Somehow, I force down the snack that is served, and sleep afterwards. I wake to my hand hitting a stack of pictures Meg has set on my lap. I can barely swallow as I look at shots of Chad.There’s one of him laughing and there are fine lines by his eyes that didn’t used to be there. This is a recent shot, the six years showing in his face. He looks older, more mature, a fully developed man like Liam. And amazingly, now that I see Chad’s face, I can look at other moments in my mind and see him clearly.

I touch the photo, wishing I could touch him, praying I will hug my big brother, who I thought buried beneath fire and pain. This photo feeds the hope in me. Another of him on a motorcycle. My mind replays the many times I’d seen him on one in Egypt. One more of him with Meg, his arm around her shoulder. I study it and try to see the spark between them that I know people must see between me and Liam, but it’s just not there. Maybe if he was looking at her, I’d see it.

The announcements for landing begin and I glance at Meg. “Thank you.”

“You can keep them. I have more.”

“Thank you.” I tuck the photos into my purse when I’d really like to study them longer, but I need to mentally prepare myself for what might be waiting at the gate when we land, or rather, who.

By the time we exit the plane at the terminal, I’m a ball of nerves and Meg holding on to my arm like she’s afraid someone will grab me and run, doesn’t help at all. Clearing the walkway, I scan the crowd, and a mix of disappointment and relief washes over me when my big, bossy, lovable man is nowhere to be found. “So far so good,” Meg murmurs. “Let’s hope that means your plan worked.”

“Yes,” I agree. “Let’s hope.” And I do hope. This is a miserable way to operate but it’s about protecting both Chad and Liam, the two men in my life I am blessed to have alive and well. Moving through the airport to the rental cars, despite all the reasons Liam’s absence is a good thing, I crave that sense of awareness I have when he’s nearby, that odd prickling of my skin and the singing of my soul that he creates. But it doesn’t come. He does not come.

By the time we exit the rental van to pick up our car, the warm Texas November has me tying my jacket at my waist, and fairly confident that we aren’t looking at any roadblocks of the Liam Stone nature. Once we’re settled in some sort of gray Dodge, we pull onto I-35 for the two hour drive to Jasmine Heights. I sink down into the seat and ball my fists on my legs. I’m going to face the Godzillas of my past without Liam.

“At least it’s a short drive,” Meg comments. “Thirty minutes according to the GPS.” She pauses and I feel her look at me. “You okay?”

I don’t look at her. “Yes.”

She’s quiet a moment. I want her to stay that way. She doesn’t. “You think they’ll kill him if we don’t jar your memory in Jasmine Heights?”

A vise-like sensation tightens around my windpipe. I force out air to reply. “I think they’ll hurt him or someone else I care about.”

“Like Liam.”

“Yes,” I agree, and the word is lead on my tongue. “Like Liam.”

We fall into blessed silence, and I stare straight ahead, willing myself to be calm and collected, terrified the answer to all of this isn’t in my head, or if it is, I won’t remember it in time to save Chad and Liam. My brother has to be alive and he has to stay that way. I can’t lose the brother I just found again and I can’t lose the man who has brought me back to life. But my track record of love and loss is terrifying.

“Jasmine Heights city limits,” Meg announces and I sit up straight, staring at the sign I thought I’d never see again. She asks, “Any hotel preference?”

“I don’t know.” I don’t care. “Stay on this road and take the Snyder exit.”

“Sure. You know this place. I don’t.”

I direct her to the exit and through several twists and turns. “Here,” I say at the final turn and frown at the shopping center at the edge of my old neighborhood. I point to the residential street.

“This isn’t a hotel.”

“No. It’s my old house.”

“Where?”

Where, is right. It’s now a restaurant. My house is a restaurant. “Pull into the driveway.”

“Shouldn’t we get a motel first?”

“Pull in, Meg,” I bite out.

“Fine. Fine. I’ll pull in.”

She parks in the front row to the right of the door. I stare at the fancy red and white brick building with a big sign that reads “Red Heaven Restaurant.” The irony of the word “heaven” does not escape me. Though the population of this city has grown from ten thousand to nearly twenty since I was last here, it was, and is, still small enough that everyone knows what happened here.

“Red Heaven,” I whisper.

“I’m not sure what kind of food it is,” Meg says. “Did you want to go in and see?”

I think about the fact that some patron or patrons are sitting at a table that might well be the same spot my mother screamed while she burned alive. “Evil,” I say.

“What? The food is evil? That’s a new one.”

I don’t speak to her. I can’t speak to her. My gaze travels over the building again and goes back to the sign. It’s an insult. A battle cry and a threat. I expect pain, and a flashback that takes me down. Instead, there is a burn in my chest and tension in my shoulders. My jaw clenches and I shove open the car door.

“I guess we’re going to eat evil food,” Meg mumbles and I ignore her, charging for the door.

I grab my purse and on the way to the door, fix it cross body over my chest. Pushing open the doorway, I’m in a homey restaurant with hardwood floors and wooden tables with comfy chairs. Homey being the operative word. Like the home it once was.

“Who owns this place?” I ask the twenty-something girl behind the wooden hostess stand before she can speak. And God, I think she’s the kid I use to babysit a few blocks from here.

Her dark brown brows dip. “Do I know you?”

“No. You don’t know me. I need the name of the owner.”

“Sheridan Smith. He owns everything around here.”

So Derek had said. “Do you have a business card for him?”

“The manager might. She’s behind the bar right now.”

“Did we get a table?” Meg asks.

A shiver of unease slides down my spine and the source seems to be Meg. Aware that my nerves are jumping and my mood is suited for a tornadic event, I don’t try to understand it. “I’m going to the bathroom.” I start walking, praying she won’t follow. I intend to head to the bar and I do not want Meg to be a part of this.

Frustrated, I follow the bathroom sign and push open the door, thankful it’s made for one. Turning to lock up, I never get the chance. A man shoves into the door and shuts it behind him, giving me his back, his long, light brown hair tied at the nape, while he locks the door himself.

My heart races and my hand goes to my purse, but he’s turned before I can make a move, and where I’d once thought him rugged bad-boy hotness, I know better now. He’s danger in a way Liam never was.

I clutch the strap of my purse. “What are you doing here, Jared?”

“I have a message from Chad.”

I blanch, but for some reason I’m not as shocked as I think I should be. I think I always knew Jared was more than just my next door neighbor in Denver. “Let me see your tattoo.”

“I’m not a part of your brother’s Underground Society, but I think the message will clear up the trust issues.” He holds up his phone and sets it on the counter, then pushes play.

Jared, it’s Chad.

At the sound of my brother’s voice, my hand leaves my purse and my back hits the wall, the air gushing from my lungs. Tears burn my eyes. He’s alive. Deep down, a part of me hadn’t allowed myself to really believe it could be true.

You were right on the ping on Lara, the voicemail continues, I moved her to Denver as we’d planned but there’s trouble. I have to make arrangements. I need you to come here and look out for her for a couple of weeks. Fuck. I have to go. I need you here. I have to protect my fucking sister, man.