Chapter 32
"I don't know how to be okay with who I am now."
The words settled heavily in the room after he said them.
Outside the wide office windows, rain had started sometime during the session.
Thin streaks of water crawled slowly down the glass, turning the gray Tennessee sky into something blurred and shapeless.
The soft sound of it tapping against the building filled the silence Naomi allowed to linger between them.
Chase sat forward slightly in the chair, forearms resting against his thighs, hands loosely clasped together like he was trying to physically hold himself in place. His shoulders looked tight beneath the dark fabric of his shirt. Tension lived in him now. Aria noticed it constantly.
In the way he sat.
The way he scanned.
The way his jaw flexed every few minutes when his thoughts got too loud.
Even now, emotionally exhausted and halfway unraveled, part of him still looked prepared for impact.
Naomi watched him quietly for a moment.
Not analyzing him in a cold way.
Observing him.
There was a difference.
"You are trying to reconcile multiple versions of yourself simultaneously," she said gently. "That creates emotional instability even without trauma."
Chase stared down at his hands.
A faint scar disappeared beneath the sleeve near his wrist. Another crossed his knuckles. There were so many marks on him now that Aria doubted even he knew where all of them came from anymore.
"Most people," Naomi continued, "have uninterrupted identity development. They grow continuously through memory, experience, relationships, routine."
A pause.
"You didn't get that."
Rain slid slowly down the windows behind her.
The office smelled faintly like coffee and old books.
Warm light pooled softly across the shelves lining the walls, taking some of the harshness out of the conversation.
Chase finally leaned back slightly in the chair, exhaustion showing more openly now.
"So what?" he asked quietly. "I'm just supposed to accept that I'm... different now?"
The hesitation before the word different mattered.
Aria heard it.
Naomi did too.
"I think," Naomi said carefully, "that fighting reality usually creates more suffering than facing it."
Chase gave a tired huff of air through his nose and looked away toward the rain darkened windows.
"That sounds like therapist talk."
"It is therapist talk," Naomi replied calmly.
That almost pulled an angry reaction out of him.
Almost.
But it disappeared quickly.
Because beneath all anger and the sarcasm sat fear.
Raw fear.
The kind men like Chase usually buried beneath silence.
"I'm serious," he admitted after a second, quieter now. "I don't know what she expects from me anymore."
His eyes flickered briefly toward Aria before dropping again.
The words hit her harder than she expected.
Because she didn't know either.
And maybe he saw that uncertainty in her face every single day.
Naomi looked between them carefully.
"That question right there," she said softly, "is why neither of you should be making major emotional decisions right now."
Chase frowned slightly.
"What does that mean?"
"It means," Naomi explained, "that trauma recovery is unstable in the beginning."
She folded her hands loosely in her lap.
"Memories return unpredictably. Emotional attachment fluctuates. Hypervigilance affects emotional regulation. Shame affects perception. Grief affects intimacy."
Every sentence felt uncomfortably accurate.
Naomi looked directly at Chase.
"You are trying to understand who you are while simultaneously trying to repair multiple emotionally complicated relationships."
A pause.
"That is a tremendous psychological burden."
He looked exhausted hearing it said out loud.
Not relieved.
Just tired.
"Recovery," she continued, "is not going to happen in a straight line."
Her attention shifted briefly toward Aria.
"And reconciliation definitely won't."
Something tightened subtly in Aria's chest.
Naomi noticed immediately.
Of course she did.
"You are both grieving," Naomi said gently.
Chase looked confused by that.
Aria didn't.
"You," Naomi said to Chase, "are grieving the loss of continuity. The life you don't fully remember. The version of yourself you thought you'd return to."
Then to Aria:
"And you are grieving the realization that the man who came home cannot fully be the same man who left."
The room went painfully quiet.
Because there it was.
The thing neither of them had fully said aloud yet.
Chase's gaze lowered immediately.
Aria looked toward the rain.
Neither denied it.
Naomi leaned back slightly.
"That doesn't mean there's no hope," she added carefully. "But it does mean you both need realistic expectations."
The muscles in Chase's jaw shifted.
"What does realistic look like?"
Naomi exhaled softly before answering.
"Messy."
That almost sounded absurd enough to laugh at.
But nobody did.
