckle at that, and so did she, until her laugh got caught in a cough, her heart monitor skipped, and Cam panicked, reminded that this wasn’t his usual healthy, firecracker mother. She’d had a heart attack, and she had the fight of her life ahead.

  “Mom,” he started, his voice cracking.

  She cut him off, reaching out a shaking arm toward the bedside table. “Hand me, please.”

  On the table were a few of his dad’s things—glasses, watch and keys—together with his mom’s reading glasses and one of her books. He slid the paperback off the table, turned it over, and smiled. He remembered this series—the ones with Scottish tartans and brooches on the covers. They were her favorites, the spines so cracked you could barely read them on the shelf. She’d read them dozens of times, to herself and aloud to her kids, to the point Cam could still remember the engaging, sweeping tales of love and family.

  “You want me to read to you?” he asked.

  “I’m not blind,” she griped.

  “Glasses then?”

  She shook her head and held out her hand. Cam passed the book to her, and she opened it, shaking loose a laminated library card.

  A duplicate of Erin’s that she’d had made from the original in Cam’s wallet.

  Edye used her copy as a bookmark, always there to remind her of her daughter, who was likewise a ravenous reader. In Cam’s wallet, the card served to remind him of the place he should have been then and the rules he lived by now so as not to make any life-shattering mistakes again.

  “Solve it,” his mother said, snapping him out of his thoughts.

  He didn’t have to ask what she was referring to. It was the reason he’d decided to join the FBI. But the unsolved case of Erin’s disappearance was cold for a reason. He’d been unsuccessful, like every other detective or investigator who’d touched the file over the past twenty years. “I’ve tried.”

  “Need to know,” she said, increasingly winded. She set the book in her lap and laid the card over her heart, tapping it. “No time.”

  He laid his own hand over his mother’s, struggling for words. “We don’t know that. The doctors—”

  “No time.” She closed her eyes and a tear slid down her cheek. “Need to know if she’ll be there waiting for me.”

  Cam’s head swam as his heart drowned. He had to lay his head on the bed and make himself breathe. His mother’s fingers carded through his hair, coaxing and calming. “Please, Cameron.”

  Dragging in a breath and sucking back his own threatening tears, he righted himself and squeezed his mom’s hand. “I’ve tried. My entire career.” She was the last person he ever wanted to disappoint again, but he’d hit a brick wall on Erin’s case, time and again.

  She flipped the book to the last page and held it out to him. Taking it, he was surprised to find the normally blank couple of pages at the back filled with his mother’s meticulous handwriting.

  Dates, locations, and details.

  He looked back up at his mother. “Are these case notes? When did you start this?”

  “The past year, after you left. Kept you both close.” She tapped the side of her head. “Kept this going too.”

  Something else he came by honest.

  He stared at the scribbled on pages, running his fingertips over the amateur sleuthing his brilliant mother had been doing.

  She covered his hand, stopping its movement. “Need to know.”

  He couldn’t disappoint her. Especially if this turned out to be the last thing she asked of him. Not when he’d failed her before.

  “Are there more books with notes?”

  “That series.” The words were thin, a battle to get out. “Started rereading. By the bed at home.”

  He clutched the book in one hand, her hand in his other. “I’ll try.”

  She squeezed, a fraction of her normal strength. “Hurry.”

  Chapter Six

  Nic sat at his brewery office desk, phone jammed between his shoulder and ear, reviewing the details of the proposed new brew Eddie had left for him, as on-hold jazz competed with live punk rock for headache-inducing dominance. Weekend nights at Gravity were open to the public, and they did it up right, with bands and food trucks to bring in more customers and keep the mood lively. This time of year, when the days were long and warm, they were packed, patrons filling the event space, tasting bar, and picnic-ready back lot. As a result, they were running through their stock faster than expected, which meant his co-owner and former SEAL teammate was busily brewing. All good problems to have, minus the headache.

  The hold music stopped, then after a click, “Captain Price?”

  He juggled the phone from shoulder to hand. “Here, Lieutenant.”

  “Apologies for the wait.”

  “Not a problem.” It’d been five minutes, which was shorter than he’d expected, considering the day and time.

  “Sergeant Byrne’s leave has been extended until the end of the month.”

  “Thank you,” he said, breathing a sigh of relief. “And please give my thanks to the admiral.”

  “He says to thank him in person at his retirement party.”

  There was a smile in her voice, and if there’d been anyone there in the office with Nic, they’d see the smile on his face too. Sounded just like Admiral Bailey. And like an event not to be missed, even though Nic usually avoided those sorts of things. “I’d be honored.”

  “Invitation’s in the mail,” she confirmed.

