8

Just. Keep. Breathing.

Tate stood in the family room of the house overlooking Wapato Lake, the late morning sun streaming in to cascade over the leather sofa, the worn leather chairs, and the four victims trying to make sense of last night’s attack.

One of those victims was his sister.

RJ still had bruises on her neck, and he could barely look at her.

Another was York, who looked, at best, unraveled. Because apparently he didn’t know who he was or why a Russian thug might want to kill him. And that was a story Tate still couldn’t quite wrap his brain around.

The third was a woman who looked uncannily like his sister, although younger. Raven wasn’t exactly sitting on the sofa. She kept sitting on the arm, then getting up to pace, then sitting again, her gaze always going to the man in the recliner.

Jethro Darnell, her father, sported a killer hematoma over his eye, a mild concussion, and not a little frustration that he’d been taken out by a hard swing to the head by one of his own logs.

But that’s how the Bratva worked. They were scrabblers. Resourceful.

Relentless.

Because, according to RJ’s description, the man who’d attacked them happened to be Tate’s old, out-of-prison-too-soon nemesis, Slava.

Enforcer for the Vegas Bratva.

And the man, just months ago, who’d tried to kill him with his fists.

Yes. Just. Breathe.

Tate wrapped his hands around the back of a chair, leaning onto it. “Describe him again.”

“Balding. Tall. Broken nose. Spoke Russian,” RJ said.

“He swore in Russian. I’m not sure that counts as fluent,” York said.

The man looked rough—swollen eye, broken lip—and he moved as if his bruises went deep. Tate really wanted to get him alone and dig into this amnesia game he was playing. But right now, “You’re just lucky you’re not dead. If this guy is who I think he is, he’s one of the Bratva’s most lethal enforcers.”

“How do you know him?” The question came from Vicktor, who stood with the chief of police for Shelly, Jimbo Reynolds. Vicktor had put a BOLO out on York a month ago when he disappeared. It apparently popped up in the system when Jimbo ran York’s prints. So RJ’s instincts about York being alive had been correct.

Apparently, she had chops as a CIA analyst. If Tate ever went missing, he hoped she was on the case.

“It’s a long story,” said Tate to Vicktor. “The short version is that I had my own up-close-and-personal with Slava about six months ago.”

“He’s the one who beat you up?” RJ asked, her eyes wide.

“Yep.”

“What’s he doing out of jail?” she asked.

“I don’t know anything about that. But I do want to know how he found you. And why.”

York was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his head hanging. “My memories are still choppy, but if I remember correctly, I met him in Russia a month ago when I was trying to get Coco out of the country. Actually, it was in Moscow.” He looked up, a tight set to his mouth. “I should have killed him when I had the chance.”

The room went silent and York drew in a long breath, looked away.

York didn’t look any happier with the statement than Tate was. Or RJ, whose mouth flattened into a dark line.

“He and another guy jumped me while I was searching Damien Gustov’s place. Tried to get some information out of me, but I was able to get away.”

Tate’s gaze went to RJ as York spoke, saw her jaw clench.

“So, Slava is connected with this Russian assassin,” Tate said. “Which makes sense, if they’re both controlled by the Bratva.”

“Gustov must have found York and sent Slava,” RJ said. She drew in a breath. “And I think it’s my fault.”

York glanced at her, frowning.

“I called him.”

Now, York turned. And all of Tate’s residual doubt that this was really York—although a leaner, more confused version—disappeared with his hard-edged, steel look of fury. “What?”

“I didn’t mean to—I got a number off the information I found from my boss’s journal, and I…I called it.” She looked at Tate. “Ford hung up, but it might have connected, and maybe Gustov pinged it and followed me.” She pulled out a phone. “I also called Coco a few days ago from here.”

Tate glanced at Vicktor, then back to RJ. “Coco has been tracking down the number you gave her. The phone was purchased with a credit card—the same one used to secure the room at the hotel where Randall was murdered.”

Vicktor came around the island. “We thought it was stolen because it had been canceled. But we were able to track the company—Imagine, Inc., a subsidiary of a charity organization called Jackson Global Trust.”

When Vicktor had told him on the drive to Shelly of Coco’s findings, something inside Tate had turned into a hard ball. He heard Glo’s voice on the phone from a few nights ago. I had this crazy dream that Sloan found you and killed you.

