Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Barret
The pilot kills the engine before the door opens.
One second, the world is a drumbeat of rotors and diesel.
The next, the blades slow and the noise collapses into a stunned, cold hush.
The blast of wind dies away and leaves a thin, clean air that smells like fuel and frost. I blink and see Kit first—Arlo tucked against her collarbone, his tiny fist caught around her thumb.
Roderick hovers a half-step behind her, checking the carrier straps with two quick, practiced motions.
Kit hands me a diaper bag and a small carry-on; the diaper bag sags where a bottle and rolled onesies press against the fabric, the carry-on zipped tight.
They travel like parents who have rehearsed disaster and still refuse to be surprised.
“Hey, Kit.”
She looks up and gives me that slight smile. “I hope that it’s good to be here?” She glances at Roderick, then back at me. “He’s hoping that everyone is here—including Cleo.”
I sigh. “You told him, didn’t you?”
She shrugs. “Hinted that everyone might be here but wasn’t too direct.
” She presses her lips together. “I remembered what Rhodes mentioned the other day. If we speculate and it gets to the wrong ears, we could be in trouble . . .” The way her voice trails off with the last words makes my heart hurt.
“Let’s go inside,” I suggest, tapping Roderick’s arm. “Thank you for trusting me and coming.”
He glares at me. “I still want to kill you.”
“You look good.” I ignore his threat and grin. It’s a stupid grin, probably the pleasure of seeing someone you care about looking like they’ve won something hard.
Arlo makes a tiny scratching noise in his sleep, and turns his head, lashes dark against his cheek.
I crouch without thinking, the bag sliding from my shoulder to my opposite hip, and offer my hands like everyone does: awkward, hopeful, the universal ask to meet a child.
Kit shifts him closer, careful as always.
“You can hold him,” Kit says, like she’s offering me an honor. Her voice is thin with the late-night kind of tired only new parents carry.
I take him. He’s a lot bigger than I remember. He smells like boiled milk and faint, clean powder. His mouth opens in a tiny, inquisitive line and for a second—because nature is a savage, perfect comic—he grimaces as if to protest my fingers and then settles, breathing slow and even.
“So, I take he likes to protest about everything like his father?” I joke.
And Roderick glares at me.
Kit snorts, a real, bright sound. “He can be sweet like his father. Likes to protest because he believes everything should be about him.”
Roderick takes Arlo from me. “Everything is about my boy and his mama.”
“Try not to marry him off too young,” I tell Kit, teasing, and she rolls her eyes.
Roderick snaps the carrier again, then hands me the carry-on with an easy, practiced motion. “I’ll grab the stroller,” he says. “Barrett, lead the way.”
I want to tell him that there are people who’ll get everything for them later, but . . . I won’t. For a change, he can be the doting father and not the rockstar who gets everything handed to him all the time.
We step off the pad in a crooked line. The house waits at the top of the path, and for the span of that walk—a handful of breaths and a field of frost—it feels like we are exactly where we should be.
“So . . . this sibling reunion,” Kit says as we walk. “When does it start?”
“They’re already in,” I answer, keeping my voice low. “Rhodes, Alfie, Julian—everyone.”
“Is everyone staying a few days?” Roderick mumbles. “Did Alec and Dexter come too?”
“As much as we’d love a full reunion, we thought it’d be best to keep it to the five of you,” I say, careful. Hoping they understand that Cleo is here.
Rod shoves the door open, and the scent from the kitchen hits us: the smell of coffee, the low murmur of people gathered, and Eddie coming down the stairs.
“Why the fuck are we here?” Rod asks as soon as we’re inside of the house.
“Language.” Kit glares at him, and he flinches, mouthing ‘sorry.’
“Simple,” I add before anything else can swell. “We needed you here. In person. Not on a call.”
Eddie’s hand finds the banister as he steps down. “And because there are questions we can’t answer on a line,” he says. “But we’ll tell you what we can.”
Rod looks at the mug like it might explode. He doesn’t touch it. “Is my sister alive?”
“Yes,” Eddie responds, “But that has to stay in this house.”
Rod exhales like someone who’s held his breath for days—the sound of surrender and relief folding out of him.
He looks smaller for a second, and Kit closes the distance without thinking.
She settles against him like a practiced habit: one arm around his waist, the other cupping the back of his head, fingers threaded into his hair.
She presses her mouth to his temple, murmuring, “It’s okay.
She’s alive. Breathe with me.” Her voice is soft and sure, as if trying to smooth the edges off panic.
Then she glances at me, “Is she okay?” She presses her lips together and takes a deep breath. “Is she hurt?”
