I smiled because Mehar needed me to smile and because the image she painted was one I wanted to live inside for a minute. Our daughter at five years old, telling her cousins she survived a hurricane in the womb. Our daughter at sixteen, rolling her eyes at whatever inconvenience a teenager thinks is the end of the world, saying “I literally survived a Category 3 before I was born, you’ll be fine.” Our daughter existing in a world where this island was a story we told at Thanksgiving instead of the place where we died.
I wanted that so bad I could taste it.
But the raft was gone. And the camp was destroyed. And the fire was out. And we were starting over from zero for the second time on an island that nobody was searching for because they were searching in the wrong place. I didn’t know how many more resets we had in us. I didn’t know how many more weeks Mehar’s body could hold out before the baby decided she was done waiting. I didn’t know if Justice had any idea where we were or if he’d already started planning the funeral.
I didn’t know anything anymore. And I was a man who had built his entire life on knowing everything, controlling everything, buying and strategizing and muscling his way through every obstacle that ever stood between me and what I wanted. None of that mattered here. My money was in accounts I couldn’t access. My power was in boardrooms and on streets I couldn’t reach. Out here my name meant nothing. The ocean didn’t give a fuck who I was.
But I could build a fire.
That was one thing I could still do. One thing this island hadn’t taken from me. So I gathered the driest wood I could find, stripped bark for kindling, and started working the friction method I’d taught myself weeks ago. It took longer than usual because everything was damp from the storm. My hands were raw, my arms burning. Twice the ember died before I could coax it into flame. But on the third try the kindling caught and the smoke rose and the fire built itself from nothing into something and I fed it carefully until it was strong enough to survive on its own.
Mehar watched me from her spot in the sand, mango juice drying on her chin, one hand on her belly. She didn’t say anything. She just watched me build a fire on a destroyed beach after a hurricane and I could see in her eyes that she understood what I was doing. I was choosing to keep going because the alternative was lying down and waiting to die and that wasn’t something a Banks did. It wasn’t something she did either.
The fire crackled. The smoke climbed. And somewhere out there, past the horizon, past the storm, past the miles of open water that separated us from everyone we loved, I had to believe that somebody was looking for us.
I had to believe it because the fire wasn’t enough on its own. It needed the belief to keep going. And so did I.
19
Serenity
Xander had his sleeves rolled to his forearms and his tie loosened and I needed him to stop looking like that while he was explaining discovery timelines because my brain could not hold legal strategy and attraction at the same time.
He’d been at the apartment since eight that morning. Files spread across the kitchen table, laptop open, yellow legal pad covered in notes written in handwriting so neat it looked printed. Rita was napping in the back bedroom because she’d been up since five with heartburn and told us to wake her when we had something worth hearing. So it was just me and Xander at the table, close enough that I could smell his cologne every time he shifted in his chair, and I was sitting here nine months pregnant with swollen ankles and an ankle monitor and unwashed hair piled on top of my head trying to focus on witness deposition strategy while this man’s jawline was testing my commitment to being a serious defendant.
It was embarrassing. I looked like a whole mess. My skin was dry, my face was puffy, I hadn’t worn real clothes in weeks. Everything I owned that still fit was a rotation of oversized t-shirts and stretchy pants that made me look likeI was auditioning for a “before” photo. And here was Xander Cross looking like a GQ editorial in my kitchen talking about prosecutorial overreach while I fantasized about what his hands would feel like on my lower back. I needed therapy. Or maybe I just needed to have this baby so my hormones would stop making me delusional.
“Your father came through,” Xander said, pulling a document up on his laptop. “He went through Vivica’s old computers. That woman didn’t throw anything away. He found the original file for the resignation letter on one of the old ones. The metadata shows it was created on Vivica’s user profile three days after Jamison’s disappearance. That’s forensic evidence that she authored the letter. It’s huge, Serenity. This alone corroborates Dante’s testimony that Vivica orchestrated the entire cover-up.”
“So we can prove she wrote it.”
“We can prove it was created on her machine, on her user account, within the timeline of the cover-up. That’s enough for a jury. And that’s not all. He’s been sending me financial records from that same computer. Shell companies, wire transfers, communications with city contractors. The picture it paints of Vivica is exactly what we need. A woman who operated outside the law habitually and was more than capable of committing a violent act to protect her family’s reputation.”
He was energized. His eyes were bright and his posture had changed from the careful, measured attorney who walked in this morning to a man who could see the path to winning. He talked with his hands when he got excited, pointing at the screen, tapping the legal pad, gesturing at invisible jurors. I watched him build my defense with genuine passion and something inside my chest ached because I couldn’t remember the last time a man fought for me without wanting something in return. Julius wanted a trophy wife. Mega wanted a possession. Xanderwanted me free. And the fact that he wanted it this badly, that my freedom mattered to him beyond a legal fee, made it impossible to keep my feelings in the professional lane where they belonged.
Then his face changed.
“There’s something else we need to discuss.” His voice dropped and the energy in the room shifted and I knew whatever was coming next wasn’t good because Xander only used that tone when he was about to deliver something he wished he didn’t have to. “The prosecution filed a motion last week. They’ve located the sealed adoption records.”
The warmth I’d been feeling evaporated. Every ounce of it, gone, replaced by something cold and sharp that pressed against the inside of my ribs.
“How? Those records were sealed through a private agency. Vivica made sure of that.”
“The anonymous tip included enough specifics about the child for the state to petition the court to unseal them. The judge granted it based on the relevance to the murder investigation. They know about the adoption, Serenity. And they’ve filed a subpoena for a DNA test to confirm that David Jamison is the biological father. If paternity is established, it gives them motive. A sexual relationship between a minor student and her teacher that resulted in pregnancy and, in their theory, his murder.”
“She’s twelve years old, Xander. She doesn’t know anything about any of this. She doesn’t know who I am. She doesn’t know who he was. She has a family and a life and they want to drag her into a courtroom and test her blood to prove that a dead man groomed me?”
“I’m going to fight it. There are privacy protections for adopted minors and I intend to use every single one of them. But I need you to be prepared for the possibility that this goesforward. The prosecution is building a circumstantial case and the DNA is the strongest piece they’re missing.”
I put both hands on my belly and stared at the table. My daughter. My Kayla. I wanted her safe from this. I just wanted her to live in bliss not knowing the ugliness she was born from. I didn’t want her to know me, David, nor Vivica. Our family was too complicated and she didn’t need to be thrown in the mix of it.
My phone rang.
I didn’t recognize the number since it was a Maryland area code. I almost let it go to voicemail but something told me to answer, some instinct that had been sharpened by months of receiving calls that changed everything.
“Hello?”
“Is this Serenity Banks?” The voice was female and tight, like a woman holding back everything she actually wanted to say.
