Chapter 8 Aiden
AIDEN
Mason doesn’t know he’s holding a landmine.
The photo is older than he is. Harper and me by the fire, her shoulder tucked into my side like it belonged there. Carlie must have taken it before she left the cabin. I remember her teasing, snapping pictures right before she was called away.
I should have hidden the photograph better. I should have put it somewhere a five-year-old couldn’t reach.
“Is this my mommy?” Mason asks, studying it seriously. “You both look really happy.”
I swallow. My throat feels too tight for the moment this deserves. “Yes,” I say carefully. “That’s your mom.”
He tilts the photo toward the light, squinting. “And then Mom moved away to Arizona. Is that why you stopped being friends?”
There’s no judgment in the question. No accusation. Just curiosity, the kind that cuts straight through whatever armor you think you’re wearing.
I feel the shift the second Mason asks it. The air tightens. The question lands squarely where I deserve it to. “Not entirely. We had a disagreement.”
Mason frowns. “Did you yell?”
“No.”
“Were you mean? Sometimes I’m mean when I disagree.”
I hesitate. But honest questions deserve honest answers. “Probably.”
He considers that, then says, “Mommy says when friends fight, they should say sorry.”
I don’t answer right away.
Harper’s lips are tight, like she’s fighting a giggle. She is loving that her five-year-old is grilling me about the biggest mistake of my life.
I can take my lumps. I earned them. “I didn’t.”
Mason nods once, solemn. “You should.”
I manage a weak breath. “Yeah?”
“She’s really nice,” he adds, as if that settles it. “And she makes really good grilled cheeses. If you ‘pologize, she might make you one.”
I don’t laugh. I don’t speak. There is no real defense against a five-year-old’s logic combining with six years of guilt. You just gotta stand there and take it like a man.
Harper clears her throat, breaking the moment before Mason can ask anything else. “It’s a-pologize, Mason. And it’s also time for bed.”
Mason groans, predictable and dramatic. “But I’m not tired.”
“I know,” she replies, firm without being sharp. In fact, she’s smiling. “And it’s still bedtime. Are we going to have this conversation every night, or am I just lucky?”
He huffs and rolls his eyes, reminding me too much of Carlie. I bet that’s where he got it from. “Fine. But I’m still not tired.”
“Maybe not, but I bet the bed misses you.”
“The bed is a bed. It doesn’t miss anything.” His petulance is mildly adorable.
“How do you know that? Do you speak Bed-ish?”
He giggles. “You’re silly.”
“You have no idea.” She reaches for the photo, easing it from his hands before he can protest. He pouts but lets her take it, distracted by her steering him toward the hallway with a hand at his back.
As they go, he looks over his shoulder at me. “Don’t forget to say sorry.”
“Thanks for the advice, captain.”
That seems to satisfy him. He disappears down the hall with Harper, his voice trailing behind them as he negotiates for water, a different stuffed animal, a longer story. The sound of it all fades slowly, replaced by the low hum of the city outside the windows.
I pick up the photo from the counter and stare at it longer than I should.
We look stupidly happy. Relaxed, unaware of how brief that version of us would be. Ignorance is bliss, or at least it was then. I’d told myself I kept the picture because it reminded me of a good memory. The truth is, I kept it because it reminded me of the cost.
We had one night together, and it shifted things in me forever. It makes no sense, and also, it makes all the sense in the world. If Carlie isn’t exaggerating, and I have no reason to think she is, that night shifted things for Harper, too.
It’s an earth-shaking thought I haven’t allowed myself to indulge in.
Because if things shifted for her the way they did for me, then… we lost six years we could have had, all because I’m an asshole who tried to do the right thing. I thought I knew what the right thing to do was, and I fucked up.
That tracks. I fuck up everything I touch.
I take a deep breath and try to let it go. But I can’t. Hurting Harper to save her from me after a single night is one thing. But hurting her for six years?
I’m not sure how to survive that kind of guilt.
Harper comes back alone a few minutes later. She doesn’t look at me as she crosses the living room, just nods once in my direction before disappearing into her guest room. The door closes softly behind her.
She doesn’t come back out.
I wait longer than makes sense, pretending to straighten pillows, to rinse a glass that doesn’t need it.
Menial tasks are the perfect distraction when you’re waiting to have a life-altering conversation.
The penthouse settles into nighttime quiet, every sound magnified by the stillness.
Eventually, it becomes obvious she’s staying put, giving both of us space whether I want it or not.
I retreat to my home office instead.
The room feels different at night—darker, more utilitarian. I turn on the laptop and pull up the security footage the police granted me access to earlier. Grant wasn’t around, so I volunteered for temporary fire inspector duty.
Officially, they’ll handle the investigation.
Unofficially, they know I’ll see things they might miss.
I scrub through hours of nothing. Empty bar. Chairs up. Lights off. The kind of footage that lulls you into thinking there’s nothing there. Then a packed night, busy sections, people having fun. Footage from outside. Nothing out of the ordinary.
Then I rewind.
Two days before the fire, late after closing. The back entrance comes into view. A man stands just outside the frame, pacing in and out of sight like he’s deciding whether to commit to something. He checks his phone. Looks over his shoulder, without getting his face on camera.
I pause the footage and lean closer, jaw tightening. He doesn’t touch anything. Doesn’t force a door. But he knows where to stand, where not to be seen. Someone who knows the place well. Someone like an ex-employee.
I should call this in immediately. I will.
But first, I close the laptop and stand, my attention pulled back toward the hallway. I can’t stop thinking about her. About that photo. About all the stupid shit I’ve done.
Mason is right. I need to ‘pologize. Maybe throw in some groveling while I’m at it.
I walk to the guest room and knock softly. No answer at first. Then the door opens. Harper stands there in an oversized sweatshirt, her face blotchy, eyes still red like she’s been crying. She looks startled to see me, like she wasn’t sure I’d come.
“I didn’t mean for Mason to find that,” I start, then stop. Our history crowds into my mind—everything I never said, everything I should have. I almost tell her about the letter I never sent. About how that photo has haunted me for six years.
But she doesn’t look like she’s up to that conversation. Not right now. She just looks at me, stunned, silent.
“Are you okay?”
Harper sniffles. “Fine.”
We both know that’s a lie, but I’m going to let her have it for now. She’ll talk when she’s ready. “I’m sorry,” I say instead, already pulling back. “I… I shouldn’t have bothered you.”
“It’s okay—”
My phone rings in my pocket. The emergency ring I get from work. “Gotta take this. I’m sorry.”
She just nods and closes the door.
I tell myself I did the right thing by backing off. I don’t have the right to unload six years of regret and guilt on her doorstep just because I am finally ready to say it. Especially not when she clearly wants to be alone right now.
I bring the phone up to my ear. “Sloan here.”
The dispatcher’s voice cuts in immediately, clipped and urgent. “We’ve got a car fire reported near Clover and Mint. Possible accelerant involved according to the spread pattern. Morales wants you on scene.”
My stomach tightens. Another fire near the bar. What the fuck is going on? “Copy. On my way.”
The call ends, leaving a hollow quiet in its wake. I lower the phone slowly, already shifting into motion in my head—gear, route, response time. Muscle memory takes over even as everything else resists leaving this hallway.
At the door, I pause once more, hand on the handle. I look back down the hallway toward the guest room, memorizing the way the light falls, the quiet hum of the space, the sense that something unresolved is waiting for me to return.
Then I’m gone, the door closing softly behind me, the emergency lights already flashing in my mind as I head toward Clover and Mint. I won’t let that bastard take what’s hers.