Chapter 26
Harper
After parking at the end of my street, Baptiste walks me to my door like the gentleman he is. We’re holding hands, our fingers loosely intertwined. His thumb caresses my knuckles in slow, absent strokes that usually have a calming effect.
But not tonight.
The whole ride back, I couldn’t stop thinking about my interaction with the receptionist at Golden Age.
His rehearsed answers. The way his tone shifted from conversational to corporate speak.
That camera watching from the corner. My brain keeps replaying the scene, like the clues are trying to spell something out, and I’m stubbornly refusing to see the message.
“Wait,” I say, stopping in my tracks.
Baptiste halts with me. “What’s wrong?”
“Have you ever seen any ceramics or amateur paintings at Golden Age?” I ask.
His eyes find mine. “What?”
“Have you seen any used as decorations? On a table or something?”
“I don’t think so.” He frowns now, the crease between his brows appearing. “Why?”
The pieces click together so sharply it almost makes me dizzy.
“Don’t you think it’s kind of weird?” I blurt, words tumbling out faster now.
“The residents are supposed to have all these new activities to engage in, but we never see the end product. They should be all over the place. On shelves. On walls. The residents would show us what they made. Heck, they’d try to sell it to us. ”
He coughs out a chuckle. “You’re not wrong.”
My heart beats faster, like it’s catching up with my brain, knowing I’m on the right track. “And Grandma never mentioned attending those new classes.”
We slip through the front door of my building and take the stairs, our footsteps echoing softly in the stairwell.
“That’s definitely strange,” he says behind me.
I grip the railing a little tighter. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
“But you didn’t spot any inconsistencies on the paperwork, right?” he asks, his voice serious now.
“No,” I admit, turning around to face him. “But maybe we can have another look.”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Let’s do it.”
When we reach my door, I lay my hand on the doorknob and lock eyes with him, guilt skittering through me now that adrenaline is doing most of the driving. “Sorry I’m roping you into this,” I say with a weak chuckle. “Are you sure this is how you want to spend your evening?”
He smiles and loops his arms around my waist, pulling me closer until my forehead brushes his chest. “Absolutely. I can’t wait to see you in action. You’re gorgeous when you’re determined.”
“Aren’t you the charmer,” I say, melting into his arms despite myself.
A moment of calm washes over me, and I kiss him, slow and warm, my hands clutching the lapels of his jacket like he’s the only thing keeping me from floating away.
The moment is broken when he pulls back abruptly. “What’s this?”
He leans toward my front door and retrieves a note tucked into the frame. It’s a simple white piece of paper folded in half. He opens it, and my blood freezes. Printed in red letters are the words, “stop digging or I’ll bury you.”
My breath catches.
Baptiste’s eyes stretch wide. “What the—”
“Ugh!” I groan with feigned annoyance, keeping my tone as casual as possible. “It's nothing.”
But my heart is pounding in my ears as I unlock my door and step inside.
Baptiste follows me in. “You get a death threat at your door, and you tell me it’s nothing?”
I drop my keys into the entry bowl, the clatter piercing my ears, while deliberately avoiding his eyes.
“It’s from that guy, isn’t it?” he presses, closing the door behind him. “Your ex who got out of prison. The one you’re investigating.”
I slump on my couch and grab my laptop. “Victor. Yeah, probably.”
He drops into the seat next to me, tension radiating off his skin. “Why aren’t you surprised?” He pauses, then his expression tightens as realization hits. “It’s not the first warning, is it? He’s threatened you before.”
I shrug, opening a new tab on my laptop. “I’ve received a few calls. And he’s had me followed.”
“What?” he booms, half-rising from the couch. “Harper, you said nothing has happened since DC! I can’t believe this.”
“I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “I didn’t want to worry you. But threats like these aren’t unusual. It comes with the job.” I glance at the note still clenched in his hand. “And don’t worry—if he wanted me dead, I’d be six feet under already.”
