"We still don't know who hid the watch," I muse before taking the shot. My face screws up from the taste. I don't care what anyone says. Alcohol tastes like shit when it's not mixed with something. I will die on that hill.

But I do relish in the burn as it slides down my throat and settles in my stomach, fire blooming and warming me from the inside out.

I scoot the shot glass back to her, signaling another.

Daya glances at me, and what looks like shame is clouded in her sage eyes.

"What?" I ask flatly.

She points towards my refilled shot glass before shooting hers back. I follow suit. This time it feels like this shot is to gain courage. For what, apparently only Daya knows.

"So, I uh, Frank’s note wasn’t the only one I sent in," Daya starts, hesitation prominent in her expression. Her hand lifts to fiddle with her nose ring, but she catches herself and twists her fingers together instead.

"Okay," I say, narrowing my eyes in suspicion. She's being weird. And not the kind of weird that involves us taking our pants off and dancing to I'm a Barbie Girl at three o'clock in the morning while drinking boxed wine.

That’s only happened once, but we both woke up the next morning with regrets.

She sucks in a deep breath, and I'm tempted to tell her that we're sharing the same oxygen—she's not going to find any particles in there that will give her superpowers and make her brave. I'd know, because I want to run and hide from whatever she's about to say.

She picks up the manilla envelope and slides out two more pieces of paper. Shooting one last glance my way, she sets down the documents and we both read them over.

One says it’s a match, and another says no match.

“What am I looking at?”

“The handwriting in the confession note matches your Nana's handwriting," she rushes out so quickly, it takes several beats before I comprehend what she said.

"What?"

That's all I'm capable of uttering. She groans and pours another shot.

“This is for the confession note and a sample of your Nana’s and John’s handwriting.”

“Okay, wait," I say, splaying my hands out. "You had suspicions about my Nana being the one to cover up the murder?”

Her lips tighten into a hard line. "Yes."

I shake my head, at a loss for words. “Why?”

She throws her hands up. "Because it would've had to be someone that lived in this house, Addie. It was either John or your Nana. And your grandmother was attached to the attic, was she not?"

"Where did you even get a hold of things with their handwriting on it?"

"You put aside some old documents she had written on. I took pictures. And well, John was a bit more complicated, but I managed to scrounge up a will he had written on.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me you were doing this?”

She sighs. "Because I knew you'd have a bad reaction to it. I wanted to be sure of my suspicions before I ruined your day."

Blowing out a breath, I nod.

"You’re right," I concede. "It makes sense.” It sounds like I'm trying to convince myself. Probably because I am.

She stays quiet, giving me space to process the fact that my Nana helped cover up her mother's murder.

“She was forced to,” I say finally, glancing over Nana’s confession lying on the island, the note I had found in the attic after seeing what I think was Gigi’s apparition. I don’t move to pick it up, but I remember the words well. The quick scrawl on a piece of paper containing words of a young girl forced to cover up her own mother’s murder.

“Your Nana was what, sixteen when Gigi was murdered? Frank obviously threatened her, and she felt she had no choice. He was a detective, for God’s sake, of course, she would’ve believed him.”

I nod, a frown marring my features. The fear Nana must’ve felt. And the absolute sickening feeling knowing she was helping Gigi’s murderer.

Jesus.

I can’t even begin to imagine how she must’ve felt.

“That’s probably why she spent so much time up there—why she stayed in this house. She was probably punishing herself. Forcing herself to stay in a house with such terrible memories as penance for helping cover it up, even if it wasn’t her choice. I mean, who knows what was going through her head. God, Daya, she was always so damn bright and happy. But on the inside… she must’ve felt such dark things.”

Sympathy etches into the lines around Daya’s frown. “She lived a long, happy life. I’m sure of that. Especially because she had you.”

The alcohol has started to kick in, creating a pleasant buzz in my head. It makes the revelation a little bit more bearable. But not enough to deter the stabbing pain in my chest.

I’m heartbroken for Nana. She lived until she was ninety-one years old. Seventy-five years carrying that weight on her shoulders.

I wonder if Grandpa ever knew. He was a quiet man that loved Nana fiercely. I’d like to think he did and shouldered some of the weight for her.

A memory sparks of about two years ago, a year before she had passed. Nana sitting in Gigi’s chair, staring out the window at the rain.

I was in town visiting her, and she looked so sad.

“What’s wrong, Nana? You feeling okay?”

“Yeah, baby, I’m fine. Nana’s just tired.”

“Why don’t you lay down and rest?”

A small, sad smile graced her lips. “Not that kind of tired, my love. But you’re right. I’ll go lay down for a bit.”

Another memory replaces that one of when I was about twelve years old. I was coloring at the kitchen island when I had asked her a seemingly innocent and random question.

“Nana, if you won a million dollars, what would you buy?”

“No money in the world could buy me what I truly want,” Nana says, a teasing grin on her face.

“Well, what do you want?”

Her smile drops, just for a second, too quick for my twelve-year-old brain to think much of it.

“Peace, baby. All I want is peace.”

I go to bed that night just a little drunk and even sadder.

I miss Zade.

He’s off doing something dangerous tonight—some dinner party. I know he's there to save a little girl, but there's still that selfish part of me that wishes he were here.

My instinct is to hate myself for it. Part of me still does. I don't know how long it's going to take before I fully accept the fact that I've started to fall for him. That I'm accepting him into my life.

How long has he been stalking me for? Three months? Not very long at all. In fact, that's such an insignificant amount of time, it almost makes me sick. There's still so much I don't know about him. What's his favorite color? Does he have allergies? I hope he's allergic to all my favorite foods so I don't have to share. Or, at least I hope he doesn't like them. More for me.

And I hope I don't like his favorite foods because if I do, I'll probably eat off his plate, too.

He probably wouldn't mind. And that softens my heart into a pile of mush. Because somehow a man that wouldn't care if I ate his food fell in love with me. That's so fucking cute.

I flop onto my bed and groan. Daya left an hour ago. We spent the rest of the day working on our respective work. She let me be for the most part while I stewed over the revelations. And after she left, I kept drinking until I stopped thinking about it.

Tomorrow, I'll regret it. I'm not even halfway through the next installment in my series, and I have a lot of readers pushing for it. The pressure always starts getting heavy when several months pass between releases.