I touch the syringe of pentobarbital in the pocket of my scrubs. It’s slender and rigid; full of mercy by the milliliter. And, for the first time ever, it’s unnecessary.

Winston Sinclair’s lifeless arm sits in my lap, dense and gauze-covered, save for the IV entry site. I look at it there, limply resting across my legs, and I wonder what happened. What did I not see?

The last note of “Ecce Homo” slams through me then, and inside my head, Jarrod throws his arms out to his sides, crucifixion-style, as a haze of music and lights and smoke fills the air around him. He’s frozen there, his last words lingering in my ears. “I am no man. I am dynamite.” The room around him pulsates with a new energy. It buzzes with life.

I carefully lift Mr. Sinclair’s arm to put it back on the bed, and when I brush a small patch of his exposed skin, a hot slurry of new notes rips into me. It’s “Soul to Squeeze,” and it’s way faster and louder than it should be. The bass line climbs up my body like a still-clawed kitten, digging into my skin with its pricks and jabs, and causing a shiver to shimmy its way up my spine. Inside my head, it’s dark now. Crackerjack Townhouse is gone.

“Soul to Squeeze” is coming out of me, not them.

I leave Winston Sinclair’s room—and Penn Presbyterian—with a mixture of fear and wonder and celebration fumbling around in the darkness of my brain, each looking for a reason to exist. I’ve never been wrong before, and I don’t quite know how to feel about it. Winston Sinclair was definitely dead. And I definitely had nothing to do with it. Questions dance through me. Hows and whys and whats power across my synapses as the Chili Peppers set fire to my skin.

By the time the bus pulls up to the curb, “Soul to Squeeze” has ended, leaving me numb and stupefied.

Somewhere inside, I know it’s the last time I’ll hear it.

My apartment is quiet and calm, a perfect partner to my confusion. I leave my shoes at the door and head back to my bedroom. I take the vial and needle out of my pocket and put them carefully into the small, empty wooden box tucked in the back of my closet. I tug off my scrubs, tossing them into the wash basket with my socks, and drop a clean T-shirt over my head. I sink into bed, clicking off the light switch and wishing I could turn my brain off with the same kind of abruptness.

In the dark stillness of my bedroom, the lights and colors return to my mind, kicking up thoughts as if they were dust. Behind my closed eyelids, I watch Winston Sinclair’s movie unfold from my memory yet again. It’s the same as it was before. Nothing has changed. There are no missed details, no moments of clarity. Nothing that tells me why the man was already gone.

Mr. Sinclair’s movie hasn’t changed. Instead, someone has edited it. They’ve severed the film before the final frame could turn into real life. And they did it without even knowing what that final frame would be.

A thought bites into me.

Maybe they didn’t do it because they knew Winston Sinclair would die. Maybe they did it because they thought he might live.

* * *

The sound of my alarm rouses me from sleep well before my body is ready. I swat it off as I stretch and roll onto my side. My eyes flash open the moment I hear a soft scuffle against the floor.

Adam is standing in the corner of my room. He’s wearing jeans and a plaid button-down. His arms are slack at his sides, and there’s a massive, convenience-store bouquet of daisies in his breast pocket. His bed-head is screaming at me.

I sit up in bed, scrambling to collect my thoughts before he speaks.

“My mother called me last night. She said my father’s dead.”

I stare at him blankly, as if his words come as a surprise. “I…I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says. “I’m not.” He walks a few steps closer to me. “Actually, I’m relieved. I mean…my mother’s a wreck, but I think everything’s going to be all right.”

An unwanted nervous jitter starts wiggling its way into me. It’s a different kind of jitter this time. Darker. Filled with doubt and suspicion instead of hope.

I brush my fingers through my hair and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I look up at him and see a strange sort of cautious optimism in his eyes.

“What happened to him?” I ask, not sure I really want to know the truth.

“They said his body just couldn’t handle the injuries. His organs shut down around eleven last night. Someone from the hospital called my mother to tell her.” That means Mrs. Sinclair knew her husband was dead even before I got to Penn Presbyterian; the hospital morgue just hadn't come to collect his body yet.

I nod my head in understanding, even though I know that what Adam just said about the cause of his father's death can’t be true. I listen carefully for any regret or transparency in his voice. I hear nothing but his words.