My jaw works. “Yes,” I respond right away. “She’s alive. She’s healing—not the way you’re imagining in this moment. Cleo will explain what she thinks is necessary.”
Roderick glares at Eddie. “Why is my sister with you?” He studies the house. “In one of your mansions?”
“It seemed like the best place to bring her after—” Eddie stops himself. “Listen, you have to talk to her, and then if she feels like it’s necessary that I fill the blanks, I will do it.”
“When can we see her?” Roderick finally asks.
Down the hall, the pool whispers. There’s the faint squeak of a bare foot on tile. I lift my head, listening. Eddie’s gaze flicks to me. I nod: I’ve got him. You check. He disappears toward the glass room.
Rod catches the exchange. “So you two are finally together? Or still pretending nothing’s happening?”
I let out a sigh. “We’re working on our relationship. Yes.” It’s not the whole truth—the reality is messier than he’d ever imagine. And I doubt he’s ready for the details because they include his little sister.
He’ll probably want to maim me.
Before Rod can react, Eddie reappears in the doorway—only he isn’t alone.
Cleo trails a half-step behind him, wearing a simple dress.
She looks equal parts thrilled, nervous, and overwhelmed.
This isn’t her first hello. Rhodes and Julian showed up four hours ago, Alfie an hour after that.
I’m just grateful he didn’t bring the Duchess, because that would’ve been awkward as fuck. Cleo isn’t exactly her biggest fan.
Rod doesn’t move. Kit goes very still, then leans forward as though her body answers before her mind does. And then—
They—Cleo and Kit—break into a run.
The next moment is a blur of arms and tears, their words tumbling over each other in a half-sobbed rush. Laughter mixes with cries, like best friends who’ve been apart too long and finally get to say everything at once.
“Hi,” she says, voice hoarse from not being used for this kind of hello.
Kit is careful without making a show of it. She laughs a broken laugh that’s really a sob. “You absolute menace,” she says, because love has its own dialect. “You didn’t call me.”
Cleo makes a face that’s half-apology, half-I know. “I’m calling you now,” she says.
“Fair,” Kit says, and the two of them fold into a hug that’s brief and real and doesn’t try to fix anything. When they break, Kit wipes her face and does the practical thing: “You have to tell me everything.
Cleo nods, then immediately shakes her head, as if correcting herself, before clearing her throat. “We’ll have time,” she says softly, like the days ahead stretch wider than the handful they’ve been given.
I’m not sure Roderick will be comfortable staying that long.
Eddie plans to extend the invitation anyway—tell them they’re welcome as long as they want—but he’ll also have to warn them.
When they leave, they can’t mention Cleo.
Not to anyone. Out there, they’ll need to play the part of grieving brothers.
Rod steps forward, slow and hesitant, his hands hanging uselessly at his sides. His eyes shine, glassy with unshed emotion. “Hey, Cleo,” he says, his voice breaking into something between disbelief and joy.
And then he moves. He closes the distance, sweeping her up into his arms. Cleo clings back, both of them laughing and crying at once, the years of separation collapsing into that one tight embrace.
He lifts her off her feet, holding her like he’s afraid to let go, as if he finally has his sister back.
When Rod finally eases her down again, Cleo wipes at her face, breathless, and her gaze drifts—only to catch on the bundle cradled in my arms. Her expression softens.
“Can I—?” she asks, and the question is so simple, so ordinary, that the entire room exhales.
“Of course,” Kit says at once, pulling a cloth from the bag because she’s a mother now and mothers always seem to have magic pockets.
I ease the baby into Cleo’s arms and watch her gather him carefully, as if he might break.
But when he doesn’t, when he just settles against her, she relaxes.
She studies Arlo’s face with quiet curiosity, then offers him a smile—small, private, the kind I haven’t seen since before she left us.
“Hey, little guy. I’m your favorite aunt, Cleo,” she whispers, her voice breaking into tenderness as she strokes his tiny hand, as though she’s imprinting herself into his world.
Eddie watches from the corner, new cell phone in hand, the camera already clicking.
He’ll find another moment later for the perfect picture—one worthy of a frame—but it’s clear enough what he’s capturing now: Cleo as part of a family, children included.
It’s the life Eddie seems to want, though that’s something we’ll have to figure out later. Today isn’t the day for it.
Rod clears his throat. “So we’re here, and we’ll stay as long as this asshole—” He cuts a look toward Eddie. “—doesn’t kick us out. But we need an explanation. I’m glad you’re okay, Cleo, I really am. But a lot is going on here, and you’re hiding something. Aren’t you?”