Chapter 4 Ghosts Don’t Stay Buried
FOUR
GHOSTS DON'T STAY BURIED
TROY
Declan had disappeared to the gym around noon and I was left alone with memories I didn't want to sit with.
Every room carried versions of myself I'd tried to leave behind.
The kitchen where I'd learned to make coffee too early because insomnia had been a constant companion after Mom died.
The living room where I'd spent years pretending not to notice how Declan filled a space.
The hallway where I could still see the marks on the doorframe tracking my height through the years, evidence that I'd been here long enough to grow up.
Chicago still owned pieces of me I'd thought I'd taken with me when I left.
So I grabbed my jacket and walked out into the cold afternoon with no destination in mind, just the need to move.
Snow had started falling while I'd been inside, wet and heavy, the kind that soaked through fabric instead of dusting off clean.
The city looked different than I remembered, wearing the same bones under different skin.
New buildings where old ones used to be.
Familiar streets that felt foreign anyway.
I walked for an hour, hands shoved in my pockets, breath fogging in the air, snow collecting in my hair and on my shoulders while I tried to outpace thoughts that followed me anyway.
The cold felt hostile in a way I didn't remember. London got cold but this was different. This was the cold I'd grown up in, the one that knew how to get under your skin and stay there. The one that reminded you winter here didn't ask permission before settling in for months.
I passed the corner store where I used to buy candy with change I'd stolen from Declan's jacket.
Passed the park where I'd gotten into my first real fight at fourteen, came home with a black eye and a bloody nose, and Declan had just looked at me and asked if I'd won.
Passed the street where Mom's car had been parked the last time I saw her alive.
Every block was a landmine.
My phone buzzed. I pulled it out expecting Luka or one of the Sentinels checking in.
It was Rafael.
Rafael
Heard you were back in town. Drink?
I stopped walking. Stared at the message for a long moment.
Rafael Varela. I hadn't thought about him in months, maybe longer. We'd crossed paths years ago through Luka's world.
I'd liked him well enough. He'd never treated me like just another soldier. Had talked to me like an actual person instead of a weapon Luka kept sharpened.
But the timing sat wrong in my chest. I'd been back less than twenty-four hours and hadn't told anyone except the Sentinels I was in Chicago. Rafael shouldn't have known I was here unless someone had told him, and the list of people who knew was short enough that I could count them on one hand.
Troy
Where?
Rafael
Vanguard. Near the docks. You know it?
I did. Decent bar, not too loud, the place where you could actually have a conversation without shouting. I'd been there a few times with Luka back when I was still learning how his world worked.
Rafael would remember that. Would remember I knew the place.
Troy
Yeah. Give me thirty.
Rafael
See you then.
The bar was exactly where I remembered it, tucked between warehouses that had been converted into lofts and offices. Inside was warm and dimly lit, all dark wood and exposed brick. Not crowded yet, just a handful of people scattered at tables and the bar.
Rafael was already there, sitting in a corner booth with a whiskey in front of him. He looked up when I walked in, smiled, and gestured to the seat across from him. Perfectly dry, perfectly put together, like the mess outside hadn't touched him at all.
Rafael looked like he'd been waiting for me.
“Troy Donnelly,” he said as I slid into the booth. “Heard rumors you'd gone respectable. Didn't believe them.”
“You heard wrong. I'm still a disaster.”
“Good, because respectable is boring.” He flagged down the bartender, pointed at his glass, then at me. Two more whiskeys appeared within a minute. “How long's it been?”
“I've lost count already.”
“You look good. Harder. Like you've been busy.”
I took a drink and let the burn settle. “Could say the same about you.”
He leaned back and studied me with those dark, unreadable eyes. “Heard you were working with Calloway's people. The Sentinels.”
“Word travels.”
“Always does.” He smiled, easy and warm. “That must be interesting work.”
“It pays.”
“And keeps you out of trouble?”
“Keeps me in a different kind of trouble.”
He laughed, genuine and low. “Fair enough. You always did have a talent for finding the most complicated version of anything.” He took a drink. “So what, you're an international man of mystery now? Jetsetting around causing problems?”
“More like getting my ass kicked in various time zones.”
“Living the dream.” He signaled for another round. “You miss it here? The city, I mean.”
“Sometimes. London's got its own appeal, but Chicago's still home in ways that matter.”