“I know it makes me a giant dickhead,” he continues, “but I’m kind of glad he’s gone.” He pauses for a second, inhaling a shallow breath. When he talks again, his voice seems to be choking on itself. “It was really tough to see him in so much pain. I can’t imagine what his life would’ve been like, if he would’ve lived. My mother’s, too. There would’ve been surgeries and skin grafts and years of therapy, and he probably wouldn’t have ever been the same again. I mean, who knows? Maybe he would’ve been a vegetable or something.” He shrugs and stares at the floor near my feet. “I didn’t like my father very much, but I didn’t want to see him go through all that. No one should have to go through all that.” He swallows hard. The transparency I was looking for suddenly comes screaming out at me via a small line of tears and a crack in his voice. “My mom…she’s ruined. She loved him so much. I don’t know why, but she did. She might not be the greatest mom, but she was the perfect wife for him. I don’t know what she’s gonna do now.” The emotion in his voice is striking and pure. It extinguishes the jitter of doubt and suspicion immediately, wiping away all the uncertainty.

If Adam was the one who edited his father’s movie, I think his motive was sincere. Just as mine would’ve been.

I stand up in front of him, and he lifts his gaze to meet mine. Love rushes through my veins again, igniting a new spark of hope.

Adam’s head tilts to the side as if he’s carefully memorizing my face. He pulls the bouquet of daisies from his pocket and sets it down carefully on my nightstand. A moment later, he steps over to me, wrapping his arms around my shoulders and pulling me into him. The broken pieces of my heart collide, zippering themselves back together again. My cheek rests against his chest as my arms slide around his waist. I fold myself into him, and a new song begins—an unnamed love song—and it brings sweetness and forgiveness and peace. The notes glue the zippers closed until my heart is whole again, the tiny Cupid’s arrow now permanently fused into the healed muscle. I hear his heart, too, beneath his shirt and skin. It’s singing to me. Thumping out a song of its own.

“I believe you,” he says, his breath skimming across the top of my head. “I always believed you.”

“I’m sorry I made you doubt me.”

“You didn’t make me doubt you. My father did.” His arms wrap around me tighter, and as they do, the rhythm of his heart picks up tempo. “I should’ve known there was more than what he was telling me. When you told me why you took his money, all I could think about was how much further he might be willing to go in order to keep us apart. I walked away because I didn’t want him to hurt you any more than he already had.”

Yesterday morning’s conversation with Jarrod replays in my mind, offering me an extra dose of comfort and confirmation.

“It’s okay, Adam. I understand.” And I do.

“He told me other things that day, too, things that completely ripped me apart. And then when he told me you took his money…it was like one final knife to the heart. I just lost it.” He’s quiet for a minute, his hand circling my back over and over again. “I was totally blindsided.”

I hug him harder, to let him know everything’s going to be all right.

He tells me how he felt as his father told him the truth about Bradley. He tells me how angry he was to hear about this missing piece of his life and how powerless all of it made him feel.

“It’s like he’s put this horrible burden on me,” Adam says, his tone a hearty dose of exhaustion and disdain. “And I think that’s what pissed me off the most. He told me this terrible thing, and then smugly reminded me why I could never tell my mother—the one person who deserves to know about Bradley the most. He made me a part of his sin, and I really want to hate him for it.” Adam’s arms unfold from my body, releasing me until I can no longer hear the song inside of him. His chin drops down, and he lets out a long, thoughtful sigh. “And now…now I have to carry around a little brother I never even met for the rest of my life.”

I pause for a moment, thinking about Charlie and how sometimes siblings can be burdens. But, they’re ones worth carrying. Adam just doesn’t know it yet.

“Your gram’s been carrying him around for seventeen years already.” He looks at me with surprise, his soul suddenly visible through his watery eyes. “I’m sure she’d love to tell you more about him, if you ask. It might help if you have each other to share the load.” I shrug and raise my brow before adding, “Maybe your father gave you a gift by telling you about your brother before his accident.”

He slowly nods his head in understanding and wipes his cheeks with the back of his hand. “It’s just like I said in Wicked Mocha right after we met: you’re a bundle of quality, K’acy McGee. I knew it even then.”

