Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
She was still holding the photograph when the door opened. The one of Heather in Geneva—pregnant, polished, looking every inch the diplomat’s wife. The timestamp was unmistakable. So was the coldness in her eyes.
Reid stood as Ian Chase entered the suite. No guards. No entourage. Just Ian, dressed down in dark slacks and a black sweater, the lines of fatigue showing more than usual.
He glanced at Reid, then at Claire, then at the box on the table. “You got it out before the detonation,” he said. “Good.”
“If Vos wanted the box, he didn’t have to blow up the building. That tells me he knew what was in the box, and me and my team were the target,” Reid said.
Ian’s brow arched as he stepped closer, looking down at the scattered contents. The field notes. The report fragments. He paused when he reached the death certificate. A baby—only a couple weeks before Claire was born. His jaw set tight.
Claire sat very still on the couch, hands curled together in her lap, cold and tense. “You didn’t know.”
Ian looked at her. “No,” he admitted. “I had theories. I knew Heather was hiding things. But this?” He exhaled. “I didn’t know what was in that box.”
Claire lifted the photo again. “Then who was I to Joseph?”
Ian sat across from her like a man carrying the full weight of a history he didn’t write. He looked at her without hesitation. “Judging by what I’ve seen? Joseph knew. Maybe not everything, but enough. Enough to see what Heather did. Enough to fight to keep you safe.”
Claire’s throat tightened. She could barely breathe.
Ian went on, “That also means something else.” His voice dropped. “He adored you. No matter what the truth was. He loved you like his own. That was never a performance.”
Claire stared at the photo, then lowered it slowly. “He called me Firefly.”
Ian smiled faintly, eyes creased with something fragile. “That tracks. That’s how he talked about you to me. His Firefly. Said you had more light in you than the whole damn world.”
Her eyes stung. Reid reached across and took her hand.
Ian let the silence settle before continuing, “I want to be clear with you, Claire. This changes the landscape. Not just personally for you, but politically. Legally. Vos doesn’t act without purpose.
If your father had records, and those records expose connections we didn’t see…
” He paused, then added gently, “I need time to get full answers and to verify what this means. And I’d like your permission to pull apart what’s here. ”
Claire blinked, trying to find her voice. It came smaller than she expected. “What happens if she lied about everything?”
Ian didn’t flinch. “Then we reset the truth, from the ground up.”
She nodded slowly then passed him the folder with the death certificate. “You have my permission.”
Ian accepted it with both hands. And for just a moment, Claire thought he looked… heavier. Not because he didn’t want the truth. But because he already knew how much it would cost.
Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting soft gold across the rug.
It was warm, for once. Not sterile or sharp or medical, but actually warm.
Claire shifted against the couch, her legs curled under her, a blanket draped across her knees.
A mug of tea—real tea, not hospital-grade brown water—rested in her hands.
Reid was stretched on the floor just below, sprawled on his back, reading the field notes again. He smelled faintly of smoke, soap and something citrus. The scent grounded her.
“I still think that symbol on the corner of the Geneva document looks like a cipher.” She sipped her tea.
Reid didn’t glance up. “It might be. Or it might be the world’s laziest signature. Either way, I’m getting it tattooed if it turns out to be the key.”
Claire smiled, then laughed. Really laughed. It caught her off guard.
Reid’s eyes flicked up at the sound. “There she is.”
Her smile faded into something gentler. “Feels weird, doesn’t it?”
“What?”
“Sitting. Talking. Breathing without looking over our shoulders.”
Reid sat up, hand finding hers. “You still can,” he said. “I’ll be here.”
Claire looked at him, saw all the things he wasn’t saying—We don’t know how long this lasts. We don’t know what Vos will do next. You could still lose me.
She squeezed his hand tighter. “Thank you,” she whispered.