That had been hard to shrug off, right after seeing Sloan’s picture at the hotel where Sophia Randall had been killed.

Somehow, this was all connected, and he needed to figure out how.

“A couple days ago, I was able to identify the man who we think killed Randall,” Tate said. “He was caught on a security camera going into the back entrance.”

“Who?” RJ asked.

“A guy named Sloan Anderson. He used to work for Senator Jackson.”

And yes, that sounded bad. Because either Sloan had used the Jackson family charitable foundation for his own evil schemes, or…

Or Glo’s family wasn’t exactly the good guys.

“I know Sloan, from when he worked in DC as a lobbyist,” RJ said. “And I think he even helped out the CIA with information. But I don’t understand. Jackson Global Trust is Senator Jackson’s organization, right? They’re heavily involved around the world with humanitarian aid—medical supplies in Africa, clean water projects in the Middle East, orphanages in Africa and a couple Eastern European countries. I think they’ve even donated funds for disaster relief around the world.”

“Yes,” Tate said quietly. “That’s all true.”

“So, why…I mean—”

“Sloan used to be her assistant campaign manager,” Tate said. “So maybe he set up the account. But Coco did track down an address for Imagine, Inc.” He took a breath. “In Vegas.”

The room went silent.

“Tate. You’re not thinking of going there, are you?” RJ said softly.

Tate turned and walked out, needing air.

He stood on the deck of the cabin, staring out at the lake. Storm clouds had gathered overhead, the air pregnant with doom, casting a pallor over the pellet-gray lake.

Vicktor followed him out. Stood beside him. “What’s in Vegas?”

Tate glanced at him. Looked away. “My past.”

Vicktor had become a sort of friend over the past few days. He’d even taken Tate home to meet his wife, Gracie, and his two sons, ages nine and ten.

Tate leaned over, rested his forearms on the deck. “I was an FBI informant against the Russian Bratva.”

Vicktor said nothing.

“It started a couple years before that, when I went to Vegas. I’d separated from the military after an injury and…well, some dark stuff that went down. And I wasn’t in a good place. I didn’t set up to get involved with the mob. I was actually working cleaning pools. One of the clients was this Russian guy, and he had a girlfriend named Raquel. He was pushing her around one day while I was there, and…well, we got into a tussle. Unfortunately, the guy fell and hit his head and died. This guy named Yuri showed up and told me that if I worked for him, he’d cover it up. I…” He looked out over the darkening horizon, blew out a breath. “That was the wrong choice, but for a couple years, I was Yuri’s man. I showed up, made some threats. Never really hurt anyone, but I didn’t like myself. I was dating Raquel and trying to figure out a way out when the FBI approached me. They wanted details on Yuri’s weapons dealing…”

He scrubbed a hand over his face. “Yuri found out and I returned home one day to find Raquel, um…” He swallowed, glanced at Vicktor. Shook his head. “It was bad. I gave the FBI what they wanted and ran. Yuri died in prison but left orders to kill me if I ever showed up in Vegas again.”

“Slava delivered on those orders?”

“He would have killed me if my brother Knox hadn’t shown up.”

Thunder rolled across the sky. Tate gave a wry laugh that had nothing to do with humor. “My fiancée had a dream a few nights ago that Sloan killed me. I didn’t tell her what we found…so yeah, that’s creepy.”

“You can’t go back.”

The voice turned him and he saw RJ standing in the threshold, her arms around her waist, her blue eyes fierce. “I know you think you need to hunt down Sloan and this Slava guy, but Tate— you can’t—”

“Slava tried to kill you,” Tate snapped. “You think I’m just going to sit back and let him come at you—or the rest of our family—again?”

She glanced at York inside, then stepped out onto the deck, lowering her voice. “You think he was after me?”

“I don’t know who he’s after,” Tate said. “But I can’t help but think that Sloan and Slava are connected. And if we find Sloan, we find Slava.”

“And if we find Slava, maybe we can find Damien Gustov and end this,” RJ said.

It scared him a little when she talked like that. “RJ, this isn’t your fight—”

“It absolutely is, Tate. I started this mess by going to Russia in the first place. And now it’s found us here. Why, I don’t know, but I’m going to figure it out. So, you can bet I’m going to Vegas to do…well, whatever it is we’re doing.”

Tate glanced past her, inside to York. He sat with his head in his hands. “And him?”

