Chapter 17

They didn't speak on the walk back. Manhattan moved around them the way it always did — cabs, steam rising off the grates, a city entirely indifferent to the fact that somewhere behind them, in a private dining room on the second floor of an old building, the man Claire had trusted for a decade had just admitted he wasn't the worst thing hunting her family after all.

It was Weston who finally broke, halfway across a bridge over the park, stopping so abruptly Claire nearly walked past him before she noticed.

"I spent three years telling myself I was protecting him," he said, staring out at the dark water below. "Visiting once a month. Paying for the best care money could buy. Telling myself that was enough, that showing up more often wouldn't change anything because he barely knows who I am on his good days." His voice cracked, raw in a way she'd only heard from him twice now — the night Eleanor called, and now this. "And the entire time, Edmund was in that room instead of me. Making decisions. Signing his name. Being the son I apparently wasn't."

"You were protecting yourself," Claire said gently. "That's not the same as abandoning him. You watched what that man did to your mother. Of course some part of you couldn't stand to sit in a room with what was left of him more than once a month."

"That doesn't make it right."

"No," she agreed. "But it makes it human. You're allowed to be both, Weston. The man who couldn't visit more than once a month, and the man standing here right now, ready to fight for whatever's left of him." She reached up, resting her palm against his jaw the way he'd done to her a dozen times now, and felt something in him finally soften. "I fell for a man who thinks love is something you earn by never being weak in front of anyone. I need you to understand that isn't the deal anymore. It stopped being the deal somewhere around the second night I stayed in your apartment instead of going home."

He turned his head, pressing a kiss to her palm, quiet and unguarded, the city lights blurring gold behind him.

"I love you," he said, like the words had been sitting behind his ribs for days, finally given permission to exist out loud. "I don't know when it stopped being part of the arrangement. I just know it isn't anymore."

"I know," Claire said softly, and found, to her own quiet astonishment, that she wasn't afraid of it the way she'd once promised herself she'd be. "I love you too. God help us both."

Her phone rang before either of them could say anything else — Vivian's name lighting the screen, unexpected enough that Claire almost let it ring out.

"You should probably answer that," Weston said quietly, some old, careful instinct returning to his expression.

Claire picked up. "Vivian."

"I've been sitting outside your building for twenty minutes trying to decide if I have the right to say any of this to you." Vivian's voice, usually so polished, sounded strained, almost frightened. "I need to tell you something, and I need you to understand I'm not doing it to hurt Weston. I'm doing it because I've been carrying it for six years and I think it might finally matter."

"Go on."

"My family lost everything to Robert Cole too. Before I ever met Weston — my father's firm, gutted in the same decade he destroyed Edmund's. I didn't tell Weston when we were together because I was ashamed, and because by the time I understood the connection, I was already in love with him, and I told myself it didn't matter anymore." A shaky breath. "When your father died, Claire, I hired someone. Quietly. Because I heard the timeline and it felt exactly like every story I'd ever heard about the way Robert Cole's world dealt with people who got too close to the truth. I wanted to know if it was happening again."

Claire's grip on the phone tightened. "What did you find?"

"The physician who signed your father's death certificate — Dr. Nathan Bellweather. He left the hospital eleven days after amending the report. No notice. No forwarding address. The hospital told my investigator he'd taken a position overseas, except there's no record of him practicing medicine anywhere in the world since." Vivian's voice dropped lower, urgent now. "Claire, I've been sitting on this for two years because I didn't know how to explain why I had it without admitting how much I still cared what happened to Weston, even after everything. But you deserve to know. Someone made a doctor disappear the same month they changed your father's cause of death. That's not a coincidence. That's a cleanup."

Claire looked up at Weston, watching his expression shift from confusion to dawning horror as he followed the call.

"Vivian," Claire said carefully, "if you've had this for two years, why now? Why tonight?"

The silence on the line stretched long enough that Claire thought the call had dropped.

"Because an hour ago," Vivian said finally, voice barely above a whisper, "I received a message from an unknown number telling me it was time I stopped protecting a secret that was never mine to keep. And Claire — whoever sent it knew details about my investigation that I never told a single living soul."

Claire's blood went cold.

"They signed it,"

Vivian said. "Just two words. *You're welcome.*"