Chapter 1

The evening traffic outside the glass tower had thinned to a slow crawl, the kind of crawl that made the whole city look like it was thinking something over. Killian walked out through the revolving doors the way he always did, collar loosened, phone already buzzing in his pocket, his mind a half step ahead of his feet. His car was parked two blocks down, because the valet line moved slower than he had patience for, and the city was doing what it always did at this hour: humming, indifferent, full of people who didn't know his name and a few who knew it too well.

He didn't notice the man until the man was already in front of him.

"Hey — hey, Killian. You're Killian Murphy, right?"

Killian slowed, frowning. He didn't know the face. Hadn't seen it before, couldn't place it in any version of his life.

"Oh, thank God. I thought I'd never find you."

"I'm sorry, who are you?" Killian's voice came out clipped, wary. "And what do you mean, you'll never find me? Do I know you?"

"No. But someone else does."

"Who?"

"June."

Killian went still, the way a clock stops the instant you tap the glass too hard.

"Wait — what do you mean? How do you know June? We haven't spoken in years."

"I know that," the man said, holding up both hands like he was trying to slow things down before they got away from him. "I'm Steven. June's cousin. And look — I've been trying to track you down for about a month now. I'm not stalking you, I promise. I just needed to find you. I need your help."

Hearing her name out loud did something strange to Killian's chest, like a door he'd nailed shut years ago had creaked open an inch, just enough to let the draft in. He hadn't felt that draft in four years. Not since he was twenty-five and falling for a girl who never stayed still long enough to be caught. He hadn't seen a trace of her since.

"You need my help?" he said slowly. "What kind of help. And why me?"

"Because you're the only person who ever really understood her. And it's June who needs the help. Not me."

"June needs help? What happened to her?"

"I don't know." Steven's voice cracked at the edges, the way dry paint cracks when you bend it. "I haven't seen her in five months."

He rubbed a hand over his face before going on, like the next part cost him something.

"I've tried everything. Filed a police report. They took my statement, said they'd look into it, and that was basically it. Weeks of nothing. So I started doing it myself. Went through her apartment twice, looking for anything — a note, a number, a name that kept showing up. Most of it was just June being June. Half-finished sketches. A few voice memos she never got around to sending anyone. Receipts she never threw away. And then I found her journal, shoved at the bottom of a drawer, like she didn't want anyone finding it but couldn't bring herself to throw it away either."

He glanced at Killian, almost apologetic.

"Your name was everywhere in it. Not just mentioned. Circled back to. Pages of it. So I started asking around — old friends, people she used to work with, anyone who might've heard her say your name. One of them said you'd done well for yourself, that you weren't exactly hard to find if you knew where to look. After that it wasn't difficult. I started showing up outside that building most evenings, for about a month, hoping I'd get lucky."

He let out a short, humorless laugh.

"Today I got lucky."

"She used to talk about you all the time," he added, quieter now. "And her journal made it pretty clear how important you were to her."

Killian's mind was already running ahead of him. Missing. The word didn't fit her. June wasn't the kind of person who simply vanished.

"Important to her," he repeated, something bitter creeping into his voice. "Is that right. See, Steven, I know exactly what I was to her. A mistake. Nothing more than that. You should be talking to the police, not me. They'll actually be able to help you. I won't. She's not coming back because of me."

He turned and started toward his car.

"Are you seriously going to walk away again?" Steven called after him. "Just like you did that day? And never reach out, never say a single thing you actually felt?"

Killian stopped cold.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I know what happened four years ago," Steven said, quieter now, almost gentle. "And I know why she left. It was never out of anger — I saw it in her eyes, Killian. Regret. She regretted never telling you how much you meant to her. Please. Help me find her."

Killian said nothing. He got into his car and drove away, the words trailing after him like something he couldn't outrun.

By the time he reached home, the conversation had settled into his bones the way cold weather settles into an old injury. He sat on the porch steps, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing, turning Steven's words over and over.

Was I really that important to her?

And if I was — why didn't she come back? Why wasn't she there when I needed her the most?