I watch Savannah race away from me with my heart in my throat and my mind shut down. If I didn’t know her as well as I do, I’d say her heart-tugging speech was all a ruse to shift the topic away from us, but I know that isn’t the case. Savannah speaks from her heart. She doesn’t sugarcoat her replies or dress them up to be socially acceptable. Even if she knows what she is going to say will hurt you, she’ll still say it, as she would rather tell the truth than lie.

Chris always joked that he would be the stud of the afterlife. I was so accustomed to his sick humor, I took it in stride. I never thought he meant it. Brax has often said same thing Savannah just did, that nothing would have changed the outcome of that night, but I struggle to believe it. What I did that morning hurt Chris. Was it enough for him to take his own life? I don’t know. There is only one person who can answer that question. He is resting in the ground I am standing next to.

That has been the hardest issue for me to work through the past six years. I’ll never know if I am to blame for Chris’s decision. I can only assume I am.

Upon hearing leaves crunching under boots, I peer over my shoulder. Just as anticipated, Brax is heading my way with a six pack of beer and a bucket of wings. We do the same thing every year. We share beers with our brother.

“Was that Savannah?” Brax asks, his tone low, wary of how I will react.

“You didn’t tell me you’d been speaking with her,” I reply, answering his question with an accusation.

Brax smirks hesitantly. “You knew she was back; I didn’t realize I had to update you on every conversation we have.”

He skirts past me before racking his knuckles on Chris’s headstone. “Can’t believe you left me to handle these two by myself. Talk about leaving a brother hanging.”

I nearly have a go at him for using Chris as a decoy, but with memories of me doing the same thing to Savannah mere minutes ago filtering through my mind, I keep my mouth shut.

“Why were you talking to Savannah, Brax?” I stammer out before I can stop myself.

I snag a beer out of the six pack I brought with me, mindful I’ll need alcohol in my veins before hearing what he has to say. I can’t remember the last time I spoke about Savannah without being intoxicated. I even chugged down four shots of scotch before I called Brax last month to advise him of her resurrection. He thought I was high, as usually he is the one who brings her up. Or my drunken self who doesn’t know any better.

Brax waits for me to gulp down two large mouthfuls of beer before saying, “She’s renting my old apartment.”

Malted liquid flies out of my mouth, spraying both Chris’s headstone and Brax.

“You’re supposed to share your beer with Chris—not my face,” Brax mutters while using his shirt to clear the beer away.

“Savannah’s renting your apartment? Since when?” You can hear the shock in my tone.

Brax shrugs like it’s no big deal. I don’t understand his lukewarm response. This is a big deal—it is a huge fucking deal.

“I don’t have a say about who moves into my old place. That shit isn’t on my shoulders,” Brax mutters, incapable of ignoring my glare for a second longer.

“Then how do you know she’s renting your apartment?”

His nose scrunches. “She found some old photos my grandma had stashed in the back of the closet.”

“So she just gathered they were yours?” I prompt, hurrying him along.

The suspense is fucking killing me. The address on the registration of the Mercedes that picked Savannah up last month is nowhere near Brax’s apartment. Brax doesn’t live on the poor side of Ravenshoe, but it’s pretty fucking close. Going from Ravenshoe’s equivalent of Bel-Air to the Bronx is a significant drop in residential status. Did that happen by Savannah’s choice? Or did her well dry up?

I’m not saying the Mercedes’ owner is Savannah’s sugar daddy, but when the sky is dark and grumbling, I’ll forecast a downpour. If he isn’t her sugar daddy, their gap in age is as nasty as the lukewarm beer I’m guzzling like soda.

After draining my beer in one chug, I dump it on the ground then shift my eyes to Brax’s amused gaze. “I swear to god, Brax, you have five seconds to tell me what you know before I introduce my fists to your teeth.”

Brax throws his head back and laughs. “You two need to stop hanging out. I’m getting confused on who is who,” he cackles, bouncing his slit eyes between Chris’s headstone and me.

I punch him in the arm, inciting even more laughter. Our friend is dead; he shouldn’t be making jokes.

