Mia flinched.
Adrian ran both hands along the molding.
There had always been a narrow imperfection near the right edge of the shelving. He had assumed it came from settling wood.
Now, with his face inches away, he could see the vertical seam.
At knee height, hidden beneath decorative trim, sat a circular brass fitting.
He pressed it.
Nothing happened.
He pressed harder.
A mechanism clicked.
The entire section shifted forward less than an inch.
Adrian grabbed it.
The shelves were heavier than they looked.
He braced one shoe against the floor and pulled.
The walnut panel rolled slowly along a concealed iron channel.
Dust spilled from above.
Behind the shelving was an old gray service door.
No handle on this side.
Fresh scratches ran across the bottom.
Mia made a small sound.
Adrian looked toward her.
Her face had gone pale beneath her brown skin.
“Go into the hall.”
“Is somebody hurt?”
“I don’t know.”
“What if they need help?”
Adrian nearly told her that was not her responsibility.
But the sentence stopped.
A six-year-old child had spent the night believing her family’s survival was her responsibility.
He lowered his voice.
“I’m going to help.”
“You take Lily and wait outside.”
Mia hesitated.
Then obeyed.
She took three backward steps without turning her back on the hidden door.
Adrian knocked.
“Hello?”
Silence.
He knocked again.
“This is Adrian Duca.”
Something scraped against the other side.
Then a small metallic object slid beneath the door.
It rolled over the hardwood.
Spun twice.
Stopped against his shoe.
Adrian stared down.
A gold signet ring.
Black onyx face.
Small winged lion.
His family crest.
His hand became cold before he even bent to pick it up.
The inner band carried two initials.
J.D.
And beneath the D was a tiny diagonal scratch.
Adrian had made that scratch himself when he was twenty-three.
The jeweler had engraved Julian’s initials incorrectly the first time.
Julian had refused to send it back.
“It’s better now,” he had said. “You vandalized it. Makes it personal.”
Adrian could hear the laughter as clearly as if the twelve intervening years had been a hallway instead of a life.
He looked at the hidden door.
“No.”
Mia whispered from the hall, “What is it?”
Adrian did not answer.
He could not.
His mouth had forgotten how.
He held the ring tighter.
His brother had been buried wearing it.
Adrian had seen Daniel Mercer place it inside the funeral box himself.
Had seen the velvet lid close.
Had watched that box disappear inside a coffin he was too broken to approach twice.
Adrian whispered, “Julian?”
The response came as one weak knock.
He moved.
He did not remember deciding to.
There was no handle, so he grabbed the antique iron poker beside the fireplace, shoved the flat edge against the old latch plate, and drove his shoulder into the wood.
The first strike cracked the frame.
The second tore one hinge loose.
Mia gasped.
Adrian hit it again.
The door opened three inches.
Something heavy blocked it.
He pushed.
A body fell toward him.
Adrian caught the man beneath the arms.
The stranger was shockingly light.
Not small.
He had once been broad-shouldered.
Adrian could feel the frame of that strength beneath a body stripped down by hunger and time.
Dark hair reached his collar.
A beard covered most of his face.
There were new scars.
One across his temple.
One along the jaw.
A nose that had been broken.
But the eyes—
The eyes opened.
Gray-green.
Their mother’s eyes.
The man looked at Adrian.
His lips moved.
“Adri…”
Adrian stopped breathing.
The stranger’s gaze drifted toward the hallway.
He saw Mia.
Then back to Adrian.
“Don’t…”
His voice was almost nothing.
“Don’t call Mercer.”