He glanced around, scanning the porch, tapping his feet as he waited.

Odd. She tugged the dog closer to her.

As she neared the house, the guy was fidgeting, his right hand rubbing up and down his left arm, which was covered in tattoos. He sighed, seemingly in frustration, then muttered something under his breath. His jaw was unshaven.

She narrowed her eyes.

Was he a neighbor? He looked too young to own a home. A deliveryman? He didn’t have a box or package with him. The pool guy? No supplies in his hand.

He turned and walked down the porch steps, heading to the sidewalk.

She flashed back to last night, to those names, to the details her brother had shared. Gangs, brokers, getaway drivers. Her pulse jumped. Was he one of those guys?

Oh God. Her skin prickled with fear.

Wait.

Her logical brain took over, and she talked herself down. The people John was looking for were older—much older than this guy who barely seemed old enough to drink.

Still…

His eyes were on his car, and Sophie followed his gaze to a tan Buick parked in front of Ryan’s home.

Recognition kicked in. She remembered who he was. She’d seen him at the community center. Her friend Elle had given his buddy a hard time when he’d catcalled Sophie a few weeks ago while shooting hoops with this guy.

She breathed more easily now.

Sophie reached the walkway to Ryan’s house at the same moment the young man arrived at the sidewalk. His T-shirt had a basketball team logo on it. She straightened her spine as a flurry of nerves skated over her skin. She was grateful to have the dog by her side. The collie’s ears pricked up, and he went on canine alert.

But Sophie didn’t entirely feel that she needed protection.

Something about his brown eyes seemed almost…hopeful. He kept running his palm up and down his arm. A nervous gesture, perhaps?

He stopped short when he saw her. Classic deer in the headlights.

“Good morning. Were you looking for someone?” she asked, opting for directness.

“I’m looking for Ryan Sloan. Is he here?”

“You just knocked on his door,” she said, pointing to the house. “It seems he’s not in. But would you like me to pass on a message to him?”

He shook his head. “No. I’ll stop by another time.”

He turned toward his car, gripping the handle.

“Wait. I’ve seen you at the community center. Playing basketball,” she said, trying to figure out who he was. “Why are you looking for Ryan?”

“I need to talk to him.” He opened the door and got into his Buick.

“What’s your name?”

But he didn’t give her his name. He yanked the door shut and took off.

Sophie and Johnny Cash waited until his car disappeared around the corner. Her heartbeat slowed down, and she patted the dog on the head, glad she’d had a companion. She had no idea what to make of that young man. Why on earth would he need to talk to Ryan? Then it hit her. He might not be T.J. Nelson or Kenny Nelson, but could he be related to one of those men? A son perhaps?

A chill shimmied through her.

When Ryan returned from Hawthorne, she’d tell him he had an unnamed visitor. For now, he had more important matters on his mind. Once inside his home, she locked the door, then checked again to confirm it was closed, then checked once more. She peered out the living room window, making sure the guy hadn’t circled by again. The street was quiet. She called a cab and headed home.

Today was not the best day to go skinny-dipping.

* * *

Surprise her.

That was his strategy. It was a tactic he’d relied on in the military from time to time, and his mother needed to be treated like the enemy today with a sneak attack.

She was always most vulnerable when she didn’t expect something. As he turned into the parking lot in Hawthorne, showing his ID at the gate, his stomach churned. He hated manipulating her like this, but he’d spent the drive fortifying himself, talking back to his fears, and kicking them aside.

Today he was on a mission, and his one and only goal was finding the facts.

Once inside the visiting room, after a hug and a hello, he launched into one of her favorite topics. “Did you hear Anthony Geary retired from GH?”

Her green eyes lit up. He hadn’t seen them so bright in months. “I watched his final episode. It was amazing,” she said, smacking her palm on the wooden table in excitement.

Yup, that did it. Like a fisherman casting a rod, he’d dropped the lure in the water. She was the fish taking the bait.

She chattered on about the show, and because Ryan had listened to a soap opera podcast on the five-hour drive, he was up to speed on which long-lost twin had reappeared, who had been kidnapped and sequestered away in a mansion, and who was pregnant with a secret baby.

Soon, she was laughing, and he’d done it—he’d lulled her into a false sense of security. Tension curled through him, but this was the only chance he had to shock her into stumbling into the truth.

“I think Sonny has to be behind the kidnapping,” she said, chatting about the show as he nodded a yes while reaching into his pocket to remove the pattern subtly. Under the table he unfolded it. Then he laid it on the wood surface, jammed his finger against the center of the paper, and interrupted her.

“Who are T.J. and Kenny Nelson, and why are their names hidden in a code inside your prize dog jacket pattern?”

She fumbled her next words as her jaw dropped and her eyes widened. “What did you just say?”

“Mom, I know what this is. Don’t lie to me now. Please, God, after all I’ve done for you, don’t lie to me now,” he said, desperation infusing his tone. “Who are they and what role did they play in my father’s death?”

“I don’t know,” she mumbled, dropping her gaze to her hands, twisting her fingers together.

“You do, Mom. You do. You gave me this pattern; you asked me to keep it safe. I did that.” He tried to keep the exasperation from seeping into his voice. But that was damn near impossible. “I believed it was some kind of sign of hope for your future,” he said, brandishing the paper, faded and wrinkled from age. “I kept it safe for you. I was even going to have a friend make the damn jacket for you as a gift, to cheer you up. And when she did, she figured out it wasn’t a pattern. It has addresses in it and those addresses correspond to names, and one of those names is the man doing life for murder, and two of the others might be the broker and the getaway driver in the crime.” Her face remained stony even as she blinked several times. He pressed on. “Those other two names match the initials you told me last time I was here, when I asked you who were Stefano’s friends who were looking out for his son. You asked me if they were T.J. and K.” He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms out wide in a waiting stance. “The initials all line up. Talk to me, Mom.”

She pursed her lips together and squeezed her eyes shut. Her face looked pinched, as if she were sucking all her own secrets into her mouth and holding them in with her breath.

Ryan huffed through his nostrils. Enough. This was fucking enough. He wanted to slam his fist into the wood. To knock the damn table over on its side. To throw things. But he wasn’t that kind of a man. He didn’t do that on the ice, and he didn’t do it in here. Violence begets more violence. Fear spawns more fear. He had to rely on his head and his heart.

“Don’t you dare shut down on me again,” he seethed, the words curling out of his mouth like hot smoke. “Don’t you try that routine with me. I have a right to know what I’ve been carrying around for you. It’s not a secret anymore. The pattern was made. The names are revealed.” He thumped his fingertip against the table. “Jerry. T.J. Kenny. They were in your pattern, Mom. Yours.” He pointed at her for emphasis. “I want to know why the addresses, and therefore the names, of those men were hidden. Because for eighteen years, you tricked me into thinking this was special to you. I kept it safe. Because I fucking love you, Mom.”