“I don’t know. He’s been acting strange all night since the attack.” She ran her hands up her arms. “He lost his memory, and I fear that, well, it might be coming back.”

“Oh my.”

“Yeah.” She blew out a breath. “I’m not so sure he’ll be joining us.”

That, Tate completely understood.

Please stay out of trouble, Rambo.

Glo was so going to kill him.

York’s entire body ached. Everything. His brain throbbed from the barrage of images and memories that washed over him like a wave, gobbling him up, drowning him. His bones hurt from pacing all night and the shock of so many memories buzzing under his skin. His heart ached from the onslaught of loss that felt at once raw and fresh and eviscerating.

But what hurt most was his soul.

What had been washed clean, fresh and new and whole, was now littered with horror. His past had poured destruction and filth onto clean soil, shards of dark memories that told him just who he’d been. What he’d done.

York wanted to run. From himself, for sure, but definitely from RJ.

Because she knew—knew—who he’d been. Or at least enough of it, and she’d lied to him.

You’re one of the good guys.

Not. Even. Close.

She’d stayed with him while he’d sat, almost catatonic, in the throes of sheer panic after the dark part of him had recognized Slava.

He’d wanted to curl into the fetal position—instead he’d walked out to the lakeshore, watched the moon, fractured by clouds, break light upon the water. The cold breath off the surface crooked a finger at him, tempting him to walk in and let the water bury him. To erase from this earth the man he’d been, the anger, the grief, the fury, the frustration…the hatred. Oh, the hatred.

It embedded his heart like claws, and he’d forgotten its grip until it rushed back in, and he’d nearly cried out from the abrupt force of it.

The other memories came slower—trickling in, taking their time to find footing. Most of them were still jumbled up like a box of puzzle pieces dumped out on the table with no form or linear fashion, just snapshots and images…

“How are you doing?” RJ walked in from the deck where she’d been convening with her brother, worry in her eyes. She’d slept on the sofa all night, awake when he left for the lake, awake when he returned—so maybe she hadn’t slept at all.

York hadn’t recognized Tate—not right away. His presence was more of a thumbprint on a familiar bruise. But it came to him slowly that Tate had been there when he’d been arrested. He didn’t remember much past that, however.

RJ sat down next to him. “How’s your head?”

“It feels like I got run over by a locomotive.” He gave her a wry grin.

He knew she blamed herself for alerting the Russian to where he was, but who knew, really. A guy with his past could have any number of people looking for him.

York gave her a dark look, bracing himself. “Who is Jason Mack? Did I kill him?”

She drew in a breath. “Oh, York…no, I’m sure—”

“Are you, though? Because how did I come out of the crash with his name stuck inside me?”

When Vicktor had told him the story of the crash—none of which York remembered—and the missing kid who just so happened to have the name he’d come to town with…well, that, coupled with his sharp-edged memories, had York wanting to retch.

What kind of terrible man had he been? He couldn’t bear to know any more.

But he’d have to, probably, because the past certainly wasn’t interested in staying put. Not when it sent Russian thugs after him.

“I don’t know, York. I just know you’re a good—”

York held up his hand, cutting RJ off from more lies and platitudes. “What does your brother think we should do?”

A beat, then, “He thinks that we should go to Vegas. He thinks Slava and Sloan are working together and that if we find one, we might also find the other, and then some real answers.” Her blue eyes pinned to his. “But I think you should stay here.”

He frowned. “These guys were after me. I should go and finish this.”

“What do you remember?”

“Snippets, mostly, but I do remember being with you on that train in Russia.”

“Oh,” she said and gave him a thin smile.

Probably because part of that memory included them kissing. He did remember that very, very much.

But he also remembered the man who attacked him and what York had done to get rid of him. So, in truth, he just couldn’t look at RJ. Not without seeing the darkness of his own heart.

“What else do you remember?” RJ asked.

“I remember meeting you in Moscow. The alleyway. And a pool.”

“That was at Coco’s father’s place. Do you remember…well, who he is?”

“Yes. Boris Stanislov. A Russian general, one of the troika—the command at the top.”

“And the one that I was blamed for trying to kill.”

There were other things that he remembered, but he didn’t say them because most of them involved things that he himself wanted to forget. All over again. Like his hands wrapped around someone’s neck—a woman’s, he thought—and…yes, RJ should stay far, far away from him.

