We’re alone in his office. He doesn’t need to sign to keep our conversation private. He could whisper, and I would still be able to read his lips. But he knows I’m more comfortable communicating with my hands, probably because American Sign Language is one of the many things we learned together. As a child I considered it our very own secret language, something he and I could share away from the hearing world.

That you’re making a mistake, I sign back.

My comment earns me a smile, but I can see his concern, despite the crinkles around his eyes that deepen when he grins. “You’re going to have to trust me,” he says aloud.

I let out a breath. He knows I trust him. How could I not?

I was brought to the Lehigh Valley District Attorney’s office when I was about four years old, after my biological mother had attempted to sell my innocence in exchange for drugs. My mother probably thought it was a brilliant plan. Being born almost completely deaf, I couldn’t speak, couldn’t communicate, couldn’t understand. Which meant I couldn’t tell anyone what was about to take place.

Yet that didn’t mean I couldn’t feel pain when she slapped me, or that I was numb to the terror when she shoved me into a room naked with those men. My primal instincts ordered me to run, that this was wrong, that I was in danger, so I did—thank God I did. I kicked and fought, dodging the hands trying to grab me and scurrying out my window.

To this day, I remember the way the cold metal grating of the fire escape felt against my bare feet, and the way my mouth struggled to form what I thought were words as I banged on my elderly neighbor’s window. Miss Lena, the lady with too many cats and twice as many grandchildren, yanked me into her apartment when she saw me. She called the police, but by the time they arrived, the men were gone and so was my mother. I never saw them again.

Not that I regret it.

I was placed in foster care, confused and frightened about what was happening and certain I’d eventually return “home.” Instead, I was brought before the young assistant DA Miles Fenske. He was supposed to handle my case, dispose of it, and move on. He was never supposed to welcome me into his heart. Yet that’s exactly what he did.

“Melissa,” he says. His words sound muffled; my hearing aids can only do so much, but I hear enough to sense the emotion in the way he speaks my name. “Why are you so sad?”

I raise my chin. “Declan O’Brien will never be the man you are. He’s not the right DA for this position.” I shake my head. “He belongs in the Trial Unit, Arson, Fugitive—anywhere else but where you’ve placed him.”

“I know you don’t like him…”

I raise my brows.

“…and that your first encounter wasn’t a positive one…”

“That’s because he was an asshole,” I mumble.

He chuckles. “I assure you he deeply regrets what he said. But Declan is smart, quick, and kind.”

I don’t agree. Not completely. Is Declan intelligent? Brilliantly so, and absurdly astute in court. With short, curly blond hair and a dashing grin that lights his blue eyes, he’s also gorgeous, and he knows it. But is he kind? I’m not so sure that he is. “He’ll never be the man you are,” I repeat.

“I’m not asking him to be. I simply want the best person for the job, someone who will help the victims who need him most.”

“That’s what you claim. But he doesn’t have experience handling delicate cases where offenders often inflict irreparable trauma.”

“No, but as the head of Victim Services, you do,” he offers with a knowing gleam.

My nails dig into the wooden armrests. “If you’re trying to hook us up, I’m going to be seriously mad at you.”

The edges of his mouth curve. “I’m only asking you to help Declan as he transitions into his new role. This new assignment won’t be easy on him.”

“Because he doesn’t want it. He wants to be the head of Homicide.” I stand, my hands pleading. “Please reassign him. The Sexual Assault and Child Abuse Unit is not where someone who seeks glory belongs.”

My voice trails as I catch a glimmer of his pain. “Daddy?”

At once, his face scrunches, flushing red only to grow alarmingly pale. I race around his desk, clutching his shoulders to keep him upright as he grips his side and beads of sweat gather along his receding hairline.

It’s only because he lifts his bowed head and a healthier shade of pink returns to his cheeks that I’m not screaming for help and dialing 911. “Daddy?”

He offers me a weak smile and pats my arm. “I’m all right,” he says, leaning back in his chair.

“No you’re not,” I say, my eyes stinging. My stare drifts over his body. His light blue dress shirt clings with sweat to his arms and plump midsection. He’s not well. My father is…sick. “What aren’t you telling me?”

His hand slowly eases away from his side. For a moment his eyes search my face, as they’ve done a thousand times throughout my life. “The doctors discovered new tumors along my colon,” he finally says. “They’re going to resection my bowel and dispose of the affected area, with the hope of avoiding chemo this time around.”

Very carefully, I straighten, despite the fact that my heart has all but stopped beating. My father was diagnosed with colon cancer years ago and just barely survived the aggressive treatment. If it’s returned, now that he’s older, and not as healthy…

“When were you going to tell me?” I ask, keeping my voice steady despite how badly it wants to shake.

He sighs. “Friday, over dinner.”

To give me the weekend to absorb it, no doubt. “And your surgery? When is that?”

“A few weeks.” He frowns as if debating what to say. “I’ll be out of commission for a while. In my absence, Declan will lead the office as acting district attorney.” He looks at me then. “And I ask that you help him, regardless of your feelings toward him.”

Declan

“This isn’t where I fucking belong,” I growl. I’m beyond pissed, and started typing my resignation letter at least six times today only to delete it. Yet for as much as I don’t want to head the Sexual Assault and Child Abuse Unit, I’m not a quitter. “Fuck,” I mumble, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Fuck.”

My brother Curran crosses his arms over his chest, not caring how it creases the shirt of his Philly PD uniform. But Curran doesn’t care about shit like that. “It’s still a promotion, Deck,” he says. “You got this DA spot straight out of law school and have made more of a name for yourself than most douchebag attorneys ever will.” He holds up a hand. “No offense.”

“Which is why I should be leading the Homicide Unit.”

I shove away from my desk and pace. When Miles gave me these new digs, I thought it was just the start of all the good things coming my way. When he assigned me a county car and personal secretary, it only reinforced that my hard work had paid off. I was on my way. Until I wasn’t.

“I spent months dismantling a mafia empire, Curran.”

“I know,” he says. “I was there.”

“I brought down a major crime boss—and his second in command, and his third.”

“Yup. Saw that, too,” he agrees.

“I received international attention—the trial of the century, the media called it—and for what? To be shoved someplace I don’t belong.”

“Why don’t you think you belong there?”

Out of all my five brothers, Curran is probably the biggest ball-buster. But he’s not messing with me now. He’s being serious.

“Do you want to hear about babies being beaten or women dragged into alleys and raped?” I demand. “These are the cases I’m going to be dealing with every day.”

“Someone has to do it, Deck. It’s the right thing.”