“Just— just say it,” I said.
“Whatever it is.
Say the name.” Henrik didn’t look up from the screen.
“It’s— it’s not that simple.” “Feels— feels pretty simple to me.
You’ve got a name.
Say the name.” “I have— I have a name I haven’t verified.
There’s a difference, and if I say it out loud and I’m wrong, that’s someone’s whole life I’ve just—” “So verify it.
How long does that take?” “Longer— longer than standing in a car park.” He finally pocketed the phone.
“Tonight.
I’ll— I’ll know by tonight.” “Henrik—” “Tonight, Nico.
I’m not doing this half-right just because you want an answer now.” “I’m not asking for half-right, I’m asking for — okay, fine.
Tonight.
But if you find out and you sit on it till morning, I swear—” “You’ll what?” “I dunno.
Something dramatic.
Ask me tomorrow if it comes to that.” That got the first almost-smile out of him all day, gone as fast as it arrived.
Damjan’s hand found the small of my back again, and I let the argument go, mostly ’cause my legs still hadn’t fully forgiven me for the last hour.
Cora had gone to bed early.
Worn out, she’d said, crying good tears and then scared ones in the space of about 60 minutes, and honestly, fair enough.
I felt the same and I hadn’t even had to fly anywhere to get here, hadn’t had to sit through a ceremony wondering if the man threatening her son was going to come back before dessert.
The house had emptied out slow after that, guests trickling off one by one, security doing their shift change outside, until it was just us and the quiet.
I found Damjan in the kitchen around 10.
Standing at the counter.
A mug in his hand he wasn’t drinking from.
“You didn’t eat,” I said.
“I ate.” “2 bites of toast at noon isn’t eating, Damjan, that’s a rumour of eating.” The corner of his mouth twitched.
Didn’t finish the job.
“I’m not hungry.” “Neither am I, apparently.
Yet here we both are.” “Is this a competition?” “Everything’s a competition with you.
You’ve said that yourself.” “When?” “Doesn’t matter when.
You said it.” He set the mug down.
Looked at me properly.
“He— he knew things,” he said.
“About you.
Sprint numbers.
Assist counts.
Things that aren’t just— that aren’t public.
Not the kind you get from watching a match.” “Yeah.
Noticed that too.” “That means someone gave it to him.” “Or he’s just got people watching training, that’s not exactly—” “Nico.” “What.” “I know the difference between watching and knowing.
He knew.” “Okay.
Fine.
Someone talked.
I just don’t wanna spend all night guessing who, ’cause every name I think of makes my stomach hurt a bit.” “Then don’t guess.” “Easy for you to say.” “No.” Quiet.
“It isn’t.” The doorbell went.
Not the gate buzzer, the actual front door, which nobody used, which meant whoever it was had already gotten past the outer perimeter, which meant this was already wrong.
Damjan moved before I’d finished the thought.
I was right behind him.
He opened the door with one hand on the frame, whole body angled to block whatever was on the other side.
Then he just stopped.
“Mira.” She looked smaller than I’d expected.
Standing on the step in a coat too thin for the evening, grey hair pulled back tight, hands folded in front of her like she already knew she wasn’t wanted and had made peace with it before knocking.
“Damjan.” Her voice cracked on his name, slight, like she hadn’t said it out loud in years and wasn’t sure it still worked right.
“I know it’s— it’s late.
I know what today was.
I wouldn’t have come if it could wait.” “How’d— how’d you get past the gate?” “I used to design that gate’s rotation.
Hasn’t changed as much as your security team thinks.” Damjan didn’t move to let her in.
“Say what you came to say.” “Not on a doorstep.” “Here’s fine.” “Damjan—” “Here.
Is fine.” She looked at him for a long second.
Her shoulders dropped, just slightly, like she’d rehearsed for the coldness on the drive over and still wasn’t ready for how it actually felt.
“Gregor— Gregor came here today,” she said.
“I know because I still have people who tell me things.
Old habits.
Old debts.
