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REECE

Fentanyl. The determining factor in Kyle’s death.Fentanyl.

Charlie tosses a photo of a bloated and deceased Kyle onto the gleaming dining room table. “He wouldn’t go out like that.”

“Report says no one else entered the house.” My voice is monotone, lifeless, my heart no longer in this.Just bury the fucker and let me return to New York.

“Except for Jackson, who knew how to evade you, me, and surveillance.”

Kyle’s Bel Air home is secluded, impossible to monitor. Nestled in the foothills of the Santa Monica Mountains, it’s surrounded by dense trees and thick landscaping. Forest and shrubbery conceal trails leading to the garage, pool house, and off the property.

Any visitor could’ve easily gone unnoticed. We couldn’t exactly park a surveillance van outside Kyle’s gated estate—he would’ve spotted us instantly.

“Jax has been in New York and wasn’t carrying drugs. He wouldn’t be that stupid, not with Aurora, and not with fentanyl.”

Everyone is pointing the finger at Jackson. Is it possible he tampered with his father’s supply? Sure, but it’s more suspiciousEthan met with the head of the Rossi family the day before Kyle’s death.

Honestly, though, who gives a fuck? No one—and I mean absolutelyno one—is crying over Kyle’s death, not even the ‘maid’ who found him.

I shuffle through crime scene photos absentmindedly, processing nothing. I’m in a haze of shock and denial. I can’t accept that my time with Aurora has ended. One moment, I’m on a bench with her in Bryant Park, wondering if I have a pregnancy kink. Next, I’m at Jackson’s childhood home, fantasizing about taking my anger out on a corpse.

No pregnancy kink, by the way, just an Aurora kink.

My partner nails me in the forehead with a pencil. “Please, for the love of Yoda, stop moping. Get laid. Meet someone on Tinder. Go to a bar.”

I cringe at the thought of touching anyone else, my stomach curling in on itself. “Not happening.”

“I’m your closest friend, youronlyfriend, and I’m telling you, she was using you to save her boyfriend’s ass.”

Aurora’s loyalty to Jax is unshakable, but I had a close relationship with her before she learned I was an agent. We have a connection, one rooted in friendship, though it sure as hell doesn’t feel platonic.

She didn’t ask me to stay in New York, nor would she. Her attention was on Jackson, fear in her eyes whenever she glanced my way, a silent plea begging me not to take him from her.

Ethan gave me an entirely different look, one that threatened to dump my body in the Hudson River if I dared to arrest his bestie.

“She’s not like that.” Even if she were deceiving me, I’d lay her fiancé’s freedom at her feet. At my core, I’m her bodyguard,hersoldier. “Let’s keep searching.”

Kyle was found in bed, an open bottle of laced Percocet on the nightstand—an easy kill or overdose. Possibly self-inflicted, but I highly doubt it.

As Charlie combs through the security footage, I explore the mansion. Following Jackson’s disappearance from the arena, while Aurora was with Ethan, Kyle went silent. He seldom left the house, but there’s no trash or clutter.

I wander through each room, scanning for anything notable before we ransack the place. After that, everything becomes disordered, and significant details can get lost in the chaos.

The interior is meticulous—too meticulous. No family photos. No pictures of a younger Jackson. No hockey memorabilia...

Kyle wasn’t the proud father he wanted everyone to believe.

All the bedrooms resemble generic guest rooms. If any were Jackson’s, you’d never know it. His belongings are gone, along with his mother’s.

Except for the kitchen. Above the stove, I find a shelf of cookbooks, the only thing personable in the entire house. I remove one that appears well-loved, the spine worn and cracked, and set it on the marble counter. Flipping through, I spot notes in the margin in delicate, feminine handwriting.

His mother’s cookbooks. It’s a punch to the gut, and I feel for Jax harder than I expected.

Tucked within a dog-eared recipe for chocolate-chip cookies is a folded sheet of paper—a birth certificate with the name Thad Jackson Vaughn. The mother is listed as Jacqueline Monroe Vaughn, no father. The document matches Jackson’s date of birth—May 12th—and my palms turn sweaty.

I wipe my hands on my pants and pull out another cookbook, where I discover a matching Social Security card. Holy shit. This is no accident.