“Don’t even go there, Ryan. That shit got old real quick six years ago,” Brax warns, his voice void of his earlier humor. “If given a chance, Chris would rise from the dead just to kick your ass for all the shit you’ve been hanging yourself with since his death. Chris doesn’t blame you for what happened. I don’t blame you. Savannah doesn’t blame you. So stop fucking blaming yourself. Chris made a choice. We have to live with it.”

“This isn’t about Chris; it’s about Savannah,” I whisper my last word, annoyed that I can’t drop my inquiries for a few more hours. Today is the sixth anniversary of Chris’s death. My focus shouldn’t be on anyone but him.

Brax nudges his head to a section of grass across from him. “Make yourself comfortable, and we’ll tell you everything we know.” He speaks about Chris like he is still with us. Always has. Always will.

When I do as instructed, Brax keeps his word. “On my way out on a Friday night, I bumped into Savannah in the lobby of my building. She handed me the box of photos. I asked where she found them. She told me. End of story.”

No, I’m not exaggerating. That is precisely what he says.

“Every time I’ve seen her since, she was as avoidant as you’ve been the past six years, Ryan. She wouldn’t even look me in the eye when speaking to me.”

This shocks me more than finding out she isn’t living in the fancy-schmancy house I may or may not have driven by multiple times the past month.

“Did you ask around town why she’s back?” My tone is more inquisitive than friendly.

Brax takes a swig of his beer before nodding his head. “Yeah. I heard rumors, but none I’m willing to share.”

“What does that mean?” The hammering of my heart echoes in my tone.

Brax stares me straight in the eyes. “That means I’m not doing the legwork for you, Ryan. If you want answers, go ask the person who can give them to you.”

I lick my suddenly dry lips. “Did you see her face on the way out? I don’t think she’s up for interrogation.”

“Did you see her face on the way out? This interrogation is ten years in the making. It just isn’t her head on the chopping block.”

“And mine is?”

Brax shrugs for the second time, adding to my annoyance.

“She left, Brax. She walked out on all of us.”

“You lied, Ryan. You walked out on her first.”

I grit my teeth, struggling to hold in my retaliation. I did what needed to be done. Was it the right thing to do? At the time, yes. Do I regret what I did? Yes, every fucking day. But wading through the same shit time and time again isn’t getting me anywhere fast. I can’t change my past. I can only live with the consequences of my mistakes. Chris’s death is a constant reminder of that.

Spotting the groove between my brows, Brax suggests, “Say what you want to say, Ryan. No one here will judge you. You judge yourself enough there isn’t room for anyone else.”

You might think he’s being snarky, but I know better. He is pushing me to express myself as he has done the past ten years. No. Scrap that. The past twenty-three years. Chris was the jokester. Brax is a realist. Just like Savannah, he calls it as he sees it.

“She’s hiding something from me. I don’t know what it is, but I know it’s something major. You’re not the only one she won’t look in the eye. She pretended she didn’t know me last month, Brax. If my huff didn’t call her out as a liar, she would have fled. Who does that? Who acts like family isn’t family?”

“A person who doesn’t have any,” Brax replies in an instant, his voice not angry or frustrated. He is just straight-up remorseful. “Where’s her family, Ryan? Where are the people who have her back like I have yours, and you have mine? Have you looked into that? Or are you too busy analyzing every man she crosses paths with, you’ve missed what’s really going on? Stop wondering who she is with and start wondering who is with her. If Chris’s decision should teach us anything, it should be not to waste a moment. Regret doesn’t end when you die, Ry. It follows you to the grave. Get rid of yours before it’s the cause of your demise.”

Smirking at my slack-jaw response, Brax stands from his seated position, then presses his lips to Chris’s headstone. “I love you, brother. I’ll see you soon.”

After whacking my shoulder three times, he stalks in the direction Savannah fled only ten minutes ago. My gaped mouth doesn’t close until the rumble of his Harley sounds like a mosquito buzzing away.

I am frozen in both shock and awe. I always knew Brax would be a brilliant man, but he just floored me. Selfishness has never entered his vocabulary but neither has compassion. He doesn’t want an apology from Savannah. He doesn’t need it. He has already forgiven her.

I wish I could do the same.

Another fifteen minutes pass before I say goodbye to Chris in the same manner Brax did. I would like to say our alone time was used wisely, but that would be way off the mark. I sat in silence, drinking beer and contemplating what Brax and Savannah said.