And I know more or less what he told you at that gate, ’cause it’s exactly what he’d say.” “You’re well informed for someone who left years ago.” “I left because I had to.
Doesn’t mean I stopped watching.” “Watching what?” “You.
Whether you’d— whether you’d survive what happened to your father.
Whether you’d become him or not.” Her chin came up, slight.
“You didn’t.
I wanted you to know I noticed that.” “You could’ve called.
Written.
Anything.
Instead of showing up now, on my— on the same day I—” “I know the timing is bad.” “The— the timing is insane, Mira.” Damjan went very still.
His jaw tightened.
“You don’t get to say that to me,” he said.
“Not after all this time.
Nothing for years, and now you show up and say that?” “I know.” “Then why are you here?” “Because— because Gregor isn’t finished.
Whatever he said today was an opening move, not the whole thing, and I know how he plays this better than anyone alive, including you.” Her eyes flicked to me, just for a second.
“He’ll come again.
Properly, this time.
Not to look.
To take something.” “Take what?” I said.
She went quiet a second too long, and I could see her deciding how much to give us and how much to keep.
“I don’t— I don’t know yet,” she said.
“But I’d start thinking about what you can’t afford to lose.” “That’s not an answer.” “It’s the only one I’ve got tonight.” “Great.” I could hear how flat my own voice had gone.
“Really comforting stuff.
Thanks for coming all this way to say that.” “I didn’t come here for your comfort, Nico.” “No.
Clearly not.” I stood there a second, arms crossed, trying to decide if I was angrier at her for showing up with half-answers or angrier at myself, honestly, for expecting anything else.
She turned to go, then stopped halfway down the first step, her whole body angling back toward us like her feet had decided before the rest of her did.
“You— you still favour your left side,” she said, not looking at either of us straight on, her eyes fixed on Damjan’s ribs even through his shirt.
“When you stand still too long.
I noticed it earlier, at the gate.
Your father’s dog used to do the same thing.
After.” Damjan went rigid.
“What— what does that mean?” “Nothing.
Everything.” She pulled her coat tighter, already retreating from the words the second they’d left her mouth.
“Some things aren’t mine to explain to you.
I’ve said enough tonight that isn’t mine to say.” “You could— you could tell me now.
Properly.
Whatever you know.” “I could.” Her voice had gone thin.
“It wouldn’t help you tonight, and it’d cost you sleep you don’t have to spare before whatever’s coming next.
Ask me again when there’s time to actually sit with the answer.
I’ll tell you then.
I promise you that much.” “Your promises haven’t meant much so far.” “No.” Quiet.
“They haven’t.
I know that better than you do.” “Then why should this one be different?” “It isn’t.
It’s just the only one I’ve got left to offer, and I’d rather you have it than nothing.” She left after that.
Walking back down the drive without looking back, footsteps fading out faster than felt right, like she was in a hurry to be gone before either of us could ask anything else, before the courage that got her through the front gate ran all the way out.
Neither of us said anything until her car had disappeared past the gate.
“You alright?” I said, eventually, mostly ’cause the silence had gone on long enough that someone needed to say something.
“I don’t know,” Damjan said, which from him was basically a confession.
“You wanna talk about it?” “No.” “Okay.” “…Maybe.
Not out here.” He glanced toward the window, toward the dark beyond the security lights, like the words needed a smaller room to actually leave his mouth.
We stood in the hallway a second longer, the house gone quiet around us, security lights outside cutting long shadows through the front window.
“C’mon,” I said, taking his hand.
“Let’s go up.” He didn’t say anything, just followed, his grip tighter than usual, like he needed the anchor of it more than he was willing to admit out loud.
I found him an hour later.
Sat on the edge of the bed with the lights off.
Something small and rectangular held between both hands.
“Damjan?” He didn’t answer right away.
When he finally turned, there was just enough light from the hallway to catch what he was holding.
The photograph.
The one from the mantelpiece he’d never let me look at properly.
“I need to— I need to tell you something,” he said.
“About my mother.”