"Some days memories will come back and emotionally destabilize you," she continued. "Some days you'll feel emotionally attached to one identity more than another. Some days you may resent yourself. Some days you may resent each other."
Aria swallowed quietly.
Because that already sounded familiar.
Naomi's eyes softened slightly.
"And if you attempt to ignore that resentment instead of addressing it honestly, it will poison whatever relationship you try rebuilding."
That one landed hard.
Especially because Aria could already feel resentment living quietly inside herself no matter how much she hated it.
Toward Emily.
Toward the situation.
Toward fate.
Toward him sometimes.
And the guilt from that alone was exhausting.
Naomi looked back toward Chase.
"I'm going to recommend several things moving forward."
His posture straightened slightly again automatically.
Listening mode.
Military habit probably.
"First, weekly individual trauma therapy. Possibly twice weekly depending on symptom escalation."
He nodded once.
"Second, psychiatric evaluation for sleep regulation and PTSD symptom management."
That visibly bothered him.
Aria saw it immediately.
Medication.
Loss of control.
Stigma.
Naomi noticed too.
"This is not weakness," she said calmly. "Sleep deprivation alone can intensify emotional dysregulation and intrusive symptoms."
He nodded again, though less comfortably this time.
"Third," Naomi continued, "I want structured grounding exercises incorporated into your daily routine."
She reached for a folder beside her chair and slid several pages toward him.
"Nervous system regulation techniques. Sensory grounding. Dissociation interruption methods."
Chase glanced down at the papers like they were written in another language.
"You really think breathing exercises are gonna fix this?"
"No," Naomi said honestly. "But I think teaching your body safety matters."
That shut him up surprisingly fast.
Naomi continued.
"I also strongly recommend delaying major emotional decisions."
Silence.
Heavy silence.
Because everybody in the room knew exactly what she meant.
Marriage.
Divorce.
Reconciliation.
All of it.
Chase rubbed a hand over the back of his neck slowly.
"And what if life doesn't exactly pause while I figure myself out?"
His voice sounded tired again.
Naomi's expression softened.
"It usually doesn't."
The rain outside had picked up harder now, tapping steadily against the windows.
The room suddenly felt smaller somehow.
Warmer too.
Like the storm had closed around the building.
Then Naomi looked at Aria fully for the first time since the session began.
"And you."
Aria blinked once.
Already defensive.
She felt it immediately.
Naomi's gaze sharpened slightly.
"You need treatment too."
Aria crossed her arms loosely.
"I'm fine."
Naomi stared at her for exactly two seconds.
"That response alone tells me you are not."
Chase glanced sideways toward Aria.
For the first time since arriving, she looked genuinely uncomfortable.
Naomi sat forward slightly.
"You experienced prolonged traumatic grief," she said calmly. "Ambiguous loss. Chronic emotional hypervigilance. Complicated mourning."
Aria looked away toward the windows.
"You buried your husband," Naomi continued gently. "Then got him back psychologically altered and legally married to someone else."
Even Chase flinched hearing it phrased that way.
Naomi's voice softened.
"That is profoundly traumatic."
Aria's jaw tightened.
"I've been functioning."
"Yes," Naomi said carefully. "Functioning is not the same thing as healing."
That silence afterward felt personal somehow.
Like Naomi had peeled something open too quickly.
Aria uncrossed her arms slowly.
"I don't really have time to fall apart."
The honesty in that sentence hurt.
Naomi's expression softened further.
"That tells me you already are."
The drive home felt longer than the drive there.
Not because of distance.
Because both of them left therapy emotionally wrung out.
Rain followed them most of the way back.
Steady and gray.
The kind that turned the world softer around the edges, blurring tree lines and back roads into something muted and distant. Windshield wipers moved rhythmically across the glass, the sound oddly hypnotic in the silence that filled the truck.
Neither of them seemed to have much left to say.
Not after everything Naomi had pulled apart.
Not after hearing their reality spoken aloud by someone else.
Trauma.
Grief.
Resentment.
Identity disruption.
No major decisions.
No rushing reconciliation.
No pretending this was simple.
Chase sat turned slightly toward the window, elbow resting against the door, fingers pressed lightly against his mouth.
Tired looked different on him now.
Like something inside him had finally stopped fighting long enough to admit how damaged things really were.
He had barely touched the folder Naomi handed him.
It sat between them in the console.
Grounding exercises.
Sleep recommendations.