I rise on my toes and lift my hands to his face. My mouth presses against his and everything that matters comes back to me. His lips are warm and soft, and as his tongue dances against mine, I feel the lightness return. My hands cup his face as his grab on to my hips, drawing me closer to him. As our kiss deepens, his fingers work their way up under the hem of my T-shirt and dance across my skin. A new surge of endorphins push their way through my flesh, and I celebrate their sweet, familiar burn. I’m immediately drunk with the desire to hear Miriam Hansen repeat her words in person, to hear her voice tell me love will come. If she were to say the words again, this time I would hold them in my hands as a fragile, but very real, truth. I would cradle them like a precious dove, one that isn’t afraid of death because it knows about rebirth and forgiveness. It knows love never dies.

I raise my arms so Adam can take off my shirt. His hands lightly skim over me before his thumbs tuck under the top rim of my panties and push them down. When they drop to the floor, he steps back and stands in front of me with his arms flaccid at his sides. His stare travels leisurely across my skin, stopping only to linger on my face. It feels right to be so exposed. Everything I am is right here in front of him, laid bare. The secret part doesn’t matter anymore. What I can see in peoples’ eyes, and what I choose to do with it, has everything to do with who I am. But, it has nothing to do with us. It’s irrelevant to who we are together.

Adam reaches out and takes hold of me again, surrounding my nakedness with his arms, pressing his chest to mine and covering my mouth with another kiss. My hands work to unfasten his shirt and jeans as my nerves snap to attention. The contrast of his skin against mine fills me with want as we fall onto the bed behind me. Adam lies on his back, and I take my time and touch him with reverence and appreciation and understanding, stroking every square centimeter of him with every square centimeter of me. When my fingertips graze his lips, I see happiness in his eyes. I hope he sees the same in mine.

I bend down and take him into the warmth of my mouth, using my lips and tongue to tease and pleasure him. When his breath starts to twitch and catch, I sit up and straddle his hips, absorbing his light into my dark before he can find release. My body bends and flexes in time with the sharp rise of his hips until we’re both breathless and slick with sweat. A moment after his hand reaches down to rub the place where my body meets his, the added friction sends me over the edge like a shot of thick lightning. My brain fills with light and crashes over on itself until I can’t see anything but Adam’s face looking up at mine. His eyes close, and he lets out a deep, throaty grunt when he grabs my waist and lifts his hips sharply so he can sink himself into me deeper. All the way up to my heart.

A few minutes later, snuggled up to Adam’s side with a morning full of sunlight filling my bedroom, I stare again at my dark fingers splayed against his pale chest. The alternating Vs of light and dark are just as breathtaking as ever, only now they’re different. They aren’t two separate parts anymore. There’s no more yin and yang. No more dark and light. No more opposite yet interdependent pieces. Instead, we’ve been stirred through each other until the dark and light have become the same thing. We’ve been blended together into one whole.

“I have something for you,” he says, breaking the long silence with his raspy voice.

“Oh yeah? What’s that?” I prop myself up on an elbow, so I can see his face.

Adam turns away from me and reaches out toward my nightstand. He carefully picks up the bunch of daisies sitting there and splits the cluster of stems in half. He puts one half back on the table and hands the other half to me.

“These are for you,” he says with a smile, lowering his head back onto the pillow.

I smile back at him as I take the flowers from his hand, joy welling up inside of me and filling me with a brilliance I’ve never known before.

I’m glowing from the inside out.

“I love you,” Adam adds, his hand lightly touching one of my curls.

Just like that, every note from every song I’ve ever heard rips through my veins and jets out of my body. They whirl around me, like a melodious tornado, enveloping me with their comfort and protection. Nothing can stop us again. No doubt. No lies. No giant dickhead.

It’s just us. Together. Unstoppable and ceaseless.

“Copy that and send it back.”

* * *

I don’t know if it’s genuine, but Ms. Sinclair seems very happy to see me when I walk into her room an hour or so later. Adam dropped me off at Pine Manor before heading back to his place for a quick shower and a change of clothes. He asked me to tell his gram he’d be in to see her before lunch, and when I do, she asks me if his father will be coming in with him. Obviously, Ms. Sinclair has already forgotten she was told her son went back home to Seattle.

I don’t know what else to say, so I just tell her I don’t know and promptly change the subject.

I help her dress and fix her hair, fastening the gold owl brooch with the big, sparkly eyes to the left side of her beige sweater, just above her heart.