He got up and walked over to the window. “I remember that you’re still in danger. If anyone’s going to Vegas, I am. And if anyone’s staying away, it’s you.” He turned around and looked at her. “I dragged you into an old-time feud. I know Damien Gustov and I go back because that name is written into my soul.”

“He killed your girlfriend a few years ago. Ran her over in the snow in January.”

She said it without tone, but he still flinched.

“I think I remember that.” He scrubbed a hand down his face. “The memories are coming back, but only in bits and pieces, and nothing feels easy or in the right place. I have a hazy memory of my wife and child, but I don’t recall how they died.” He braced a hand on the window sill. “Maybe I don’t want to. Maybe that’s just my brain repressing the things that still hurt.”

“Maybe,” she said softly, “but that tells me that you’re in no condition to leave. I think you should stay here in this town and recover. Get your memories back if you need to or…not.” She stood up. “York—Mack. You’re a different person now. One you’ve always wanted to be. You don’t have to finish this.”

He winced, then turned to her. “Not if there’s going to be more people who show up on Jethro’s doorstep. I might not know everything, but I know I have to put the past to rest before I can have another life. I don’t have a choice. I’m going to go get my stuff.”

“York—”

He ignored her and headed down to the lower level, to his tiny guest bedroom.

Went in and closed the door behind him. Sank down on the double bed, his head in his hands.

A soft knock broke through the quiet. “Mack?”

Jethro.

Thankfully the man hadn’t been seriously injured—more blood than wound when they shined the light on him.

“Come in,” York said, getting up. He didn’t really have anything to pack except a toothbrush. Hopefully he could take the clothes on his back, but…

“Taking off?”

He couldn’t even look at Jethro, at the massive goose egg on his forehead.

“Apparently I have some unfinished business with the man I used to be.” He didn’t mean for it to sound so dark, so jaded.

“That’s the key—the man you used to be. Not anymore.”

Jethro pulled a duffel bag from the closet and put it on the bed.

“Apparently the man I am is just a fake. The guy I was—”

“Is dead.” Jethro walked over to the dresser and opened a drawer. “He died when you went forward in church yesterday.”

Jethro scooped out a handful of T-shirts and put them in the duffel.

“Jethro, you don’t know what I did, I mean…I—”

“Regardless of who you were in the past, Mack, you are a new person today. When you gave your sins to Jesus and received forgiveness, He made you new. The past is dead. Now the question is, what are you going to do with your new life?”

Jethro pulled out another drawer. Jeans.

“It feels like I was just, I don’t know, playing a role. Wanting something so much that—”

“That God gave you a chance to have it. To see what it felt like to be free, to be whole, to be forgiven.” Jethro put the pants in the duffel bag. “You would have never stepped foot in a church in your previous state, I’ll bet.”

York considered him. “Probably not.”

“And yet, your soul yearned to be clean, to be new. And God, in His mercy, knew it. So, He gave you a clean slate. A fresh start. The opportunity to be the man you wanted to be.”

It wasn’t a question, but York nodded.

“So what that you were a killer in your past.”

York’s eyes widened. “You know—”

“I’m not stupid. I was a Marine. I know the look in a man’s eyes when he’s been through war—”

“I haven’t been through—”

“We’re always at war with good and evil in this world. No one escapes it. It’s how we see it, how we recognize it that engages us in battle. And if it’s not externally, then it’s in our flesh. In our soul. War is all around us. And sometimes…well, sometimes we find ourselves doing things in war that we would never do in times of peace.”

“Jethro. I really…I remember killing people.”

“Me too.”

York looked at him. “You were awarded the Medal of Honor. That’s vastly different.”

“Is it? Because here’s how I see it—I was asked to do a job by my country. We came under fire, and a couple of my fellow soldiers, as well as my platoon leader, were wounded and left in an exposed position. I was a medic. There to pull my men away from the battlefield. But out of sheer panic, I took command. We assaulted the position of the hostiles and killed them. Then we took out another position, during which I killed four men and took out an anti-tank weapon.” He zipped up the duffel bag. “One was a kid—maybe seventeen. But we rescued our platoon leader and those soldiers, and they gave me a medal. I wasn’t even doing my job—I was simply reacting. Am I more of a hero than the next guy? Maybe. I don’t know.”