Emergency coping strategies.
Weekly therapy schedule.
The whole thing looked overwhelming.
Truthfully, he felt overwhelming.
And beside him Aria looked distant.
Deep in thought.
Her hands stayed steady on the steering wheel, but her expression looked tight somehow.
Like Naomi's words had followed her into the car and settled in a way she could not ignore.
You buried your husband. Then got him back psychologically altered and legally married to someone else.
Profoundly traumatic.
He hated that sentence.
Hated how true it really was.
Hated that somebody else finally said out loud what she had been carrying.
And maybe hated even more that he had not fully understood it until now.
He looked over at her briefly.
The faint crease between her brows.
The tiredness in her eyes.
The way she held herself together so carefully.
God.
How had she survived this?
"How mad are you?" he asked quietly.
The question slipped out before he thought too hard about it.
Aria blinked once, glancing over at him briefly.
"At what?"
He gave a humorless breath.
"Everything."
The honesty in the answer surprised even him.
Her expression softened.
Only slightly.
"I'm tired," she admitted quietly.
A pause.
"I am always tired these days. Emotionally drained and physically spent."
He nodded once. That made sense.
Because he felt like someone had reached into his chest and rearranged everything without asking.
They drove another minute in silence.
Then quietly, without looking at him, Aria said:
"I'm not mad at you today."
Today.
The word hit him harder than he expected.
Because it implied there were days she was.
Probably rightfully so.
And somehow, he appreciated the honesty.
"That sounds promising," he muttered.
That got the tiniest exhale from her.
Almost a laugh.
Almost.
"It's the best I got right now."
Fair.
Completely fair.
Rain tapped steadily against the windshield.
The trees outside blurred past.
Gray sky stretching endlessly overhead.
Tennessee looked softer in weather like this.
Lonelier too.
By the time they pulled into the driveway, Chase felt emotionally hollowed out.
The house sat quietly beneath the cloudy afternoon.
Warm porch lights still on despite the daylight.
Home or something trying to become one again.
Aria parked but did not immediately move.
Neither of them did.
Like getting out somehow meant accepting reality.
Eventually she exhaled.
"We should eat something."
He almost said he was not hungry.
But Naomi had spent ten minutes explaining why trauma and exhaustion made people forget basic needs.
So instead:
"Yeah."
Aria grabbed her bag.
The therapy folder.
Her keys.
Then finally stepped out into the drizzle.
Chase followed.
Cool air hit immediately.
The rain had eased into mist now, dampening everything without fully committing.
The porch boards creaked softly beneath their steps.
And the second Aria unlocked the front door she stopped completely.
Chase nearly walked into her.
"What?"
Then he saw it.
The kitchen light was on.
And someone was inside.
A familiar voice drifted faintly from the living room.
"...I swear if y'all are dead in a ditch, I'm gonna be real inconvenienced."
Parker.
Aria sighed.
Of course.
Chase rubbed a hand over his face.
Honestly?
For the first time all day the idea of spending time with Parker sounded weirdly comforting.
Because Parker had a way of entering emotional disasters like they were mildly inconvenient weather.
You hated him for it sometimes.
But somehow...
It always helped.
The moment they stepped inside, Parker looked up from the couch.
Tall frame sprawled out like he owned the place.
Takeout containers scattered across the coffee table.
His boots kicked off near the door.
He looked between them once.
Then immediately sat up straighter.
"Well," he said slowly. "You both look horrifying... ignore that nasty voicemail I just left you Aria."
Aria dropped her bag near the counter.
"Good to see you too."
"No seriously," Parker said, standing now. "Did therapy punch y'all in the throat or something you both look like ghosts?"
Chase gave a tired breath that almost sounded like laughter.
"Something like that."
Parker studied him for another second.
Really studied him.
Then Aria.
And something softer crossed his face.
Concern.
Real concern.
"Okay," he said quietly. "Bad day then."
Nobody answered immediately.
Which apparently answered enough.
Parker nodded once toward the kitchen.
"I brought food."
A pause.
"Figured neither of y'all were emotionally stable enough to feed yourselves."
Aria dropped her keys onto the counter with a quiet clatter.
The sound echoed more than it should have in the house.
Or maybe everything felt louder after therapy.
After sitting in a room and hearing someone professionally explain just how broken things actually were inside your head, it created a void around you.