  “Lieutenant, one more thing.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I’ve had some unknown calls from a burner that trace back to Jacksonville. I’m concerned it might be a former teammate trying to reach out.” For good or evil, he still wasn’t sure about the calls, but either way, this was an opening to learn more about them.

  “Send me the details,” she said. “I’ll have someone at Lejeune check it
out.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  “Have a good night, Captain.”

  She hung up and Nic set the phone down, marveling at the efficiency of it all. He missed that sometimes, in civilian life. He glanced down again at the papers, and when the chemical formulas swam before his eyes, he called it a night. Stuffing them back in their folder, he stood and crossed to the Beers of the World map on his office wall, swinging it open to reveal the in-wall safe behind it. He entered the code, popped open the door, and set the folder on the shelf with the other brew formulas. The call with naval admin still on his mind, he withdrew from the lower shelf the zipped leather pouch with the US Navy crest embossed on the front. It was worn, scratched, and far from the fancy display case in Eddie’s office, but it was just as special. It had arrived anonymously shortly after he’d earned his first ribbon, and he’d carried it throughout his service. He didn’t know who it was from—maybe his estranged father, given that he’d recently learned Curtis had been keeping tabs on him—but he did know his service medals and ribbons felt at home inside it. This was where they belonged, safe and sound and only taken out on the rare occasion Nic wore his dress blues, which he’d have to do for the admiral’s retirement ceremony.

  It was the least Nic could do for the man who’d rescued him from the second-lowest point of his life. Injured on a SEAL Team mission seven years into his service, he’d been knocked out of combat duty short of a full term and short of a completed college degree, which he’d been slowly accumulating remote credits for. Laid up in the Naval Medical Center, he’d been out of his mind with worry and fear that he was going to have to take a medical discharge and go home. Except he didn’t have one after being disowned by his father for being gay; he’d enlisted the day after his high school graduation, never intending to go home again.

  As it’d turned out, his SEAL Team XO had gone to Officer Candidate School with then-Captain Bailey of the Navy JAG Corps. Nic had driven his XO nuts with his tendency to argue, something he hadn’t stopped doing since the day he’d stood up to his father. He’d saved two lives that day, lost his first love, grown a backbone, and gotten a fist to the face from his father. No argument could end as badly as that one had. So he hadn’t stopped arguing, and he’d been good enough at it to earn a recommendation to the JAG Corps, even without his college or law degree yet.

  Bailey had flown out to San Diego and offered him a way to stay in the service, finish his education, and argue for a living, for the Navy and beyond. In that “beyond,” Nic had seen the path of atonement he’d needed for the sins he’d committed before and during his service. So yeah, he could schlep across the country and put on his dress blues and ribbons for the soldier who’d saved him. And who’d just pulled some strings with the Marine Corps to help Cam’s brother.

  Nic snapped the tote closed, zipped it, and secured it back in the safe. Returning to his desk, he picked up the phone and texted Cam.

  Keith’s leave is extended until the end of the month.

  As tired as Nic was, and as late as it was, he didn’t expect a response from Cam, who was three hours ahead and had to be even more wiped than him, but his phone vibrated in his hand before he’d put it back down.

  Thank you, read the text from Cam.

  Nic was tempted to call—he wanted to hear Cam’s voice—but what kind of day had it been for him? Where was he? And what right did Nic have to take precious family time away from him, especially when Nic had been the one to take himself away for the past five weeks.

  How’s your mom? he texted instead.

  I’ll call tomorrow.

  That didn’t sound good. He started to type back but bubbles appeared, indicating Cam was typing, so he waited.

  I’d call now, but... After a second, a picture popped up. Cam, wearing a Captain America T-shirt, was on what looked like a sofa bed surrounded by sleeping children in superhero pajamas.

  Whereas Nic wasn’t a kid person, Cam was great with them. He effortlessly interacted with Aidan’s and Jamie’s nieces and nephews, and there was no denying he looked happy to be where he was, despite the bed being several feet too short.

  There are these things called hotels, Boston.

  I’ll check in tomorrow, Cam replied. Wanted to spend tonight with family.

  Fuck, he’d said the complete wrong thing, even if it had been in jest. How was he so good with witnesses and so dysfunctional when it came to personal relationships? Sorry, I shouldn’t have suggested—

  It’s fine, Dominic.

  He circled the desk and collapsed in his chair. He should let Cam go, but he didn’t want to lose the connection yet. How are you?

  Better now. He sent a smiley face, then added, Have a pint of Pils for me. Gravity’s pilsner was Nic’s favorite, the stout Cam’s.

  Redwood Stout is back next month. Imperial in December.

