Sophie waved them off. “Hardly. There’s more to it, but the other rows are going to take more time to figure out.”

“I might need you as a consultant on this case then,” John said to Sophie.

“You know I’ll do whatever I can, and whatever you need.”

“This is a good start and I appreciate it.” John turned to Ryan. “I want to let you know we’ve been looking for Stefano’s accomplices, so I’ll share what I’m able to.” Ryan leaned forward, his elbows on his thighs, his ears eager as John spoke. “We believe that Jerry Stefano did not act alone the night of the murder. We believe he had help. We believe he had both a broker who arranged for his hits, and a getaway driver who, of course, drove him away from the scene of the crime that night. At the time he was questioned, Jerry repeatedly claimed that after Dora Prince hired him, he acted alone in the crime. He steadfastly stuck to this statement for eighteen years and remains wedded to it. But we have reason to believe that he never gave up the names of his accomplices as a sort of exchange. In return for protecting their own, these two men had a pact to look out for Mr. Stefano’s child, who was born shortly before he was incarcerated.”

Information came fast and furious, like bullets. But they didn’t wound him—they didn’t nick him. Instead, Ryan dodged them because he understood what they were—facts. Not his heart. “Wow. That’s a lot of info,” Ryan said, rubbing his hand across his jaw as he took it in. “Do you think my mother protected their names, too, in some sort of exchange?” He furrowed his brow as he tried to make sense of his mother’s urging him to stay quiet about the drugs, and if her warning had something to do with the other men involved rather than with her quest to prove her innocence.

“I don’t have the answer to that. But this is the biggest break we’ve had so far in potentially finding the other men that we believe were involved in the murder of your father,” John said, and even though Ryan had heard those words countless times over the last eighteen years—murder of your father—they took on a deeper meaning then.

They echoed in his bones and resonated in his blood.

For so long, he’d protected the rest of his mother’s story. Kept it locked up in case the truth would ever set her free. But this was no longer about her. This was about finding everyone who was responsible for his father’s death.

“There’s more I have to tell you,” Ryan said, steady and even. Strong, too. He looked to Sophie, who’d been by his side the whole time, like a partner, like a rock, like his foundation. She had given him strength to speak the truth to her, and to speak now for his family. Her blue eyes were full of honesty, full of love. She’d said a few minutes ago I lied, but that was nothing compared to what Ryan had done his whole life.

The lies of omission.

The lies of protection.

He shucked them off. Shed them all. Everything was coming undone.

Scrubbing a hand across his chin, Ryan unraveled another secret. “I found my mother doing cocaine when I was thirteen. She told me she was stopping. She said she met her lover, Luke Carlton, in Narcotics Anonymous. She also told me Jerry Stefano was her dealer.” John arched an eyebrow, tilting his head at that bit of information. Ryan explained more. “She always claimed she’d been framed for the murder because she owed him money. That’s why she was taking on more work for the gymnastics team,” he said, serving it all up, giving everything to the one man who might be able to exact justice. A sense of freedom rushed through him as he answered each and every question John asked.

When he was done, Sophie excused herself for the restroom.

John thanked him profusely. “I know it’s not easy to share all that. But I’m grateful, and this will help. I assure you.”

“Find those fuckers,” Ryan said, looking him in the eyes.

“That’s my goal.”

“Are you going to talk to my mom about all of this?”

John nodded. “I will, but she usually doesn’t say much.”

Ryan scoffed. “Tell me about it.”

“And I’ll have to coordinate with her attorney, so it’ll be a few days.”

“I’ll be seeing her tomorrow. I’ll keep you posted.”

“Appreciate that.” John extended a hand. “By the way, it’s no secret that I wasn’t thrilled when I found out you were dating my sister. But she’s incredibly happy. And all I ask is that you keep it that way.”

“That’s my goal,” Ryan said, and it was number one on his to-do list.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Sophie understood everything now. Why he visited his mom so much. The way the secrets had twisted over the years, like a string running through a labyrinth. Ryan had kept them all inside his head, locked up tight, clutching like a lifeline the wish of his one living parent.

Sophie’s place wasn’t to judge the guilt or innocence of Dora Prince. The state of Nevada had already done that. But her role, the self-appointed role that she embraced, was to be there for her man.

“I’m proud of you for speaking all those hard and terrible truths,” she said, as the town car driver took them to Ryan’s house after the event had ended.

“I barely know what to think anymore,” he muttered, staring out the window as the streetlights and cars streaked by through his neighborhood.

She dropped a hand to his shoulder. “You were brave to tell him.”

“Hardly,” he said, mocking himself as he turned to look at her. “If I were brave I would have said something years ago.”

She stared at him levelly and shook her head. “You didn’t know what you were dealing with. You still don’t entirely know. That’s why it’s brave. You took a chance.”

When they reached his home, Ryan took a moment to thank the driver and wish him a good night. Once they were inside his house, she grabbed his shoulders, then cupped his cheeks. “You said something now. That’s all that matters.”

He swayed closer to her, his eyes floating closed, his hold on gravity seeming precarious.

“Come with me,” she whispered.

She took his hand and led him to his couch, holding him close. Johnny Cash leapt on the cushion and curled up at their feet. Running her hands through Ryan’s hair, she let him rest his head in the crook of her neck, sensing what he needed right now was a safe landing. She wanted to be that for him. She wanted to be everything he needed.

“I just…Soph…if she…I don’t know.” His words beat out a staccato rhythm of what was said and unsaid.

“I know.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “I know.”

He sighed heavily then pressed his lips to her chest. It wasn’t sexual; it wasn’t the start of something dirty. It was a gesture of the familiar, of comfort, and she was glad he found it in her.

“For so long, she’s said one thing to me. She said she was set up. She said she was framed.” His voice was low and sad.

Her heart ached. It cried for him—heavy, mournful tears for what he had borne all those years. “So you go see her and you ask her. You tell her you need to know for your own heart.”

He shook his head. “She won’t tell me. Talking to her is like pulling teeth.”

She brushed a kiss on his forehead. “Then you find the answer in yourself,” she said, and wrapped her arms around him. He held her tight.

They stayed like that, curled together, him in his tux, her in her dress, nestled snug on the couch, a ball of fur by their feet. They talked more, whispered confessions and admissions, hopes and wishes.

“There were days when everything felt so out of hand. So beyond anything I could ever manage,” he said softly, and for a moment she understood that there was something more to his quest for control in the bedroom. With the way his life had spiraled, she suspected some part of his mind needed the solidity of that kind of dominance—sexual dominance. She kept that notion to herself though, not because it was a secret, but because it wasn’t her goal to psychoanalyze him. Whether that was his reason, or whether he simply liked it that way, she was happy to be on the receiving end.