She shrugged out of her damp jacket and hung it over the back of a chair.
The house smelled faintly like rain and takeout.
Grease.
Warm bread.
Something fried.
Normal smells.
Comforting smells.
It felt strange after the emotional heaviness of the day.
Parker stood near the kitchen island now, sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms, dark hair slightly damp around the edges like he had run through the rain to get inside. He looked like he had settled in hours ago, the kind of comfortable sprawl that somehow made itself at home anywhere.
He glanced between them again. Really looked. And whatever smart comment he had prepared died in his throat.
Because they both looked awful.
Chase looked emotionally hollowed out.
Shoulders tense.
Eyes tired.
The kind of tired that had nothing to do with sleep.
And Aria...
God.
Aria looked held together by pure stubbornness alone.
Parker knew that look.
He had seen it after funerals.
After deployments.
After hospitals.
The look of someone functioning because collapsing felt inconvienent.
"Well," he said more quietly this time, "it went that bad, huh?"
Aria moved toward the sink.
Grabbed a glass.
Filled it halfway with water she barely touched.
"It was productive," she said carefully.
Parker narrowed his eyes.
"That sounds suspiciously like doctor code for emotionally catastrophic."
Chase sank down into one of the kitchen chairs with a tired exhale.
Honestly, sitting felt harder than standing somehow.
Like his body had finally caught up with him.
"She told me I'm psychologically unstable," he muttered.
Parker blinked once.
Then twice.
A beat passed.
"Well," he said finally, "I mean... respectfully, brother, I could've told you that for free. Save you a whole lotta money."
Chase stared at him. Flat. Emotionally exhausted. And yet, somehow against all odds.
A small laugh escaped him.
Short.
Surprised.
Gone too quickly.
But real.
Parker pointed immediately.
"There he is."
Aria rolled her eyes, though the reaction lacked any real irritation.
"You're impossible."
"Somebody in this house has to be emotionally functional."
Parker moved toward the takeout bags.
"Which unfortunately appears to be me."
"That's terrifying," Aria muttered.
"As it should be."
He started unloading containers onto the kitchen island.
Burgers.
Fries.
Soup.
Sandwiches.
Enough food for a family of six.
Chase frowned slightly.
"You expecting company?"
Parker shrugged.
"Traumatized people forget to eat."
A pause.
"And y'all are dramatically traumatized."
Something about the casualness of the statement made Chase pause.
Because strangely enough it didn't feel judgmental.
Just factual.
Matter of fact concern wrapped in sarcasm.
Parker handed Aria a container without asking.
Soup.
Her favorite.
Then slid one toward Chase.
Burger.
Extra fries.
Again without asking because he knew them both well enough to know exactly what they liked.
The familiarity of it caught Chase off guard.
Like Parker had quietly stepped into caretaker mode without making a big deal about it.
"You didn't have to do this," Chase said quietly.
Parker shrugged again.
"Yeah, well." His expression softened slightly."Somebody should."
The kitchen grew quieter.
Rain tapped steadily outside.
The windows fogged softly from the warmth inside.
For a few minutes, nobody talked much.
Just the quiet sound of containers opening.
Fries moving.
Silverware scraping lightly.
The kind of silence that existed between people too emotionally exhausted to force conversation.
Parker watched them carefully though.
Especially Chase.
He looked different.
Not physically.
Something in his posture.
Like therapy had stripped something away.
"You okay?" Parker finally asked.
The question came gentler this time.
Less joking.
Chase leaned back slightly in the chair.
Honestly? No. Not even remotely.
But he was beginning to realize "fine" was not going to work around these people anymore.
"Don't really know," he admitted. His fingers tapped lightly against the edge of the table. "She said my brain basically adapted to survive."
Parker listened. Actually listened. No interruption. No jokes.
Chase looked down. "Said Will wasn't fake."
The sentence came out like a whisper. "She said he was my survival technique."
Parker leaned back slightly against the counter. Thinking. "That kinda makes sense."
Chase frowned. "How so?"
Parker folded his arms.
"Well..." He paused choosing his words carefully. "Brother, you went through hell."
Simple.
Blunt.
No dramatics.
"You weren't exactly operating under normal circumstances."
A pause.
"So maybe Will was just..." He searched for words. "The version of you that kept breathing."
That sounded dangerously close to what Naomi said.