  Thank fuck. Can’t wait.

  Nic took comfort in Cam’s implication he’d be back. Would that still be the case tomorrow? He hoped so.

  Okay, can barely hold my eyes open here, Cam texted.

  Nic needed to let him go, at least for now. Night, Boston.

  Another picture popped up, of a groggy Cam with his lips puckered in a kiss. Night, baby.

  The ache in Nic’s chest stole his breath. The picture, the words, everything he wanted, everything he lo—

  No, he couldn’t think that word. Not if it added Cam to Vaughn’s hit list, and not if there was a chance he wouldn’t get to act on it. Cam had looked so comfortable in that puppy pile with this family. What did Nic have to offer him, besides death threats and fear of commitment?

  As if on cue, his assistant manager knocked on his office door. “Hey boss,” she said, poking her head in. “Those two guys you told us to be on the lookout for are here.”

  Shit.

  Rising, he considered getting his Beretta out of the safe, but then dismissed the idea just as quickly. It was packed out there, with adults and children; not a situation for a firearm. Even trained as a sharpshooter, he could miss, or worse, and more likely the goons could miss and innocent lives would be lost. That wasn’t something he was willing to risk, not now that he was a civilian and had a choice. Besides, these two had come at him before and he’d taken them down. He could do it again; would enjoy doing so. Maybe it would relieve some of the tension that had only waned when he was in Cam’s arms.

  Following her into the event area, he easily spotted the two goons at the tasting bar. Shiny suits, trainer-honed physiques and three-figure haircuts. Their attributes of wealth were a poorly worn facade. There was nothing fake, however, about the wealth and power rolling off the man standing between them. Nic halted in his tracks, mouth going dry and skin prickling with remembered desert heat, his learned responses to danger. What he’d said to Cam once, about image not matching reality here in Silicon Valley, held true. No better example than the polished and poised man at the bar.

  With a headful of blond hair and a trim runner’s build poured into bespoke jeans and a fitted linen dress shirt, the man looked like a menswear model. One closer to Nic’s age than to his father’s. The man rotated half around, peering over his shoulder at Nic, and the sparkling smile and warm brown eyes only added to the effect. He looked like a fit dot-com millionaire who was out cruising for a date.

  He did not look like a gangster.

  But Duncan Vaughn was exactly that, so Nic approached with caution, weaving through the crowd and considering with each step what he needed to get Vaughn to say for his case. He patted his pocket for his phone, intending to turn on the recorder, then cursed himself for leaving it on his desk. He couldn’t turn back now without it being obvious. That said, even if the conversation wasn’t on the record, Nic could try to extract the leads he needed.

  When Nic came face to face with Vaughn and his goons, he stood at attention, feet shoulders width apart,
hands clasped behind his back. He puffed out his chest and eyed the goons with open hostility. “Thought I made it clear you two aren’t welcome here.”

  “You made your point perfectly clear,” Vaughn said, “rather spectacularly.” He smiled, wide and easy. It was one of the most photogenic grins Nic had ever seen, second only to Jamie’s. “I had a mind to recruit you, Dom.”

  Good thing he’d left his weapon in the safe. Nic might have pulled it right then. As it was, he balled his fists and gritted his teeth. “It’s Nic, and I’ll never work for you.”

  Vaughn stepped closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I didn’t necessarily mean work, Dom.”

  Nic fought to control his surprise. In every press picture Nic had ever seen of Duncan Vaughn, and at every event or function where they’d both been in attendance, Vaughn had always had a beautiful woman on his arm. Pictures, Nic knew well enough, could lie or omit. Apparently, there’d been a pretty big omission when it came to Duncan Vaughn, if Nic had read that leer right. He was equal parts revolted at being the unexpected target of the man’s interest and intrigued by the potential in to Vaughn’s circle. He had to tread carefully, let Vaughn continue to direct this conversation while he picked up more leads.

  “So what stopped you?” Nic asked.

  “Your father convinced me to give you some space.”

  “The mortgage on the house.”

  Vaughn smiled wider, and Nic fought another wave of surprise. He’d thought Curtis had taken out that mortgage to save his own ass, not Nic’s.

  “Why are you here, Vaughn?”

  “Your father’s falling behind again.”

  “Because you’ve taken everything.”

  Vaughn pointedly looked around the tasting room. “Not everything.”

  Nic dug his nails into his palms, forcing himself not to lash out. He kept his cool every day at work and in the courtroom, had learned to do so in the military. He could do it here. “I told them, and I’ll tell you, Curtis didn’t give me a dime for this place. And if you think to try to pull something here, good luck getting past the security.”