After I wheel Ms. Sinclair to the community room for Pastor Glickson’s Sunday-morning service, I busy myself taking care of my other loves. I clean Mrs. Boyer’s glasses, swap out Mr. Rauch’s bedsheets, and help change Mr. Ledbetter’s portable oxygen tank. I say hello to an afghan-draped Mrs. Thompson as she sits in the lobby waiting for her daughter’s weekly visit. She’s wearing her usual Sunday-morning smile.

As I work, a fresh and overwhelming bout of gratefulness soaks into me. I’ve spent the last six years doing exactly what I was meant to do. I’ve shared my compassion with the people who’ve needed it most. I’ve shown them love and mercy, and when things got bad, they’ve allowed me to give them the peace they deserve. Sondra might be able to stay disconnected from these people and their suffering, but I cannot. And, as hard as it is sometimes, I’m thankful for it. I’m glad there’s not an inch of emotional distance between me and the people I take care of. Because it makes it real. It makes it right.

I hear Sondra’s words inside my head again: the more you care for them, the harder it is.

I know filling their last living moments with kindness, especially when other parts of their life have been so cruel, is precisely why this gift of mine is so important. Every human being deserves to live—and die—surrounded by too much compassion and grace. Even men like Mr. Sinclair.

Part of me wishes I could ask Adam how it was for his father at the end. I want to know if Mr. Sinclair left this world peacefully, if he understood why his son did what he did. I want to know if Mr. Sinclair felt any love for Adam, and if his son found it in him to feel something in return. I want to know if there was as much compassion and emotion in that hospital room last night as I hope there was. I want to know if what Adam did was as real and right as it would have been if I were the one ending his father’s life. Because if it wasn’t, then Adam didn’t send his father out of this world with everything he deserved. He didn’t do it with compassion and forgiveness in his heart.

But I can’t ask Adam any of these things. I can’t ask him what he was feeling. I can’t confirm what I hope is true. It won’t stop me from loving him; nothing could. But for the rest of my life, I’ll be wondering.

The church service ends forty-five minutes after it starts, and when it does, I wheel Ms. Sinclair out to the lobby window so she can watch her birds. She’s contentedly telling the very hard-of-hearing Mrs. Rupert all about the chickadees at the feeders. Mrs. Rupert is leaning over toward Ms. Sinclair with her head tilted to the side, as if she’s actually interested in learning about the balls of feathery fluff outside the window. I smile as I leave them on my way to the staff room.

Sondra is here today, working the daylight shift. She’s sitting at a desk filling out a transportation form when I walk into the room.

“I heard about Winston Sinclair dying on the news this morning,” she says, looking up at me. “Everything okay?”

“I think so, yes. Adam came over to tell me this morning.”

“How’s he doing? It’s too bad they were so mad at each other when I kicked them out of here the other night. I know they didn’t get along, but there’s nothing worse than losing someone when you’re angry at them.”

“Things weren’t good between them for a long time, so I think that argument was just like lots of others.” It’s far from the truth, but Sondra doesn’t need to know that. “Adam’s doing all right. Mr. Sinclair was in really bad shape. I think it was a blessing.”

She purses her lips and crosses her arms over her chest. “Um-hum. Probably a blessing in more ways than one.”

I don’t respond with words. I only shrug and try to pretend I don’t know what she’s talking about.

“I think it’s time you come clean,” she says, standing up from her desk and stepping over to me. “You gotta tell Susan about you and that boy. She needs to hear it from you, before she hears it from someone else. By which I mean, if you don’t tell her, then I’m going to. I don’t like holding on to someone else’s secrets. They ain’t good for your health.” She winks at me and puts her hands on my shoulders. “And I’m pretty sure there’s nothing in the employee handbook that says you can’t date a patient’s grandson.”

“I’ll tell her. I promise. But give me a few days, okay?” When I do tell Susan about Adam and me, she’ll know immediately why Mr. Sinclair filed that abuse claim against me. She’ll know Adam’s father didn’t want us to be together. I’m okay with her knowing it. Just not yet.

“Okay,” Sondra says, suddenly putting her arms around me and wrapping me in a tight hug. I squeeze back, feeling grateful for her friendship and wanting her to know how much I appreciate having her in my life, walls and all.