And somehow hearing it from Parker made it hit differently.
Because Parker knew Chase.
The real Chase.
Or at least the version of himself frombefore.
Chase rubbed a hand over his jaw.
"She also said I probably ain't ever gonna be the same."
Nobody spoke for a second.
Rain filled the silence.
Steady.
Soft.
Finally...
"No shit," Parker said gently.
Aria looked over at him immediately.
"Parker."
"What?" he asked softly. "I'm serious."
His attention stayed on Chase.
"You survived stuff most people don't come back from."
A pause.
"Of course you're different."
Not cruel.
Not dismissive.
Just honest.
"But different ain't bad."
Something shifted subtly in Chase's expression.
Because maybe... maybe that was what he needed.
Not people pretending he was fine.
Not pretending everything could go back.
Just accepting him as he was now.
Parker pushed away from the counter.
Grabbed a fry.
"So," he said casually.
"Anybody wanna explain why y'all both look like somebody emotionally hit you with a truck?"
Aria looked tired all over again.
"Naomi told me I need therapy too."
Parker blinked once.
"Yeah, cause I think I can remember someone else saying the same thing?"
Aria narrowed her eyes.
"You don't get to sound vindicated."
"I absolutely do."
He popped the fry into his mouth.
"You've been emotionally constipated since approximately forever."
Chase nearly choked on his drink.
Aria looked horrified.
"Emotionally what?"
"You heard me."
Parker shrugged.
"You bottle things up until you explode and terrify everybody."
A pause.
"Which apparently happened last night."
Chase suddenly became very interested in his food.
Aria looked away.
Because unfortunately he was not entirely wrong.
The kitchen settled into quiet again.
The storm outside darkened the windows.
Rainwater crawled slowly down the glass.
And for the first time since therapy
The house felt a little less lonely.
Then casually, like he was commenting on the weather, Parker said:
"So... Emily made it home."
Everything stilled.
Chase looked down at the table.
Aria's hand paused halfway to her drink.
The air shifted.
Because Emily leaving had somehow made everything more real.
No more middle ground.
No more pretending time would decide things for them.
She was gone.
And Chase had let her go.
Aria stood slowly.
"Parker," she said quietly, "can I talk to you outside for a minute?"
His brows lifted slightly.
The tone caught his attention immediately.
Serious.
He looked once between her and Chase.
Then nodded.
"Yeah."
Chase barely reacted.
Emotionally spent.
Still turning therapy over in his head.
Still trying not to think too hard about Emily.
About guilt.
About grief.
About all the ways he felt like he had failed everyone in the room.
Aria grabbed her sweater from the back of the chair.
"Be back."
The words were directed toward Chase, but quieter than normal somehow.
He nodded once. "Okay."
The front door creaked softly behind them.
Cool damp air wrapped around them immediately.
The rain had slowed to mist now, the sky hanging low and gray overhead. Everything smelled like wet earth and leaves.
The porch lights glowed warm against the damp evening.
For a second, neither said anything.
Parker shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and followed her toward the porch swing hanging near the far end.
The wooden swing bed creaked softly beneath their weight.
Chains rattling faintly as it settled.
The yard stretched out dark and damp in front of them, rainwater glimmering beneath the porch light.
Parker waited. Didn't rush her. Just leaned back resting on his elbow, boots planted against the porch floor.
"What's up?"
Aria stared out into the yard for a long second.
"I did something," she admitted quietly.
Parker tilted his head slightly.
"That sentence sounds concerning."
Despite herself, the corner of her mouth twitched faintly.
Then disappeared.
She folded her hands together in her lap.
"I started the process of having Emily investigated."
The swing creaked once.
Parker blinked. Once. Then again. Not shocked exactly.
Clearly he was thinking.
Aria exhaled quietly.
"I have not set out to destroyed her life or anything," she added quickly. "I just..."
Her jaw tightened.
"I filed an ethics complaint."
Rain tapped softly against the porch roof.
Somewhere in the distance, thunder rolled low and quiet.
Parker stayed silent long enough that she finally looked over at him.
Prepared.
Defensive.
Waiting for judgment.
Instead, he nodded once.
"Good."
Aria blinked.
"What?"
"Good." He shrugged lightly. "You should."
That completely caught her off guard.
She frowned slightly.
"I thought..."
The sentence trailed.