I’ve known about Savannah’s return for a little over a month, but instead of investigating the reason for her sudden homecoming, I’m pretending she is a missing person. I guess old habits do die hard—even ones you’ll do anything to ignore. Even anger couldn’t stop my body from reacting to seeing Savannah again. Except this time, it wasn’t just my cock getting excited—my heart went crazy as well. I’ve told myself every day for the past six years that I don’t love Savannah. Not once has my heart believed my lies.

I’m disturbed from my thoughts when a shimmer of white secures my attention as I head back to my truck. Speaking of old habits. . . no matter how many times I tried to sell my truck the past decade, I never accepted a single offer. A collector of classic cars even offered me twenty thousand dollars above the asking price, yet I still couldn’t let her go.

It is not just the memories I have of Savannah in this truck that cemented her place in my life, it is the ones I have with my brothers. The years before things soured, Chris put more hours into her motor than I did. She belongs to him as much as she does me, so it isn’t right for me to sell her.

After placing my empty beer bottles in the passenger seat of my truck, I snag the slip of paper tucked under the windshield wipers. “Abby Rowe,” I mutter to myself, reading the name printed above a Florida state cell phone number.

I scan my truck’s pristine paintwork, seeking any damage. Other than the graze down the left-hand side I’ve never gotten around to buffing out, there doesn’t appear to be any damage, so why was I left contact details?

Shrugging off the note as a woman too shy to approach me, I slide into the driver’s seat and crank the ignition. She fires over with one turn. I don’t know what Savannah did when she worked on my motor all those years ago, but she hasn’t missed a beat since that day.

I find myself traveling the same route home as I have numerous times the past month. It isn’t the direct route, but the one that meanders by the Mercedes owner’s address. Even knowing Savannah doesn’t live there hasn’t stopped my curiosity. There is a connection I am missing—I just know it.

As my truck glides down the pristine tree-lined estate, portions of Savannah’s disclosure plays through my mind like a movie. “They wouldn’t let me go. I begged them to let me attend the church service, but they said it wasn’t safe.”

She said “them,” not “him.” Does that mean she didn’t miss Chris’s funeral because the old geezer she was shacked up with wouldn’t let her go? She wanted to come, she just couldn’t? But who would stop her from attending? And why would they think it wasn’t safe?

I yank my truck off the side of the road when a disturbing thought smacks into me. No. . . she wouldn’t have.

I dial Regina’s number on repeat. She retired over a year ago, but she is still the first person I call when seeking legal advice.

When she fails to answer my call for the fourth time, I dial the second person on my list. It isn’t who you’d expect.

“Izzy, do you have any contacts in the FBI?” I ask, not bothering to issue a greeting.

Izzy, my partner, giggles. “Hi, Ryan, nice to hear from you too.”

I’m not surprised when her greeting is followed by a low growl. Isaac says he has no issues with me and Izzy working together, but he’s full of shit. He has jealousy issues a mile long when it comes to Izzy. I can’t say I blame him. There is no way I’d let my girl work with a guy she kissed directly in front of me. He’d be locked up in a four by four cell, not her superior.

“Why do you need the FBI? I thought you hated them ‘pissing on your turf.’”

Isaac’s growl turns into a chuckle.

“Seriously, Izzy? You have me on speaker phone? What if I was planning to whisper all those naughty thoughts into your ear like I did last week? We discussed this. Isaac can never know about us.”

Isaac’s laughter is nonexistent. “I swear to god, Ryan. I will ki. . .”

His words are drowned out by Izzy switching off the speaker. “Ryan! I can’t believe you did that.” She sounds breathless, as if she is running. “You have no idea of the dangerous situation you’ve put me in. Now I have to calm the beast.”

I’d be worried about her if she didn’t sound so excited. I don’t know why Isaac has trust issues with Izzy; she’s as smitten by him as they come.

“You’ve got five minutes before Isaac breaks down the bathroom door—get talking,” Izzy warns.

She isn’t joking. I can hear Isaac coercing her out of the bathroom. His tactics are not ones I’d use during a hostage situation. They make my stomach twist and my dick shrink.

“Remember that girl I told you about on your first day at Ravenshoe PD. . .?”