He snorts. “That’s reassuring.”
I turn to him and take his hand, letting the warmth ground me. “Please don’t worry about me.”
“No.” He squeezes my hand, jaw set. “It’s gone too far. This is a death threat, Harper, and I don’t want to lose you.” He stands up. “We’re going to the police—now.”
I scoff, shaking my head. “Don't be ridiculous.”
“I’m not being ridiculous,” he says, his tone final. “I’m being careful.”
I sigh, rubbing my forehead. “Fine, I’ll go.
But it can wait until tomorrow. It’s late already, and we’ll be stuck there for hours.
” I gesture to my screen, where my search tab reads Golden Age Retirement Home.
“We have to figure this out. I keep putting it off for Victor’s stuff, but this is my grandma. It’s important.”
He hesitates, conflicting emotions warring on his face, then he slowly sits back down. “All right. But I’m sleeping on the couch tonight, and I’m driving you to the station tomorrow.”
“Works for me.” I lean over and kiss his cheek. “Now let’s get to work.”
Baptiste
I do my best to focus on the Golden Age situation, but that creepy note is still front and center in my mind. No matter how many tabs Harper opens, or how fast she types, all I can see are those red letters.
She claims it’s not unusual for her to get death threats, but this is new territory for me—and I’m not enjoying my stay one bit.
I busy myself in the kitchen, whipping us up some dinner because doing nothing only leaves my nerves more raw.
Harper barely eats, too focused on her research, fingers flying over the keyboard like she can outpace her own thoughts.
I don’t really touch my plate either. My appetite vanished the moment I saw that note.
“I can’t find anything on that holding,” she groans, tugging at her hair. “It’s driving me crazy. And why does that name Topaz sound familiar? I just can’t remember where I’ve seen it before.”
The new buyer of Golden Age is apparently some shadowy holding company with zero contact information available online. It’s the only real lead we have right now, and it’s going nowhere.
“Actually, I might know someone who can help me,” she says after a while. “He works in the Division of Corporations at the New York Department of State. If anyone can access the info, it’s him.”
She gives him a call, pacing while she talks and nodding along to his replies. After a while, she murmurs thanks, hangs up, and exhales.
“He’ll have a look tomorrow.”
“Good,” I say, trying to sound encouraging. “We’re moving forward. What’s the next step?”
“Well, as soon as I know who owns the holding company, I’ll track them down and see if I can snag an interview.” Her eyes light up despite the hurdles we’re facing. “I might also put my PI on it, depending on my gut feeling.”
“Straight out of a TV show,” I say with a small smile.
Even with the danger involved, I can tell how much she loves this. How alive she feels while chasing down leads. I’ve never seen her so focused, so sharp, so fully herself.
It reminds me of the feeling I get when I step onto the ice. When the noise fades, the crowd disappears, and all that matters is the game—our strategy, our will to win, the puck ricocheting across the ice and going exactly where it’s supposed to go.
“Yep.” She chuckles as she starts gathering up the documents spread all over the coffee table. “Let’s hope I’ll get the bad guys in the end too.”
I’m helping her stack some stray documents when a manila file slips from the pile and drops onto the carpet. It opens on impact.
I freeze when I glimpse my face staring back at me.
It’s an article—an old one, judging by the disastrous haircut.
I bend down to pick it up. “What’s—”
“Nothing,” she blurts out, her voice pitching high as she drops to the floor to grab the file before I can.
But a lifetime of hockey has sharpened my reflexes. I snatch it up first.
I narrow my eyes at her, trying to keep things light. “You have a file on me.”
Her chest is rising and falling fast. She forces a bright smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “Just some stuff I printed out for your interview.”
My brow wrinkles. Why would she have old articles on me? Especially since the interview was published weeks ago. I open the folder, and my breath catches.
Dozens of articles about me, but also pictures of war medals similar to the one on my living room shelf. Pictures of that woman who showed up at the hotel pretending to be my mom. French legal paperwork with English translations stapled to them.