Parker looked over at her.
"You thought I liked Emily?"
"Well..." She hesitated. "You kinda acted like you did."
That made him laugh softly under his breath.
Not offended.
Just tired.
"Yeah." He rubbed a hand across the back of his neck.
"I always do this thing."
His mouth twisted slightly.
"You know this."
She narrowed her eyes.
"Know what?"
"I get emotionally attached when I feel like somebody needs protecting."
A pause.
"My big brother instincts get all tangled up and suddenly I'm out here confusing concern with romance."
That sounded painfully Parker.
He looked back out at the yard.
Dark.
Quiet.
Wet.
"Emily was hurting," he admitted quietly. "And I felt bad for her."
A pause.
"She loved him in her own way."
Aria swallowed.
Because yeah.
Parker sighed. "But at the end of the day?"
He shrugged. "I'm here." Another pause. "She's there."
Simple.
Honest.
"And Chase..." he continued carefully, "he was always gonna choose you."
The words landed somewhere strange in her chest.
"He didn't even know me," she said quietly.
"No," Parker said gently. "But somehow he still came looking. I think some people call that divine intervention."
That silence afterward felt heavier than the conversation.
Aria looked down at her hands.
"I don't want him to hate me for this," she admitted softly.
The real truth finally surfacing.
Parker frowned slightly.
"For reporting her?"
She nodded. "He loved her."
A pause. "And honestly? I don't think she's evil."
Her voice cracked slightly around the edges.
"I think she loved him too."
That was the hardest part.
The part nobody talked about enough.
Emily was not some villain.
She was just wrong and what she did had to come with consequences.
"He was vulnerable," Aria said quietly.
The anger crept in slower now.
Sadder.
"He didn't know who he was."
Her jaw tightened.
"He had no memory. No family. No history."
A pause.
"What if he had kids?"
The words shook slightly.
"And okay, so look yeah, maybe there were no children involved but he did have somebody who was waiting on him."
Parker stayed quiet.
Listening.
Actually listening.
"She crossed a line," Aria whispered.
Her eyes stung unexpectedly.
"And maybe she loved him, but that doesn't make it okay."
Rainwater dripped softly from the porch roof.
Steady.
Quiet.
The swing rocked faintly beneath them.
"I don't want revenge," she admitted after a second.
God.
Maybe part of her did.
Maybe that was the ugly truth.
But mostly... mostly she wanted accountability.
"I just..."
She looked out at the dark yard again.
"I need somebody to acknowledge that what happened to him wasn't okay."
Parker's expression softened.
And quietly he spoke while rubbing her back.
"I agree."
She looked at him.
Really looked at him.
And for the first time all day.
She felt a little less crazy.
Parker leaned back further into the porch swing, the old wood creaking beneath them.
For a second, he just watched the rain. Like he was debating something.
Aria noticed immediately. "What?"
He scratched lightly at his jaw.
"There's something I probably should tell you."
Her stomach tightened.
The tone alone felt dangerous.
"Parker."
"No, no," he said quickly. "Nobody's dying. Calm down."
She narrowed her eyes.
"You literally only say that when something terrible is coming."
"That feels unfair."
"It's accurate."
A small breath of amusement left him, but it disappeared quickly.
The porch light cast warm shadows across his face, softening the usual teasing edges of his expression.
Then he sighed.
"Okay."
He leaned forward, forearms resting against his knees.
"While y'all were out here emotionally imploding..."
Her eyes narrowed further.
"I've been doing some digging."
That got her attention immediately.
"Digging?"
Parker glanced toward the front yard before lowering his voice slightly.
"You don't survive years in and around the military without knowing people."
A pause.
"And I know people who know people."
Her pulse picked up slightly.
"Parker get to the point quicker."
"I had somebody look into how Chase ended up in New Zealand."
That made her go still.
Because honestly?
That question had haunted her.
Afghanistan was one thing.
New Zealand was another entirely.
Too far.
Too random.
Too disconnected.
It never made sense.
"When the convoy got hit," Parker said carefully, "the initial assumption was everybody involved was either dead or captured."
Rain tapped softly against the porch roof.
Steady.
Rhythmic.
"But Chase wasn't officially recovered."
Aria frowned.
"We know that."
"No," Parker said quietly. "We thought we knew."
Something in his tone made her chest tighten.