“Savannah,” Izzy fills in, impressing me with her memory.

I bite on my lip to hold my grin. “Yeah. She’s back in town.”

“Ah. . . so that’s the house we’ve been ‘monitoring’ the past month.” I can hear her smile in her words.

My eyes roll skywards. “Yeah, anyway, she said something today that didn’t make any sense. . . until you popped into my mind.”

“Thinking about me on your days off? Maybe I should tell Isaac about the stories you’ve shared the past six months.” She laughs, having no idea my days are being numbered for every second I steal her away from Isaac.

“I wasn’t really thinking about you, more your situation.”

Izzy sighs, faking disappointment.

I shake my head. No wonder why I was attracted to her. Her personality reminds me so much of Savannah.

“Do you still have access to the FBI database?” I ask, attempting to steer our conversation back on track.

This time, Izzy’s sighs for real.

“Alex never saw me as a member of his team when I was an agent. There is no way I’d still have access to their servers,” she replies, sounding annoyed. “Why? Do you think Savannah’s disappearance has something to do with the FBI?”

Even though she can’t see me, I shrug. “Probably not. I just don’t want to leave any stone unturned.”

She hums before suggesting, “You could call Alex and ask him?”

Now it’s my turn to sigh.

“You worked together on Isaac’s case. That means he sees you more as a friend than a foe.” Her last two words are barely heard over the splintering of wood. “Isaac. . .”

“Goodbye, Ryan.” Isaac disconnects my call, his farewell fast but not fast enough for me to miss the warning in his tone. I’ll pay for my tease. Maybe not this week. Maybe not next month. But it is coming.

I stare at my cell for several minutes, contemplating my next move. I’ve got nothing to lose reaching out to Alex, so why am I hesitating?

Because you don’t want to face the truth. Savannah isn’t hiding a secret from you, Ryan—she was just hiding from you.

Ignoring my inner monologue, I dial the number for the local FBI field office. The operator directs my call to Alex’s private cell not even two seconds later.

“Alex Rogers,” a deep, gruff voice greets.

“Hey, Alex, it’s Ryan. Ryan Carter.” I’m tempted to add on my credentials, but when Alex grunts, acknowledging he understands who I am, I don’t bother.

“What can I do for you, Ryan-Ryan Carter?”

The mock in his tone shocks me. Alex has never been a jokey type of guy. I can’t recall seeing him smile once when we worked together on Isabelle’s kidnapping and attempted murder charges. I’m fairly certain only one thing will cause a smile to creep across his face: the arrest of Isaac Holt. Hate is a strong word, but I’m reasonably sure it is the right word to describe Alex’s dislike of Isaac.

“I was hoping to get your help on a potential espionage case.” It might be a stretch, but if I don’t make my investigation sound interesting, Alex won’t give me any leeway.

“Espionage?” You can hear eagerness in his voice.

“Yeah. I’ve only got a name, but if I get any more, I’ll extend a branch to your team.”

“What’s the name?” Alex asks with curiosity in his tone.

I swallow the brick in my throat before replying, “Savannah Fontane.”

Fingers tapping on a keyboard sound down the line before Alex grunts. “Nah. I’ve got nothing.”

He’s lying. A man as controlled—and, quite frankly, anal—as Alex doesn’t use words like “Nah.” He would also never admit to having nothing, even when he has sweet fuck all.

“You’ve got nothing?” I double-check, my tone advising I didn’t miss his lie.

“Nope. Nothing.”

I clench my jaw. I don’t need to see him to know he is lying. I can hear it in his tone.

“Is there anything else I can help you with, Ryan-Ryan Carter?” he asks a short time later.

You not being such a wanker would be great.

Instead of saying what I really want to say, I reply, “What about any information on an Abby Rowe? Do you have anything you can share about her?”

I don’t know what inspired me to ask. It could just be a coincidence that Abby’s name was placed under my wipers on the same day I ran into Savannah again, but I’ve never been a fan of flukes. It may not be full of roses, but only you influence your destiny. That way you can’t blame the outcome on anyone but yourself.

“Abby Rowe,” Alex babbles, drawing my focus back to him.

My heart beats in an unnatural rhythm when he asks, “What do you want to know?”