My hands go cold.
“What—” I sputter, but the words die on my tongue.
I look up at Harper. Her face has gone red, hands twisting together, lips trembling like they can’t decide whether to speak or stay silent.
“Tell me,” I say. Two words that feel like they’re tearing out of my chest.
She swallows hard, then stands up and starts pacing again.
“Don’t be mad,” she says, which is never a good sign.
“But I’ve been looking into Helen Fletcher since we got back to New York.
When I saw the medal at your place, I remembered what she told me about her dad participating in the D-Day landings. ”
My jaw tightens, the simmer in my veins turning to a boil. “Harper…”
“Please, just let me finish,” she rushes on.
“I confirmed the medal could have been awarded to an American soldier who landed in Normandy during World War II. And I checked every article and news interview you’ve ever taken part in—you never once mentioned being born in Metz, so she wouldn’t have known.
I had my PI do a thorough background check on her, and as it turns out, she was in Metz the year you were born. Every detail she gave me checks out.”
“So what?” I snap. “That automatically makes her my mother?”
“No,” she says quickly. “I’m still waiting on confirmation. I didn’t want to tell you before I got the results.”
“What results?”
The moment the words leave my mouth, I know. And her wince only confirms it.
“You did a DNA test,” I say, my voice dangerously low. “Didn’t you?”
Her mouth twists. “I figured I had to be sure before I shared any of this with you.”
“I told you to let this go, Harper,” I bellow, shooting to my feet as anger surges through me. “Why was that so hard to understand? I can’t believe you took DNA from me without my consent!”
“I know it’s wrong,” she says, her voice rough, desperate. “But I needed to know. I wanted you to have all the information—”
“No,” I cut in, voice sharp as a blade. “You wanted to know. Because you can’t stand not having the answer. You don’t care that I’ve made my peace with not knowing. You didn’t do this for me, Harper.”
Her eyes turn glassy.
“Even your boss thought you have a tendency of going too far. Maybe she had a point,” I add, stalking the length of the small room. “I can’t believe you did this.”
My world cracks open as realization sinks in. She lied to me. For weeks. Went behind my back. Investigated me like one of her stories. Took my DNA.
I sit down on the couch, dropping my head into my hands.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers. The couch shifts under her weight as she sits next to me.
“Me too,” I reply hoarsely. “I just… I can’t do this anymore.” I shoot to my feet again, unable to sit still.
“No!” she cries, grabbing my arm and tugging me back down. “You said you were in. That you’d never leave me.”
Her tone is almost accusatory.
Our gazes lock, and the desperation in her eyes nearly breaks me.
For a second, I almost take comfort in the vulnerability there, like it’s the proof I’ve been looking for that she likes me as much as I like her.
But then, the pain in my heart takes over, and I close my eyes, unable to look at her a moment longer.
I keep my eyes screwed shut. “Because I never thought you’d do something like this,” I say, my voice cracking. “Don’t you get it, Harper? You ruined everything.”
I stand again. This time, her hand goes limp, falling away.
“So… what?” she asks, choking back tears. “You’re leaving?”
I glance down at the coffee table. The death threat peeks out from under an article about my first NHL contract.
I need to be alone. But I also wouldn’t forgive myself if something happened to Harper tonight. As much as I know it’s going to cost me, I have to stay here.
“I can’t leave you alone tonight,” I say, facing her. “I’ll stay, and I’ll drive you tomorrow to the station.”
“And then what?” she nearly whispers. “You leave me there, and we never see each other again?”
I stay silent, the very thought of living without Harper shattering the broken pieces of my heart. I finally meet her eyes, and it’s as if someone is driving a blade straight through my chest.
“Then leave now.” She wipes her cheeks, tears still trickling down to her chin. “I don’t need you to stay here to protect me or whatever. I can take care of myself.”
As if I’d ever leave her alone when there’s a threat on her life.
“No,” I say. “I’m staying.”