He exhaled slowly.
"Apparently after the attack, he was moved."
Her stomach dropped.
Moved. Not rescued. Moved.
Parker's jaw shifted slightly.
"There was trafficking involved."
Aria's face drained immediately.
"What?"
He nodded once.
"Not exactly the kind you're thinking."
Though honestly, none of the options felt better.
"Black market movement. Contractors. Corrupt networks. Prisoners changing hands."
God.
Her chest tightened painfully.
Parker looked tired suddenly.
Angry too.
"The people who took him moved him through multiple places over time."
A pause.
"Eventually somebody dumped him."
The sentence came quieter.
"Badly injured. Barely alive."
Her throat tightened immediately.
She hated hearing it.
Even now.
Especially now.
"He was found outside a fishing port near Auckland," Parker continued.
"No ID."
No history. No memory. Just him broken and alone.
Something painful twisted inside her chest.
Because Jesus Christ.
All those years...
And he had been surviving horrors she couldn't even imagine.
Parker rubbed his hands together once.
"The hospital he was in did get involved."
A pause.
"Emily was involved in an ethical case."
The name shifted the mood immediately.
Complicated.
Messy.
Parker glanced toward her.
"And before you ask, yeah. I looked into that too."
Her brows pulled together.
"What do you mean?"
He sighed.
"Turns out when things between them started getting serious..."
He hesitated.
Choosing his words carefully.
"There was concern."
Concern.
Her stomach twisted. Professional concern. Ethical concern.
"The hospital actually reviewed it."
That surprised her.
"They what?"
"There was a committee."
Parker looked uncomfortable now.
"Patient vulnerability review. Ethical oversight."
A beat.
"Apparently somebody reported concerns."
Her pulse picked up.
"What happened?"
He gave her a look.
The kind that already answered the question.
"Nothing."
Her jaw tightened immediately.
"Nothing?"
He nodded.
"A few of Emily's friends sat on the review board."
The rain suddenly sounded louder.
Harder somehow.
"They argued Chase had cognitive function."
A pause.
"Said he was independent enough to consent and that the amount of time he had spent in their care showed he had no memory recovery even with extensive amounts of therapy and that it appeared he was not going to get them back."
Another pause.
"Said the relationship developed naturally during recovery."
Aria looked away.
Toward the dark yard.
Trying to process the rage rising quietly inside her.
Because of course.
Of course.
Swept under the rug.
"Convenient," she said flatly.
Parker gave a tired shrug.
"Feels that way."
Her chest rose sharply.
"He had no memory."
Anger sharpened her voice.
"No family history."
"No identity."
"No ability to fully understand what he'd lost."
A pause.
"He literally didn't know who he was."
Parker nodded quietly.
"I know."
"And they just..."
She laughed once.
Disbelieving.
"Signed off?"
"From what my guy found?"
Parker's jaw tightened.
"Yeah."
The porch swing creaked softly as Aria leaned back.
Stared out at the rain.
Something bitter moved through her.
Because somehow hearing it made her feel worse.
Not better.
Because now it wasn't just a messy tragedy.
It was preventable.
Someone had looked at the situation.
Seen the ethical problem.
And still others had let it happen.
Parker's voice softened.
"For what it's worth..."
She looked over.
"I also got people involved in reopening the case."
A pause.
His expression hardened slightly.
"She may have truly loved him but she still crossed a line."
Aria swallowed hard.
Because yeah.
That was exactly it.
Exactly.
Parker looked toward the house.
Warm light glowing through the kitchen window.
Chase's silhouette faintly visible moving around inside.
"He deserves to know eventually," Parker said quietly.
Her chest tightened instantly.
"About the committee?"
He nodded.
"But not right now."
A pause.
"Brother just found pieces of himself and started down the yellow brick road to recovery."
Rain dripped steadily from the roof.
"We don't pile gasoline on that today."
She nodded slowly.
Agreeing.
Reluctantly.
Then quieter she asked. "You really think he'll be mad?"
Parker looked over at her.
"At us for reporting her?"
She nodded.
He thought for a second.
"Honestly?"
A pause.
"At first? Maybe."
The honesty hurt.
"But later?"
His expression softened.
"I think someday he'll understand why we felt like we had to."
Another pause.
"And if he doesn't..."
He shrugged lightly.
"I'll yell at him for you."