He handed York the duffel bag. “What isn’t in the citation is that after the shooting stopped, after we evacuated our guys, after we got back to our positions, I found myself a corner and emptied my gut. I saw myself do things in the heat of battle that I would have never thought I could do. But that moment doesn’t define me, even if they gave me a medal. What does define me, tells me who I am? How I live every day. So you need to go and do what you need to do, but you do it as a new man. As a man who is not his own anymore but in the service of a new commander. The Lord God Almighty. Who, by the way, says, ‘I will fight for you. Your victory is already won.’”

York stood there, holding the duffel bag.

“What are you waiting for, kid? I’m going to say the same thing I said to Ace…God made you the way he did for a reason. Go, be awesome.”

York’s throat tightened, but he met Jethro’s hand. “Maybe I’ll be back.”

“We’ll be waiting for you.”

York wasn’t talking to her.

And RJ didn’t blame him.

It wasn’t like he was giving her the silent treatment—sure he was talking to her, like, I can get a hotel room, RJ. I don’t need to stay with your family.

And, I really think you should stay in Seattle, let Tate and me handle this.

That sort of thing.

But what she really longed for was a private conversation. One that told her that he didn’t regret knocking on her door, asking her to tell him about his past.

A conversation that might ease the clench around her chest that said she’d wrecked his life.

Or at least the life he’d hoped to have.

RJ stood on the balcony of Wyatt’s loft overlooking the Sound, staring out into the darkness. The Ferris wheel cast twinkle lights into the velvet sky, and out in the middle of the dark water, deck lights from ferries and dinner cruises glowed against the blackness.

The scents from Pike Place Market rose—bakery, exotic spices, even the faintest hint of fresh fish from today’s mongers. Of course Wyatt had to have the nicest place on the block—a loft with exposed beams, wood floors, copper counters and fixtures, hand-tufted rugs, deep coffee-brown leather sofas, and a table that seated fourteen. Three guest bedrooms were all accessed by sliding barn doors, and a master bedroom loft overlooked it all.

The place probably cost a cool three mil, but who was counting? RJ was just thankful to have a place to hide out, regroup.

Figure out how it had all gone so wrong.

She slid her phone into her pocket, her conversation with Crowley fresh in her mind.

“You found him,” Crowley had said. “And?”

“He lost his memory. We’re not sure what happened, but it looks like he had some head trauma in the crash. He ended up in a small town in Washington State. I found him, and he is piecing things back together, but…we were attacked.”

Crowley had listened to the altercation, and then she’d outlined their plan to go to Vegas. She’d asked him to use the vast resources of the CIA to check into the connection between Slava and Sloan.

He promised to look into it and told her to keep in touch before they hung up.

“Uh oh, I know that face.” Her mother stepped onto the balcony, set down one of the wine glasses she carried, then closed the sliding door behind her.

RJ looked at her mother.

“Reminds me of that day you decided to ride Wyatt’s bike. That ten-speed was way too big for you. But you were determined to ride it, even though we warned you not to.”

“As I remember, I wiped out, and good.”

“And your father—oh, he sprinted all the way down the road—couldn’t get to you fast enough.”

“I felt like a baby when he picked me up and carried me. I was ten.”

“You were his daughter. And he was your father. Of course he’d save you.”

She smiled, her eyes blurry. “Yes, he would.”

Her throat filled.

“Are you okay?”

She sighed. “No.”

“Here.” Her mother handed her a glass of red wine. “Tate told me about the attack.” She touched the bruise on RJ’s neck, and her mouth tightened around the edges. “Good thing York was there.”

“He would’ve never gotten attacked if I hadn’t been so stupid to make that phone call and then follow him to Shelly. I should have just left him alone to remake his life.” She sipped the wine, then set it on a teak patio set. “He was fine until I got there.”

“Oh, stop fooling yourself. He had no memory, RJ. And I don’t care what York has done in the past, a person can’t live too long with not knowing himself.”

RJ shook her head. “You didn’t see him, Ma. He was…he was at peace. And then I walked back into his life.”

She glanced behind her. The lights were on in the main room, illuminating the crowd. Tate was on the phone, pacing in the bedroom, the door open. Coco sat at the long table on her computer, of course. Wyatt was home, too, and sitting on one of the leather sofas next to Mikka, his son. They were playing a video game on his phone. Knox had also shown up briefly, then taken off again, apparently to pick up his fiancée, who’d been hanging out with Glo at some vacation place in Cannon Beach.