“Even with all the baggage?”
“Especially with the baggage. At least here I know where all the bodies are buried.”
Rafael grinned at that. “Literally or metaphorically?”
“Yes.”
The bartender brought fresh drinks. I drained what was left of my first glass and started on the second, feeling the warmth spread through my chest and push back against the cold that had settled into my bones.
“So what brings you back to Chicago?” Rafael asked. “Figured you'd be too busy with Sentinel work to visit home.”
“Needed a break.”
“From?”
“Everything.”
He nodded like that made perfect sense. Like he'd been expecting exactly that answer. “London can do that to you. Too much history, too much weight. Sometimes you need distance to remember who you are.”
“Yeah, exactly that.”
“You staying with family?”
My jaw tightened. “Stepfather. It's complicated.”
“Stepfathers usually are. My father remarried when I was young. His new wife was fine. Her presence in my life was not. Took me years to figure out it wasn't about her. It was about what she represented.”
“What's that?”
“That life moved on without asking permission. That grief doesn't wait for you to be ready before it demands you keep living anyway.” He took a slow drink. “Your mother passed, right? When you were young?”
“Fifteen,” I said.
“Fuck. That's hard.” He said it simply, no performative sympathy, just acknowledgment that felt genuine. “And your stepfather raised you after?”
“Yeah.”
“You close?”
I laughed, bitter and sharp. “No. Opposite of close. We tolerate each other on good days.”
“But you came back here anyway.”
“Didn't have a better option.”
Rafael studied me for a long moment, then smiled slightly. “I think you're lying to yourself, but that's none of my business.”
“What's that supposed to mean?”
“Means you could've gone anywhere. But you came home. To him. That says more than you want it to whether you admit it or not.”
I wanted to argue. But the words stuck in my throat because he was right and I hated that he was right and I hated that I'd walked back into this city knowing exactly what I was walking back into.
“He know you're working with the Sentinels?”
“He doesn't know anything about what I do.”
“Smart man.” Rafael smiled. “Probably safer not knowing.”
We talked for another hour. Easy conversation that moved between Chicago, the fight scene Rafael had investments in, mutual acquaintances from Luka's world.
Surface-level catching up that felt good because it required nothing deeper, because Rafael didn't know me well enough to ask the questions that would cut.
By the time we finished the third round, I felt looser than I had since landing. The whiskey helped, but so did the conversation. The reminder that not every interaction had to be loaded with history and resentment and the weight of everything I was trying not to feel.
“I should go,” I said finally, checking my phone. Nearly five. I'd been here longer than I meant to.
“Yeah, I've got a meeting myself.” Rafael stood and pulled out his wallet, dropping enough cash on the table to cover both our tabs and a generous tip. “Good seeing you, Troy. We should do this again while you're in town.”
“Yeah. Maybe.”
“I mean it. You need anything while you're here, call me.” He pulled out a card, slid it across the table. Business card, embossed and expensive-looking, with just his name and a phone number. “Anything at all.”
I pocketed the card. “Thanks.”
We shook hands. Then he was gone, weaving through the bar toward the exit, leaving me sitting there feeling oddly settled.
The gates were still open when I got to the cemetery. Visiting hours didn't end until six, which gave me just enough time if I didn't linger.
I'd only been here a handful of times since she died. Funerals, a few anniversaries in the early years when guilt drove me back. Then nothing. Just distance and avoidance and the hope that not visiting her grave would somehow make the loss feel less real.
Didn't work.
I found her easily. Same spot it had always been, beneath a tree that had grown taller in the years since I'd last stood here. The headstone was simple. Her name, her dates, a line about beloved mother and wife that didn't come close to capturing who she'd been.
I stood there staring at carved stone and dead grass, hands shoved in my pockets, breath fogging in the cold. Snow was still falling, lighter now, dusting the headstone and the ground around it in white that looked clean until you got close enough to see the dirt underneath.
“Hey, Mom,” I said finally. The words felt stupid coming out of my mouth. Talking to a grave like she could hear me. Like this would do anything except make me feel pathetic.
But I kept going anyway.
“I'm back in Chicago. Staying with Declan. You'd probably think that was funny. Me running back to the man I spent years hating.” I kicked at a clump of frozen dirt.
The wind picked up, rattling bare branches overhead.