When I head back out to the lobby a few minutes later, Adam is sitting on the sofa, in between his grandmother’s wheelchair and Mrs. Rupert. He’s repeating everything his grandmother says to Mrs. Rupert, only in a much louder voice. There’s half a bouquet of daisies sticking out of his shirt pocket. Every element of the scene is sweet and adorable. I walk over to say hello. Ms. Sinclair sees me first.

“Well, hello there, dear. Guess who’s come to see me today.” She looks from me over to Adam. Her expression softens. There’s love there. So much love. “Bradley, have you met my nurse yet?” Adam looks up at me, but this time there’s no sadness on his face at the sound of Bradley’s name. No confusion or uncertainty. “What was your name again, young lady? I’m afraid I’ve forgotten,” she adds, shifting her gaze back to me.

“K’acy,” I say with a smile. “And, yes, your grandson and I have met.” I look at Adam’s gray eyes. They’re shining back at me. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“You, too.” There’s coyness behind his words. I think he’s finally learned to roll with it.

Adam gets up from the sofa and walks around to the back of his gram’s wheelchair. I take it as a cue.

“Mrs. Rupert, why don’t you and I go get a cup of tea? I think the kettle’s on in the dining room.”

As Mrs. Rupert and I shuffle off for her cup of tea, I hear Adam behind me as he pushes his gram’s wheelchair toward the hallway.

“So, Gram, what was I like when I was little?”

“Stubborn,” she says. “Like your father. Only you were also sweet as pie. You could charm the fur off a puppy when you wanted to.”

Their voices trail off as the distance between us grows. I’m amazed and humbled by the affection between them.

* * *

During my lunch break, I text Jarrod. I don’t know if he’ll be awake yet, but I have to let him know I’m okay and ask how things went at The Upstage last night. If I could cross my fingers while I type, I would.

How’d the epic ass shaking go?

Amazing. The bass playing, however, was totally second rate.

I wonder if Grace is with him. I want to ask if she enjoyed the show, but then I think better of it. Because maybe there’s someone else in his bed today.

And the openers from Jersey?

Also second rate.

Sorry to hear it.

Yeah, but they made us sound extra good, so there’s always that.

Any word from the Naysayer rep?

They didn’t show.

My heart skitters inside my chest.

What happened?

They called and left a voicemail. Apologized and said someone had the flu or something.

That sucks.

Not really. They’re coming to Bartholomew’s next month instead.

I let out a single, awkward laugh.

For real?

Just please promise me there will never be second-rate bass playing ever again.

Promise.

Good. All well with you? Did it happen?

Yes.

Is The Mister okay?

He will be.

You too?

Me too.

Grace says hi.

I picture the two of them together, and it makes me happy.

Tell her I said hi back.

Will do.

See you Wednesday night?

Yep.

Bye, Jar.

Later.

A sense of relief rises in my gut, knowing I didn’t shoot Crackerjack Townhouse in the foot after all. I don’t have to forgive myself for anything more than one night of Stevie’s second-rate bass playing.

* * *

The rest of the day passes quickly. Adam leaves for a few hours in the afternoon to go see his mother, but he comes back just before my shift ends. When I see him walking down the hallway, straight toward me as I push his grandmother to the dining room, tiny fires erupt all over my body, inciting another desirous riot beneath my skin. Notes begin playing inside my head. Only it’s not “Soul to Squeeze” anymore. It’s the new, unnamed love song from last night. The melody is quiet yet fierce. Soft yet sinful. It’s perfect. Just like us.

It takes everything inside me not to kiss him when he reaches us. And as he stops in front of his grandmother’s wheelchair, I see it in his eyes, too. The same sly, ill-hidden pangs of need are there, staring right back at me.

Without a word, Adam takes over the driving and pushes his gram to the dining hall. After she’s situated at the table, he kisses her forehead and tells her he’ll see her tomorrow.

“Goodbye, Adam,” she chirps, bringing an immediate grin to his face. “And don’t you forget to bring your homework tomorrow, okay?”

“Yes ma’am.”

I come back out of the staff room a few minutes later, after I finish compiling the shift change report. Adam is waiting for me in one of the lobby’s leather wingchairs. His shoulders are relaxed, and he’s got one leg crossed over the other, looking like he was born to sit in that very chair.

