Page 33 of Monk

Monk. My father called him Monk. Of course he did. My father knew him. Had always known him. Had even liked him, back when John and I were... “Sorry, David.” John’s voice was rough and low, and it sent a shiver through me that I felt in every nerve ending. “Would’ve been here sooner, but I just found out you were in here.”

He was talking to my father. But he wasn’t looking at my father. He was looking atme. His eyes never left mine. Not for a second. Not even when he spoke, not even when my fatherresponded with something I didn’t hear because the blood was rushing too loud in my ears.

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything but stand there and feel the weight of his gaze like a hand pressed flat against my skin.

Seven years. Seven years since I’d last seen him, touched him, heard his voice anywhere but in my sleep. Seven years since I believed he was alive. And now he was here—close enough for me to see the faint scar above his left eyebrow, the one he’d gotten in a bar fight before we met. Close enough for me to catch the scent of leather, engine oil, and something darker that was only ever him. Close enough that if I let go of the wheelchair and took three steps forward, I could touch him.

My hands tightened on the handles. I wanted to cross the space between us. Wanted to touch him just to prove he was real, that this wasn’t some grief-born hallucination. I wanted to scream at him. Demand answers.Where have you been? Why didn’t you find me? Why did you let me think you were dead?But I couldn’t speak. Couldn’t move. All I could do was stand there trembling while my father and John exchanged pleasantries as if this were normal, as if the world wasn’t splitting open under my feet.

“Appreciate you checking in,” my father was saying. “Lina’s been taking good care of me.”

And then John’s gaze flickered, just for a heartbeat, with something that looked like pain. “Lina,” he said. My name. He said my name, and the rough, reverent, broken sound of it cracked something open inside my chest.

I still couldn’t speak. My throat was closed. My lungs were empty. My entire body felt like it was vibrating at a frequency I couldn’t control.

“John,” I managed at last, and my voice sounded foreign, distant, like it belonged to someone else. His jaw tightened. Andfor one brief, blinding moment, I saw it there too—the same shock, the same disbelief, the same raw, overwhelming thing I couldn’t name but felt in every cell of my body. “I should...” I started, but I had no idea how to finish.

I should go. I should tell you that you have a daughter.

Oh God.Tatum.

The thought of my daughter—our daughter—hit me hard enough to make my knees weaken. He didn’t know. He had no idea. And I was standing here staring at him with no clue what to say, what to do, or how to evenbeginto make sense of this.

“Lina?” My father’s voice cut through the chaos in my head. “Are you okay, sweetheart?”

No, I wasn’t okay. I was the furthest thing from it. But I nodded anyway, forcing my fingers to unclench from the wheelchair handles. “Yeah,” I lied. “I’m fine.”

John’s eyes narrowed slightly, like he could see right through me. Like he always had when I was hiding something. The silence stretched between us, heavy and loaded, and impossible to break. And then, from somewhere down the hall, a nurse called out, “Mr. Wilcox? We have your discharge papers ready.”

The spell shattered as my father shifted in his wheelchair. “Guess that’s my cue.”

I nodded mutely, my gaze still locked on John’s.

“I’ll, uh...” My father glanced between us, that smirk still tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I’ll give you two a minute.”

“Dad…” But he was already wheeling himself toward the nurses’ station, leaving me there alone with John. With the man I loved. The man I mourned. The man who was looking at me like I was oxygen and he’d been drowning for years.

Neither of us moved. Neither of us spoke. The air between us crackled with seven years of silence, grief, and questions with no clean answers. And all I could think was:He’s alive. He’s alive,and everything I thought I knew was a lie, and I have no idea what happens next.

CHAPTER NINE

Monk

The hospital parking lot was washed in that late-afternoon gold that made everything look softer than it was. A liar’s light. Nothing about that moment had been soft.

I stood beside David’s farm truck—an old Ford F-250 that had been held together by rust, grit, and stubbornness for longer than most men stayed useful—and watched Blackjack fold the wheelchair with practiced efficiency. The metal frame collapsed in a series of sharp clicks that sounded too loud in the open air.

David was already in the passenger seat, his weathered face pinched tight against pain he was too proud to show.Stubborn old bastard. I respected that more than I probably should have.

“Appreciate the help, Monk,” David said, his voice gruff but genuine.

I nodded, my hands gripping the truck’s doorframe. “We’ll follow you back to the farm. Help get you inside the house.”

“That’s not necessary.” Lina’s voice cut through the air like a blade.

I turned slowly and met her eyes. She stood a few feet away with her keys clenched in one hand, her whole body locked down tight. Defensive. Braced. Like she already knew she was out of room to run.

Good.