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“And this kid was hiding thirty feet away. How did Rossi not notice him?”

“Don’t know. Info’s on the next page.”

My fingers don’t hesitate to flip to the next page, but freeze as the name printed in bold slowly registers.

KAMDEN BLAKE

I stop breathing.

No, there’s no way it’s the same kid.

There’s no goddamn way—

Age: 19.

My stomach clenches like I’ve been gut-punched.

The age matches up. I look back at the CCTV, trying to convince myself this is some other nineteen-year-old guy who happens to have the same name as John’s kid.

But once I know what I’m looking for, I see it.

The boy might have inherited his mom’s slim frame, but I’d know those downturned eyes anywhere.

Puppy-dog eyes, the guys used to say. They’d joke that one look could earn him a drink in any bar in the world.

Jesus Christ.

John.

The stale scent of dust, sand, and blood overwhelms my senses.

John’s weakened voice echoes in my skull, “Promise… me.”

“Take care of my boy.”

My fingers tighten on the folder.

“Do you know him?” Mathias asks, his tone casual but his gaze assessing.

I force my hand to unclench, laying it flat on the desk. “No.” The lie slips out clean and easy, polished by years of practice.

Mathias hums low in his throat and takes another deliberate sip of his coffee.

I keep reading, and there’s my confirmation.

Mother: Sherry Blake.

Not a coincidence.

Not another Kamden Blake.

Not some nineteen-year-old stranger who happens to have John’s eyes.

Eleven years of memories pass through my mind like a camera reel, one snapshot after another.

The white walls of the hospital. The stump I could hardly look at. The plane ride home. Morphine dreams in which my left arm kept appearing intact until I woke and reached for things that weren’t there.

Learning how to balance again. Learning to fasten buttons one-handed. The first prosthetic, which I hated. The second, which I hated differently. Months of physical therapy. More months of occupational therapy. A psychiatrist who asked me what I intended to do with the rest of my life while I was still trying to understand why I was alive when a better man lay dead.