Page 22 of Bram

“Don’t,” he said. “I’d go to hell and back for you, Julie. Let me do this for you.”

I shook my head. My jaw locked so tight the bones hummed. “It’s not your fight, Bram. You need to let me handle it.”

He watched me reach for my keys, watched my hand fumble, watched the fact that I had no idea where I was going or what I’d do when I got there. He leaned forward, forearms on knees, and let the silence grind down every excuse I might have tried to make.

“You can’t,” I said, my voice thin and hollow.

He didn’t argue. He waited. The waiting made it worse.

I looked up, finally, and saw him for what he was: every inch a killer, but more than that, the kind of man who only turned his violence loose when he’d measured it to the gram. The kind of man who would burn a city just to keep a promise. I for once believed a man when he said he’d destroy the world for me.

He said it again, softer this time. “I can help, Julie.”

I started to tell him no again, but it twisted in my throat. The word fell apart before it got to my mouth.

Instead, I said the thing that scared me more than losing Emma. “You don’t know everything.”

He didn’t blink. “Tell me.”

I looked at the wall above his head, the yellow light striping it, and focused on a spot just left of center, because if I looked straight at him, I’d never get through it.

“The Colonel is my father,” I said.

Bram didn’t move, but the air got heavy, like a drop in barometric pressure before a storm.

I kept going, fast, before he could interrupt. “My mother raised me, but he got to her early, before anyone else had a shot. He got out before I was born, left her with nothing but the last name and a warning not to use it. She didn’t tell me until I was old enough to know what it meant. When I took the DA job, I thought it would be a way to put everything he did behind me. But he made sure I was the one who got the offer. He pulled the strings, made the calls. I found out two years later. Blackmail, threats. He has files on everyone, Bram. Everyone in this town. Half the cases I’ve prosecuted were cleaned up ahead of time to make the office look good, to make me look good. It’s all rotten.”

Bram’s jaw ticked, just a fraction, but he didn’t say a word.

“I spent years pretending I deserved to be here,” I said. “And then you walked in, and I realized how much of it was a fucking joke. That’s why I can’t let you help. If anyone finds out, I’m dead. Emma’s dead. Mom’s dead. The whole house of cards comes down.”

He turned away, his hand braced against the back of the couch, head bowed. For a second, I thought he’d lost it. But then he just breathed, like he was dragging air into a burned-out mine.

“You should have told me sooner,” he said, not looking at me.

“I know.” The words were so small I barely heard them myself.

“It doesn’t change how I feel about you,” he said.

I sighed and shook my head. “He’s the man responsible for Mille’s death. My Father!”

He straightened, shoulders rolling back, and looked at me with a new kind of resolve. Not forgiveness, but something colder, cleaner. The world had been reset. The rules changed, but the job didn’t.

He said, “I can help,” and this time I didn’t argue.

We sat like that for a long minute, the two of us and the gulf of things we couldn’t take back. There was nothing left to say, so we stood, side by side, and got ready to go to war.

ten

Bram

Iwas still picking cotton threads out of the wound under my shirt when the compound gate came into view. The metal slats caught the morning sun and flashed it into my eyes, so I kept my head down and rolled through without slowing. The prospect on duty saw me and waved me forward, knowing better than to ask questions. He nodded—more respect than fear, but only just—and hit the switch. The gate whined open, slow as a funeral, and I gunned the engine through.

Inside, the yard was already alive: three patched men lugged cases of ammo into the garage, Edge was breaking down a shotgun on the picnic table, two kids I didn’t recognize were mopping up last night’s spill from the loading dock. Everything in motion. If you squinted, you’d almost believe it was a regular day.

This is what I lived for. This was home; it was family. I glanced back at Julie and wondered if she’d feel the same way.

Julie parked behind me and killed her engine with a surgical little twist, like she was disarming a bomb. She slid out of the car and into a jacket that looked more expensive than my bike. Her hair was down, sunglasses on. She didn’t wait for me, just walked toward the clubhouse door, pace even, eyes straight ahead. I watched her go.