Chapter 29
Nathan
The hallway outside my penthouse is quiet enough that I can hear my own shoes whisper across the glossy tile.
Key in hand—two more steps.
Then—movement.
A soft clink. A low scrape.
Inside my place.
Every nerve snaps to attention.
I flatten my palm against the door and listen. Another clink. Glass? Someone’s in there. The old reflex wakes up in my bones—cold, automatic. I curl my fingers around the handle, turn it slowly, count to three, and swing in, ready to end something.
“Whoa—whoa!” Bishop shoots upright from my couch, both hands up, a bottle of whiskey tipping dangerously in one. “Easy, John Wick!”
My knuckles unclench a fraction. “You almost got punched in the throat,” I say.
Bishop grins like a kid caught with frosting on his face. “You forgot I had a spare key?”
“Guess so.” I close the door behind me, pulse easing.
We stare at each other for a beat, dead serious. Then crack at the same time. I shake my head and step into him. It’s a quick hug—shoulder grip, back slap. The kind that says I’m here without saying anything else.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“I miss my brother.” He lifts the bottle like a trophy. “I figured it’s been too long since we both had a night. You, me, and subpar decisions.”
“And you broke into my place?”
“Technically,” he says, wiggling the key. “I walked in. With a peace offering.”
He holds up a bottle of my favorite scotch.
“I’ll allow it.”
We migrate back to the couch like it’s muscle memory. The city throws silver across the windows. Bishop pours. Two lowball glasses appear. The whiskey hits warm on the first pass and tells kinder versions of our stories on the second.
Bishop leans back in his chair, ankle resting on his knee, his eyes drifting across the table.
He reaches for a stack of mail, flipping one envelope over.
“Huh.”
I don’t look up. “What?”
He smirks faintly, reading it.
“Nathan Alexander-Reign.” He glances at me. “Only your mom calls you that.”
Something tightens low in my chest.
“She still does,” I say flatly.
Bishop sets the envelope back down. Silence settles between us. He studies me for a beat longer than usual.
“You’re laughing,” he says finally, quieter now. “I forgot what that sounded like.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, but there’s no bite in it.
It feels… strange. Not the laugh. The fact that it’s even possible.
“It’s been too long,” he says, softer now. Then that familiar spark returns—mischief gathering in his eyes like a storm. “So, we should go out tonight.”
“Outside?” The word tastes wrong in my mouth.
Bishop’s grin falters just a hair. “I need my brother,” he says. “Like I said…I miss you, man.”
He means it. That’s what makes my chest tighten. The idea of stepping into a room full of noise and strangers feels like trying to wear a life that no longer fits.
I grab my phone off the counter, thumb hovering over the last email in my inbox. I stare at the email from Taylor Pierce. A quiet pulse kicks behind my ribs. Not relief. Not peace.
Something sharper.
Something dangerous.
Hope.
Bishop watches my face change. He doesn’t make a joke this time.
“What is it?” he asks.
I swallow once, hard. “I might have something,” I say.
Bishop leans forward. “Like… something-something?”
“Footage,” I say.
His eyebrows lift. His entire body stills.
My throat goes dry. “I don’t know,” I add quickly, like I can outrun the way the words land. “It’s grainy. It’s not— it’s not a slam dunk. But the location, the timing… the shape of—”
I stop myself. My tongue feels too heavy.
Bishop’s voice drops. “Show me.”
I hesitate. My hand hovers over my phone, then presses play.
The short clip plays. Something low-resolution and cruel. The kind of image that gives you just enough to ruin your ability to sleep.
I turn the screen toward Bishop. Bishop watches without blinking. The video loops again.
Again.
Again.
When it ends, Bishop doesn’t speak right away.
He just stares at the frozen frame like it’s a door he’s afraid to open.
Finally, he exhales through his nose—slow, careful.
“That could be her,” he says.
My entire body reacts like I’ve been hit. Not relief. Not joy. Something bigger. Something that hurts.
My fingers grip around the phone. “Taylor sent the make and model to the police—if they can match it to anything, I might know tomorrow.”
After a while, Bishop clears his throat.
“This is big, Nathan…forget going out,” he says.
Bishop shifts like he’s about to speak again, then stops when his phone buzzes.
He glances down at the screen.
But the name flashes like a flare in the dim light.
Jade Sinclair
His mouth quirks. “Damn.”
“What?” I ask.
“I told some people I’d meet them. But I’m gonna cancel.”
I shake my head. “No, go don’t cancel. A man is only as good as his word.”
He hesitates, then comes back in and grips the back of my neck for a second—firm. Grounding.
“I’m proud of you,” he says quietly.
“For what?”
“For still being here,” he says. “Most people would’ve turned to dust.”
My jaw tightens. I don’t know what to do with that.
Bishop pulls back and gives me his usual half-grin like he can feel the moment getting too heavy. “Alright. I’m gonna go, but keep me updated, and if anything comes in, we’ll ride at dawn. Love you, brother,” he says, voice low.
“Love you too,” I answer, and my throat tightens on the last word.
Bishop pulls back, gives me a quick nod, and leaves.
The door closes.
The apartment goes quiet again.
I rinse the glasses, set them in the rack, and check my phone out of habit—no new messages. Tomorrow can’t come fast enough. I grab my keys. Not to go anywhere special. Just to do what I always do.
Glynys’s dog needs walking, and this will help kill time.
He’s waiting by the door when I knock, tail already going. Glynys thanks me.
Outside, the night is cool and still. The dog does his business. We walk the same short loop we always do.
I bring the dog back upstairs, hand him off, and tell Glynys good night.
I don’t think about it at first. I just realize I’m slowing down. Her door is a few steps away. I don’t know why the thought even crosses my mind.
I stop outside her place. My hand rises to knock. Then my eyes drop to my watch.
Reality slides back in like a cold hand. What the hell am I doing?
I drop my hand, exhale hard through my nose, and shake my head. I turn back toward the elevator, even as I rub the back of my neck.
Halfway there, my foot catches the edge of the hallway rug. I stumble, try to correct, and slam my bad knee into the elevator frame. The pain’s instant, a white-hot flash that rips through me.
“Ah, son of a—”
I jab the door-close button, praying no one heard that. The doors finally slide shut, sealing my humiliation inside.