“I’m not arguing legal.”
She sighed. “I figured.”
The door opened again and Charlie stepped in, pale and damp from the rain.
“Boss,” he said, “I got your bail money started, but there were guys outside asking about you.”
“What guys?”
“Rough guys. Tattoos. One had a teardrop. Asked where you lived. Where the bar was. Where your sister lived.”
Liliana went still.
“Your sister?”
“Bea,” I said. “Portland.”
Liliana lowered her voice. “Maurice Parker visited Darren at the hospital. He made threats loud enough for security to hear.”
Charlie swallowed. “Boss, maybe you should leave town.”
I looked at the wall clock. It was almost dawn. Custody hearing in three hours. My son in a hospital bed with both arms in casts. Josie somewhere pretending shock could wash away neglect.
“No,” I said. “I’m done leaving places because bad men walk into them.”
Liliana studied me as if reading a second file behind my face.
“You’re military.”
“Was.”
“Army?”
“Rangers.”
“How long?”
“Twelve years.”
Her expression changed. “That will hurt you in court.”
“It helped my son tonight.”
“No, Mr. Horn. It helped your anger.”
That landed harder than I expected.
After bail, I walked into the dawn with Charlie at my side. The sky was bruised purple over the city. My phone showed seventeen missed calls from Josie, five unknown numbers, and one text from a blocked contact.
You hurt blood. Blood answers.
No signature.
I stared at it until Charlie asked, “What does that mean?”
“It means Darren wasn’t the storm,” I said.
My phone buzzed again before I reached the truck.
A photo appeared.
Jacob’s hospital room door.
Taken from the hallway.
### Part 3
I ran every red light back to St. Catherine’s.
Charlie held onto the door handle and said nothing. He knew better than to tell me to slow down. The truck smelled like rain, old coffee, and the metal tang of the tire iron rolling under the seat. My mind did not race. It sorted.
