45. Maeve
Maeve
Walking through the front door feels like stepping into another life.
Nothing has changed.
The antique table still sits beneath the staircase, a crystal bowl filled with fresh flowers resting in the center just like it always has.
The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks steadily in the background.
The scent of my mother's lavender polish lingers in the air, mixing with fresh coffee and something baking in the kitchen.
Home. Everything looks exactly as I remember it. I'm the only thing that's different.
My mother keeps an arm wrapped securely around my shoulders as she guides me into the foyer, her hand rubbing absentminded circles against my arm like she's reassuring herself I'm actually here. I let her.
I don't trust my legs enough to stand on my own. I wait for it. The disappointment. The anger. The look that says How could you embarrass this family? I've spent months imagining it. Preparing for it. Convincing myself I deserved it.
Instead...I find my father looking at me with something I've never expected to see.
Concern. Real, unmistakable concern.
He crosses the foyer in three long strides and pulls me into his arms before I have time to react.
"Jesus Christ, Maeve." His voice is rough against my hair. "Are you okay?"
The question catches somewhere behind my ribs. Not Where have you been? Not What happened? Not What were you thinking? Just… Are you okay?
I nod against his chest because I don't trust my voice.
His arms tighten for just a second before he steps back, keeping both hands on my shoulders as his eyes search my face.
"I've been worried sick." He exhales sharply, shaking his head. "When Ronan called and said you were missing..." He runs a hand over his jaw. "I had every man I trust looking for you before I even hung up the phone."
My breath catches. Missing. That's what he'd told them.
"I called him this morning," my father continues, completely unaware of the way my world is beginning to tilt beneath me. "Told him you'd been found and that you'd be here." His brow furrows as he glances toward the front windows. "He should've been here by now."
Every ounce of warmth drains from my body. He called Ronan. He told him where I am. Without thinking, I take a step backward. Away from my father. Away from the center of the room. My shoulder brushes against someone solid.
Keaton.
I hadn't even realized he'd moved. His presence settles the panic clawing at my chest before it has the chance to consume me completely.
My father notices. Of course he notices. His gaze drops briefly to the space between us before lifting to Keaton's face.
The room falls silent.
When my father speaks again, every trace of relief has disappeared beneath the calm authority I've watched grown men fear my entire life.
"Someone better tell me what the fuck is going on."
No one answers. His eyes remain fixed on Keaton.
"I didn't have you shot the second you drove onto my property because Callum assured me I needed to hear the whole story." He gestures once toward Callum without looking away. "And lucky for you, I respect his father enough to honor that request."
The silence somehow grows heavier. My father's gaze sweeps across the room before settling back on Keaton.
"So..." His voice is quiet. Controlled. "...someone better start talking."
Keaton goes perfectly still beside me.
His shoulders straighten.
Every trace of warmth I'd seen on the drive over disappears behind the unreadable expression I'd first met weeks ago through anonymous text messages and impossible calm.
The operator is back.
He takes one step forward.
"I—"
"Matthew Banks." Matt's voice cuts across the room before Keaton can finish the sentence.
Keaton doesn't so much as glance at him.
Matt steps forward anyway, extending a hand that my father ignores. "My name is Matthew Banks." He gestures toward the people standing behind him. "This is my team. Grayline."
No one speaks. Matt lowers his hand without the slightest sign of embarrassment.
"Several weeks ago, Callum approached Keaton and asked him to quietly look into Ronan Gallagher. Something didn't sit right. He wanted another set of eyes before making accusations he couldn't prove."
"I know all of that." My father's voice is calm, but it carries the kind of authority that silences an entire room.
Matt stops talking.
For a long moment, my father doesn't say anything else. He just...looks at me. Not at Keaton. Not at Matt. At me.
His eyes move slowly over my face, lingering there as though he's trying to reassure himself I'm really standing in front of him. Then they drift lower.
His expression changes. It's subtle. A tightening around his eyes. A hardening of his jaw. His gaze locks on my neck.
My stomach drops. I'd forgotten. No...Not forgotten. I'd stopped thinking about them because they weren't hurting anymore.
Until now.
Without meaning to, my hand flies to my throat, my fingertips brushing the tender skin beneath my jaw. The memory crashes into me so fast it steals the air from my lungs.
Ronan's hand. His fingers squeezing tighter. The frantic struggle to breathe. The way the room had started to blur around the edges while I'd wondered if this was finally how I was going to die.
I jerk my hand away as though touching my own skin burns.
"When did that happen?" My father's voice is quieter now. Dangerously quiet.
I don't answer. I can't. The words are trapped somewhere behind the memory still clawing its way through my chest.
Matt shifts beside Keaton. "It isn't—"
My father cuts him off without taking his eyes off me. "Tell me why my daughter is standing in the middle of my house..." His voice remains controlled, but I can hear something breaking beneath it. "...with people I don't know..." His gaze drops to my throat again. "...and bruises on her neck."
The room feels impossibly small. I can feel everyone looking at me. Waiting. Judging. Wondering. My fingers curl into the sleeves of my sweatshirt, searching for something to hold onto.
Then Keaton moves. Not in front of me. Not enough to shield me. Just...Closer. "I'll explain."