Page 67 of Shadow

“On observations. Who was sitting behind us. What the waitress was wearing. What kind of car pulled into the parking lot. License plate numbers. Details. He said good cops notice everything.” She smiled slightly. “That’s how I got so good at it. Years of pancake house training.”

Asher’s chest tightened. He could picture it. Young Daphne with her father. Learning to observe. Learning to be a cop. Following in his footsteps.

Before he died.

“That’s a good memory,” Asher said.

“Yeah.” She looked at him. “What about you? Any pancake memories?”

His happiest memory was his sister.

He raised a shoulder. “We used to go camping sometimes, as a family.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a thin jackknife. “My dad gave me this, back when I was eight.” No bigger than a pencil, really. “I don’t know why I still carry it. He said a man should always have a utility knife on him. Whatever.” He put the knife back in his pocket. “Dad made pancakes over the fire.”

The memory flashed, so sharp it nearly cut—his dad burning pancakes, his sister laughing so hard she couldn’t breathe.

Simple. Perfect.

Before the divorce. Before Dad had left. Before his sister had grown up and ended up dead.

Before he’d tracked down her killer and put a bullet in him.

“So, there you go. A pancake story.”

Daphne waited, the silence giving him space to say more.

But he couldn’t. Telling her about his sister meant telling her everything. Meant admitting he wasn’t the good guy, the hero she saw.

She was a good person trying to do good things.

He was…well, he didn’t know what he was anymore.

“Go to bed,” Asher said. “I’ve got first watch.”

Something—disappointment? worry?—flickered in her expression, and then she shuttered it. “Okay. Good night, Asher.”

“Good night.”

She climbed the stairs. Disappeared from view.

Asher stood in the kitchen with his hot cocoa and the weight of everything he couldn’t say.

Outside, the storm picked up, thunder rolling, lightning crackling against the sky.

He finally moved to the living room. Sat on the sectional. The security monitor on the coffee table showed the four camera feeds, blurry in the storm.

And of course, his sister crept into his head.

He pulled out his phone.

Mom’s last text sat there. Unanswered. Nearly ten days old now.

His thumb hovered over the keyboard.

He should respond. Should tell his mom he was working. To spread the ashes without him. He should say something other than silence.

A crack of lightning—close. And behind it, almost immediately, thunder.

Then a shearing sound, a crack, and something slammed outside.