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Some of the worst men I’ve ever known could sell sincerity by the gallon. But this isn’t the moment to decide what Joshua Ricketts is. I need to know who his brother was.

“Give her space. If she calls, fine. If she doesn’t, you wait.”

He nods once, then studies me more. “You recognized my brother’s name.” Not a question.

I slide the crushed card into my pocket. “I know a lot of names.” He cocks his head, doubtful. “Time’s up.” I give him nothing else.

Joshua holds my gaze another second before heading toward the alley. I’m through the bakery door before he reaches the sidewalk.

Hannah looks up. “What the hell was that?”

“Sorry. I need to go.”

Her eyes move over my face. “Emergency?”

“I don’t know yet.” It’s the truth.

The drive home takes forty-seven minutes and feels like four hours. I don’t call Jubilee. Not yet. I’m not detonating her life over a surname I can verify in under an hour. If I’m wrong, she never has to hear this. If I’m right⁠—

No. Verify first, then tell her. My mouth twists. That’s probably exactly what she’s doing too.

Her car is still in the drive when I pull in. Good. My phone buzzes as I cross the kitchen.

PRINCESS: Crisis solved. Client owes me her firstborn now

PRINCESS: getting in another ride before dinner

ME: Owen there? Wearing your helmet?

PRINCESS: Yes, Dad

Despite everything, a smile nearly forms. I shove the phone into my pocket, head out the back, and don’t stop until I reach the old shed. I kick the rubber mat aside, find the release beneath the workbench lip, and descend. Everything below is exactly where it belongs.

The drawer sticks. I yank harder than necessary until it gives, then stare at the cracked brown leather for several seconds before I pick up the wallet and open it.

Jacob Elias Ricketts. J.R. in gold letters.

Memory returns in pieces. Wealthy women. False names. Accounts emptied before relationships ended. Deaths which seemed accidental until they didn’t: an overdose, a fall, a car fire written off as mechanical failure. He moved through people like identities, leaving damage behind. I never found a wife. Sure as shit never found a daughter. The Jacob Ricketts I investigated existed in fragments, but it was enough to make him my business.

The photograph is still tucked behind the expired cards. I pull it free. A little girl with long, wavy reddish-brown hair sits astride a dark bay horse, beaming like sunshine.

But she’s unmistakable; I watched the exact smile from my meadow this morning.

“Fuck.” The word barely makes a sound.

I bring the photograph closer, as though another inch might change what I’m seeing. It doesn’t. Jubilee. My Jubilee.

My lungs stop cooperating. I brace one hand against the worktable. She told me about him in my bathtub. She remembers him through rose-colored glasses. Patient. Charming. The man who taught her to get back on the horse because the horse had been scared too. The man she has spent almost a decade searching for.

And I know why she never found him. Because I killed him.

I dismissed the child in the photograph as a niece, a family friend, maybe someone connected to one of his cons.

Regret would almost be easier. But I know what he did. I know why I ended him. Everything afterward tears through me. Seventeen-year-old Jubilee waiting for a father who was never coming home, teaching herself to hack because she couldn’t find him, never losing hope. And all that time, the answer sat beneath my fucking property.

My hand starts shaking. I slide the photograph back into the wallet and set it on top of the cabinet instead of locking it away. Later. Nothing matters right now, except the girl in that picture.

I need to tell her. Not after dinner. Not tomorrow, once I’ve constructed some cleaner version of the truth. Now.