The moment we step outside the glass doors together, his hand grasps mine, wrapping it up in a nice little package.

“How’s your mom?” I ask as we head across the parking lot.

“Not good. We had to make arrangements to have my dad’s body flown back to Seattle tomorrow. She wants to charter a private jet so the casket doesn’t have to ride in the cargo hold. She says she wants him to be with her, not the luggage. It’s weird to see her this way, you know. She’s so broken. I just keep wondering if she would be less sad if she knew about Bradley. I kinda want to tell her about him because I keep thinking seeing her angry would somehow be better than seeing her so damn sad.”

“I think telling her would just make her twice as sad.”

In my peripheral vision, I see Adam nod and swallow hard. His feet scuff against the asphalt, and his hand squeezes mine a little bit tighter.

“Someone once told me there’s a lot to be said for the whole ignorance is bliss thing,” he says, his voice brimming with emotion as he repeats the words I once said to him. “Maybe I should stick with that. For my gram and my mom.”

Before I can reply, I see his car one row away. Adam’s eyes are still aimed at the ground, but mine are looking straight ahead.

Right at Perry Devine.

He’s leaning against the front fender of Adam’s car. His crisply ironed white shirt is glowing in the pale light of dusk, a folded pair of aviators hooked over the top button. His expression is stern and dry. I think for a moment that my knees might fold up beneath me.

“Adam,” I say softly. When he looks over at me, I lift my chin in the direction of his car. The moment he sees Mr. Devine, Adam’s expression changes. It lightens, as if he’s seeing an old friend.

“Perry,” he says, striding right up to the man and extending his hand in greeting. I stand a few paces behind him, unsure of what this is all about.

“Adam.” Mr. Devine doesn’t take Adam’s hand. Instead, he throws his arms around him and wraps Adam in a gigantic hug. One that beats Sondra’s to a pulp. “You okay?”

They let go of each other before Adam offers an answer. “Yeah. I’m okay.” He steps back and lifts a palm up in front of me. “I believe you two have already met. K’acy McGee, Perry Devine. Perry Devine, K’acy McGee.”

I’m completely stunned. I don’t know what to say.

“Yes. We’ve met.” Mr. Devine looks at me, this time with something other than intimidation. “I only wish it had been under better circumstances.”

What the hell is going on?

Perry Devine reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out an envelope. He holds it out in front of me. “I believe this is yours.”

I look at Adam before I take the envelope. He shrugs in ignorance.

“What is it?” I inquire, reaching for whatever’s in Mr. Devine’s extended hand.

“It’s the rest of your money.” There’s no mockery in his voice. No scorn. He’s dead serious. “From what I understand, your sister’s gonna need this half, too.”

I glance at Adam for answers, but he’s as surprised as I am.

“I’m not leaving Adam,” I say, the words falling from my mouth with more confidence than I feel.

“Look,” Mr. Devine continues, “I’m not giving you this so you’ll leave him. I’m not the same kind of man as Winston Sinclair. I know what love is when I see it.” His familiar, long-lashed eyes harden. “I did a lot of things I didn’t want to do in the last seventeen years, and following you around for the last few months was one of them.”

Adam’s expression is ripe with bewilderment, and my jaw is almost on the ground.

“You’ve been following her around?” The pitch of Adam’s voice is almost pre-pubescent.

Mr. Devine turns to Adam, his hands sinking into his pockets again as he nods his answer. “I don’t know if you know how your father and I met, and why I started working for him. But now that he’s gone, I think you should know,” he says.

I hear Adam suck in a gulp of air. I’m unsure of whether or not I should leave the two of them alone. Before I can decide, Mr. Devine starts talking again.

“He caught me breaking into his car. I had the wire wedged down in the doorframe when he grabbed me from behind and knocked me flat on the ground with some god-awful jujitsu move he must’ve learned at the gym. I was twenty-three years old, fresh off a four-year deployment. I had no money and no place to sleep, other than on a buddy’s couch. I needed a car, and your father’s was right there for the taking. When he saw my military ID tags, he knocked me on the head for being so stupid. He offered me a job on the spot, told me I could be his driver for as long as I wanted to be. If I did everything he asked. Your father paid me more money than I’d ever seen, just to drive him wherever he wanted to go. Then, a couple months later, when I guess he figured he could trust me, he offered me even more money to take on other responsibilities, ones that weren’t as simple as driving him around. In a very short time, I went from being homeless to being head of security for your father’s company.”

