19. Athena #2
Nathan is in a bed that looks too clinical for a man like him. There are monitors, there’s an IV, and bruising shadows on one side of his face. His eyes are closed at first, and my heart stutters like it forgot its job.
Then his lashes lift, and his gaze finds me immediately. “Athena,” he whispers, voice rough.
My knees threaten to fold, so I brace my hand against the foot of the bed as I step closer. “I’m here,” I manage, voice breaking. “I’m here.”
His eyes move past me.
Ivy takes one step forward then stops as if she hit an invisible line. She stares at him like she’s trying to match him to a thousand tiny clues.
Nathan’s gaze softens in a way I’ve never seen in a trauma bay. “Hi,” he murmurs. “Sweetheart.”
Ivy’s mouth opens then closes again. She looks at me, then back at him, then she takes another step. “You’re my dad,” she blurts.
Nathan blinks hard once, eyes wet, control visible in the effort. “Yes,” he says, and the word comes out raw. “I am.”
Ivy rushes forward, careful around the lines, and wraps her arms around his arm like she’s claiming what she can. Nathan’s hand lifts slowly, unsteady, then settles on the back of her head with a tenderness that makes my vision blur.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, and it isn’t clear who he’s apologizing to.
I lean in and press my forehead to the edge of the mattress for a second, then I force myself upright. “You’re not allowed to leave,” I tell him, voice tight.
Nathan’s mouth curves faintly then pain tightens his face. “Noted.”
Ivy lifts her head and glares at him like she’s in charge now. “You have to listen,” she says. “Mom said we came to save you.”
Nathan’s eyes flick to me, and the softness in them nearly wrecks me.
Daniel clears his throat gently. “I’m going to take Ivy to get something to eat,” he says. “Cafeteria food exists. Gift shop snacks exist. Pick your poison.”
Ivy’s eyes widen. “Can I get a stuffed animal?” she asks, hopeful.
Daniel nods. “One,” he replies, then he looks at me. “Two minutes.”
I nod, and Ivy looks at Nathan once more before she lets Daniel guide her out.
When the door closes, the room feels smaller. I step closer to the bed and keep my voice low. “Who did this?”
Nathan’s gaze holds mine then flicks toward the door as if he’s checking Ivy’s distance. “I don’t know,” he says, then his hand shifts and his face tightens. “I came back to town and I went out that evening. Someone hit me from behind. It was planned.”
My fingers curl around the bed rail. “Planned how.”
“Not random,” he replies. “Not drunk idiots. Someone waited.”
White, hot rage explodes in the back of my eyes. “You think it’s Cindy.”
Nathan’s expression hardens. “Connected,” he says. “Cindy doesn’t do it herself.”
I lean closer, voice steady. “I’m going to find out who did this, Nathan.”
His eyes hold mine. “I didn’t want you pulled into it.”
A short laugh escapes me, sharp and humorless. “Too late,” I say. “I’m already in.”
Nathan’s hand lifts and catches my wrist, gentle pressure that steadies me. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.
I stare at his hand on my skin, then lean down and kiss him carefully at the corner of his mouth. When I pull back, my voice comes out rough. “I’m sorry too, but enough with the apologies. If it’s clear we can’t escape this, then we finish this.”
Nathan’s gaze holds mine, then he nods once. I stay with him as long as he’s able to stay awake. Ivy joins us, eyes bright and lips stained from what looks to be a pack of candy. I groan inwardly and tell myself I’ll allow it. Ivy and Nathan hold hands for the longest time, then he dozes off.
Later, Daniel helps us settle into an Airbnb close enough that I can be back at Beacon Harbor in minutes. Ivy’s adrenaline burns out in the car, and by the time we get inside she’s yawning so hard her eyes water.
I get her into bed and tuck her in, then I sit beside her for a minute and watch her breathe. When she finally drifts off, I step into the living area and call Maya.
She answers on the first ring, breathless and delighted. “Athena,” she says. “You’re back.”
“I’m back,” I reply, and my voice cracks. “I need you.”
Maya doesn’t waste time. “Where?” she asks, already moving.
When she arrives, she brings her fierce, relieved expression she gets when she decides a crisis is hers too. She hugs me hard, then she nods toward Ivy’s room. “Go,” she says. “I’ve got her.”
I grab my phone, my wallet, and a jacket, then I head out.
I want street footage, and I want it with logic that won’t get laughed out of a lobby. Beacon Harbor has already notified police, and Daniel already told me there’s a case. I call Daniel from the sidewalk and keep my voice tight.
“I need the report number,” I say. “And the detective’s name.”
Daniel doesn’t ask questions. He gives me both and let’s me know that the detective is a close friend, which I can use in my favor.
I drive a rental to the street where Nathan was found, then I park and walk, scanning storefronts and entrances.
There’s a building with a security desk behind glass, and I walk in like I belong there.
The receptionist looks up, cautious. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here as a witness,” I say, and I keep my tone steady. I pull up the case number on my phone and show it to her. “Boston PD is investigating an assault outside your building. I’m the victim’s family, and the detective asked for identification if you have camera coverage.”
I don’t say please like I’m begging. I say it like a person who knows procedure.
The receptionist makes a call. A manager comes down a few minutes later, tired eyes, guarded posture. “We don’t hand out footage,” she says immediately.
“I’m not asking you to,” I reply. “I’m asking to view it with you present, and I’m willing to give a statement to the detective after I identify what I can.”
The manager studies my face, then glances at the case number again. “You have a detective contact?”
“I do,” I reply, and I pull up the email the detective sent Daniel confirming the request for witness identification, then I angle the screen toward her without handing it over.
The manager nods once, practical. “Come on back.”
She leads me into a small office with a monitor, then she pulls up exterior footage and scrolls to the time window. We scrub forward, then we find movement at the edge of frame, and my pulse kicks hard.
She pauses and zooms, then plays it slower.
The attacker isn’t fully visible at first. The camera catches their back, then a partial profile, then the most stupidly familiar detail of all.
A hoodie.
Dark. A distinct stripe near the sleeve. A small logo near the pocket that I chose myself years ago, when I thought I was buying something for a man who deserved me.
My hands go cold. I stare at the screen as the figure moves again, hood up, posture confident, then disappears out of frame like he has all the time in the world. “I bought that hoodie,” I say quietly, and the sentence tastes like betrayal.
The manager looks at me sharply. “Do you know him?”
I keep my eyes on the screen, and my voice comes out flat. “Yes,” I reply. “I know him.”