“Honey, peace isn’t about our circumstances—it’s about our state of being. York was not at peace.”

She turned to her mother. “He went to the altar at church.”

“Really.”

“Ma, I swear he was a new man when he got up. I saw his face…I’d never seen him so, well, at peace. And I destroyed it.”

“RJ. He was at peace because he was forgiven. He’s still forgiven. Now he just knows from how much.”

RJ drew in a breath, rubbed her hands on her arms. Turned and looked back at the Sound. “I’m worried he’s going to end up hurt—or killed—because of me. I should have never gone to Russia.”

“Oh, now we’re back to that?”

“If I hadn’t gone to Russia, then York wouldn’t have had to rescue me, and Ford—well, he nearly got killed. And then Wyatt got into the mess with Coco, and somehow I brought a serial assassin to America to kill the VP hopeful.”

“Wow, I didn’t realize you were that cunning.” Her mother set down her wine glass on the railing, running her fingers up and down the stem.

“Ma.”

“No, you listen. Every single person on that list had a choice. York didn’t have to come running to your aid, and neither did Ford. Wyatt was just waiting to find Coco, and if some killer wants to take out the VP candidate, well, you’re hardly responsible for that.”

She drew in her breath. “I just feel like…well, like the troublemaker in the family.”

“No, honey, that’s Tate.”

“Ma.”

Her mother smiled. “Actually, you all do your fair share of getting in over your heads. That’s why I came out here—I can’t listen to any more of Tate’s plotting to break into a hotel room of a man who tried to have him killed.” She shook her head. “If I could, I’d wrap you all up and take you home, feed you cookies, and read you bedtime stories.”

“No, you wouldn’t. You were worse than Dad about telling us to go out and live our great adventures.”

She grinned. “Maybe with you. I needed to balance out your father. Your dad liked to protect you, especially after we almost lost you in that cave with Ford.”

RJ winced. “I still remember the way he yelled at Ford. Told him that he shouldn’t have gotten me in over my head. But it wasn’t his fault, Ma. He told me where to swim, but I was curious. I wasn’t a good swimmer, but I didn’t think anything would happen, so I got too near the rapids. Ford had to go after me. And then I refused to let him rescue us.” She shook her head. “I’m so tired of my brothers feeling obligated to help me.”

She glanced over her shoulder. “And I think York feels the same way. Obligated. Because if I’d left him alone, he’d be sitting under the stars with a sweet girl named Raven, who wouldn’t drag him into some conspiracy to kill the VP candidate.”

“RJ. No one is obligated to help you. Or be with you.” Her mother put her arm around her shoulder. “Or love you.”

RJ’s jaw tightened. “I’d just like to know that maybe I was loved by choice, you know? Not just because they’re family and have to.”

“York had a choice—he didn’t have to rescue you.”

Poor man.

If she could, she’d go back to that day that York had made her run away in an alleyway in Russia, leaving him behind, and she’d stay. Fight her battle instead of calling for help from her brothers—any of them. She wasn’t a kid. She didn’t need to be carried or protected.

“Stand back and see what I will do,” her mother said.

RJ looked at her mother blankly.

“It’s what God said to Moses when he faced the Israelites. And then again when Jehoshaphat faced the Moabites. In fact, in that battle, all the people of Israel had to do was praise the Lord. He did all the fighting for them. See, sometimes we get so wrapped up in what we think we need to do to make something happen, we forget that God is actually the one orchestrating it all. Fighting our battles. God will show up even when we’ve made a mess of things. Even when it’s our fault—He will show up. Because that’s who He is—He loves us by choice, not because we deserve His help. There’s no if…just when. And His timing is perfect.”

She kissed her daughter on the cheek. “Oh, and if you want to use my little 9-mil pistol you can. It’s still in my purse.”

“Ma—”

“I have a conceal and carry. I’m legal.”

“Last time you shot the gun you nearly took York’s head off.”

“I missed on purpose. If I wanted to shoot someone, I would. Not saying I want to, though.”

RJ shook her head.

“Listen to me, Ruby Jane. God put you in York’s life—and you in his—for a reason. Go be that reason.”

RJ said nothing as her mother went back inside.

But yes. God had clearly put them together. Over and over.

And their story wasn’t over.

She was going to go to Vegas and do what she’d gone to Russia to do in the first place…stop an international assassin. And then…and then they’d have a private conversation about what life York wanted to live.

And with whom.