As Adam absorbs Mr. Devine’s words, a troubled furrow forms between his eyes.

“What I’m saying is…I know all of your father’s secrets, Adam. Everything he did and said for the last seventeen years is right in here.” Perry Devine taps an index finger against his own temple. “And a lot of it isn’t very nice. But, I also got a lot of memories of you up in there, too. Because while I was doing everything your father asked, I was also watching you. You deserved better than what you got from your dad. But, I couldn’t do anything about it, you know? I couldn’t speak up for you because I didn’t wanna lose what I’d worked so hard for. So, I just tried to do right by you. I tried to be there when your father wasn’t.”

“You did do right by me.” Adam’s words are spiked with admiration for this man, a man I never would’ve considered admirable. “Why didn’t you quit? Especially after I went to college.”

Perry Devine gently shakes his head. His gaze shifts down the row of cars, right to the glass doors of Pine Manor. He thinks hard before he answers. “You don’t walk away with another man’s secrets in your hands. At least not alive.”

What the hell is that supposed to mean?

The ounce of admiration I might have felt for him immediately morphs into fear, and then multiplies itself lightning-fast, over and over again, until my body is brimming with anxiety. I’m confused and suddenly scared for Adam’s safety. Is Mr. Devine talking about Bradley? Are his boss’s secrets still worth protecting, even though the man is dead?

Fear swirls around inside me.

Does he know what Adam might have done to his father?

Adam is quiet for a long minute, his hands pressing against the sides of his thighs. I’m frozen, reeling with uncertainty.

“So what happens now?” Adam asks.

Mr. Devine centers his weight as his eyes backtrack along the row of cars until they meet Adam’s again.

“I walk away.”

Adam slowly bobs his head in understanding, not taking his eyes off Perry Devine’s. I exhale all the air that’s been pent up in my chest since I took the envelope of money. It whooshes out of me like a long, slender train of relief.

“Your father once told me life is full of hard choices,” Mr. Devine continues. “You can tackle those choices head-on, like a man, or you can second-guess your decisions and end up being nothing more than a powerless over-thinker.” His hands move to Adam’s shoulders, resting on them with gravity and purpose. “But what I’m doing now isn’t a hard choice. There’s nothing to second-guess. I’m walking away with every one of your father’s secrets in my hands, and someday, when I get to hell, I’ll drop them right into the fire and watch them burn.” He lifts his hands and uses one of them to plant a light, fake punch on Adam’s chin before putting them back into the pockets of his trousers. “Have a good life, Adam. Tell your mother I said goodbye.”

Without another word, Perry Devine turns his back on us and walks away. Adam stays completely still and watches him disappear down the street. When Mr. Devine rounds the corner, Adam turns back to me. His eyes are watery and clearly full of private memories. He doesn’t say a word as he pulls his car keys from his pocket, presses the unlock button on the fob, and walks around to the driver’s side of his car.

As I tug the passenger-side door handle, I glance at the envelope in my hand. It’s bulkier than the last one was, making me wonder if there’s more in it than there should be. Before I climb in the now open car door, I peek inside the envelope. It’s full of cash. Hundred-dollar bills. Whether or not it’s more than it should be, I don’t know. But the sight of it brings Charlie and her little one to the forefront of my mind. I picture her face as she opens the envelope and sees another cashier’s check inside. Her Blue Cliff tuition can be paid in full. And she’ll have enough left over to pay a half-year’s rent, either to Tasha or to a landlord of her own. The thought spikes my blood with a heady rush of pleasure. I’m inundated by peace and happiness, believing beyond a doubt that, this time, Charlie will make our daddy proud. She’ll finally have the perfect life she deserves. For herself and for her child.

I tuck the envelope full of Charlie’s future into the pocket of my scrubs and climb into the car.

My seatbelt is buckled before I notice Adam hasn’t started the engine. I look over to find him sitting quietly in his seat, staring at a large, bloated manila envelope on top of the car’s dash. Something is written across the front of it, in bold, black marker.

“For K’acy McGee Only” it says.

Adrenaline gallops through me.