Ten Years Later, a Midnight Call from the ER Revealed the Devastating Reason He Let Me Destroy Him.

"What happened to him?" Julian demanded, his voice thick with rehearsed grief. He stepped toward the window, shaking his head. "The poor kid. Robert, why didn't you call me? You shouldn't be dealing with this alone."

"Hit and run," I said, keeping my voice dangerously flat. Every muscle in my neck was coiled tight. "Industrial district. Early this morning."

Julian turned to Marlow, extending a well-manicured hand. "I’m Julian Vance. Mr. Hale’s personal attorney and longtime family friend. Are you handling the investigation, Officer?"

"Detective Marlow," the cop replied, not taking the hand immediately. He gave Julian the same cold, calculating stare he’d given me. "And yes. I am."

"Do you have any leads?" Julian asked smoothly. "Portland traffic can be horrific. Hit-and-runs are epidemic downtown these days. Some drunk driver or vagrant, no doubt."

"The driver didn't brake," Marlow said. "Accelerated. Clipped him, backed up, and sped off. It’s an attempted murder charge the moment we pull the surveillance footage from the freight warehouse across the street."

Julian’s jaw tightened—just a millimeter, but I saw it. "Warehouse surveillance? In that district? Most of those cameras are rusted dummies, Detective. But of course, one can hope."

Julian turned back to me, placing a warm, heavy hand on my shoulder. Ten years ago, that hand had felt like steady timber in a storm. Today, it felt like a venomous spider crawling across my collarbone.

"Robert, you’re exhausted," Julian said gently. "You drove two hours in a storm. Let me take over here. Go across the street, get some coffee, maybe check into a motel for a few hours. I’ll sit with him. I’ll make sure the hospital has all the financial paperwork sorted. Mara would want me to handle the expenses."

"No," I said, stepping back so his hand fell away.

Julian blinked, surprised. "Robert, be reasonable. You haven't spoken to the boy in ten years. The last time you saw him, you told me yourself you couldn't stand the sight of him. Why torture yourself?"

"Because he’s my responsibility," I replied, staring directly into Julian’s pale blue eyes. "And because whoever hit him is still out there. I want to be in the room when he opens his eyes."

Julian offered a tight, sympathetic smile, but his eyes were cold as pond ice. "The doctor told you he might wake up?"

"He might," I lied. "Any minute."

Julian took a subtle breath. "Well. Let's pray he does. In the meantime, Detective, did Ethan have any personal belongings on him? A bag? A phone? Sometimes victims of road violence have clues on their digital devices."

"Everything is locked in the evidence vault at central," Marlow lied smoothly, catching my eye with a razor-thin squint. Marlow was no fool; he’d smelled the rat the moment Julian walked in asking about cameras and evidence.

"I see," Julian said. He checked his gold Rolex. "I have a nine o'clock meeting with a client downtown, but I’ll return by noon. Robert... don't do anything rash. Call me if the doctors say anything definitive."

Julian turned and walked down the hallway, his leather soles clicking rhythmically against the tile.

The moment Julian turned the corner out of sight, Marlow leaned down toward me. "Your lawyer friend is sweating through his five-thousand-dollar suit. What didn't you tell me, Mr. Hale?"