ZACK'S POV.....
My phone rings at 3:47pm.
I don't need to check the screen. There's only one person who calls me from the 27th floor and doesn't speak first.
I answer. "Yeah."
Silence. Then breathing. Not Hale's boardroom breathing. Not CEO breathing. Greg's breathing. The kind he did when we were fourteen and he found out his mom wasn't coming home.
"You bought her a house."
Not a question. Not a yell. Worse. Quiet. Flat. The way he talks when he's about to do something irreversible.
I lean back in my chair. 12th floor. Legal. My office is smaller than his, but I like it better. No windows. No view. Just me and the messes I clean up.
"I did," I say.
More silence. I can hear him thinking. I can hear him not thinking, which is worse. Greg only goes blank when he's feeling too much.
"Explain."
LlOne word. Hale could freeze a boardroom with it. Doesn't work on me. Hasn't since he was nine and cried because his dad made him shake hands with oil guys.
I spin my pen. Once. Twice. "You said 'make sure she's safe.'"
"At 5:43am."
"You remember the time."
"I remember everything about that sunrise," he says. And there it is. The crack. The thing he won't say to her, so he says it to me.
I close my eyes. Four days. I've been running scenarios for four days. How this call would go. What I'd say. How much to admit.
I go with the truth. He deserves that much.
"You walked past her," I say. "Got in the car. Didn't look back. Hands in your pockets so tight I thought you'd rip the seams."
"I remember."
"You looked at her for half a second before you did it. At the fire. When you thought the cameras were off. When you thought I wasn't watching."
His breath hitches. Got him.
"You looked at her like she was the first real thing you'd seen since your mom's funeral," I say. "And then you put Hale back on like armor and left her in the dirt."
"Zack…."
"No," I cut him off. Because if I don't say it now, I never will. "You don't get to 'Zack' me. Not today. You told me to make sure she was safe. You didn't say how. You never do. You say three words and expect me to read your mind and then get mad when I do."
"She had nothing," he says. Quiet.
"Yeah. She did. No phone. No shoes. No place. No people. She had your handkerchief and a blanket that wasn't hers."
"So you bought her a house."
"I bought her a house," I confirm. "And a phone. And I put cash in an envelope because she looked like she hadn't eaten in a week. And I made her 'personal staff' because it was the only way to get her past security without you having to explain why some girl from Panther Way was in your building."
He's quiet for a long time. I let him.
Then: "You set the passcode."
"0406."
"April 6."
"The day you met her," I say. "The day you stopped being Hale for ten hours. The day you built a fire and didn't know how to leave it."
"You had no right."
I laugh. Short. Ugly. "I've had no right since we were nine, Greg. That's never stopped me before."
He doesn't say anything to that. Because it's true. Because I'm the one who taught him how to lie to his father. Because I'm the one who covered for him when he disappeared for ten hours. Because I'm the one who knows he hasn't slept since Panther Way.
"Why," he says finally. Not _why the house. Just why.
I stop spinning the pen.
"Because I'm tired," I say. Honest. Tired. "I'm tired of watching you turn into your father. I'm tired of writing press releases about 'Mr. Hale declines to comment.' I'm tired of you being twenty-five and acting like you're sixty and already dead."
"Zack."
"And then I saw you at that fire," I keep going. Because I have to. "You were dirty. You were unshaven. You were _Greg. And you looked at her like she was a person. Not an asset. Not a liability. A person. And for ten hours, you remembered how to be one too."
The line is dead silent.
"So yeah," I say. "I bought her a house. I gave her a phone. I put her in your path. Because if you were ever going to come back, it was going to be for someone who didn't know your net worth. Someone who called it _your_ fire and meant it."
He breathes out. Shaky. Greg breathing.
"She's in my chair," he says.
I smile. He can't see it. "I know."
"She said my name."
My chest does a thing. Relief. Victory. Grief. All of it. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Good," I say. "About damn time someone did."
More quiet. Then, softer: "You're not sorry."
"No," I say. "I'm not. Are you mad?"
Another beat.
"I shouldn't be," he says.
" But you're not."
"No," he admits "I'm not."
I close my eyes. Four days of waiting. Four days of wondering if I've gone too far. If I'd misread him. If the boy I grew up with had been gone for good.
He's not.
" She's safe." I said.
"I know," he says. " I saw her."
" You gonna keep her safe?"
This is the question. The only one that matters.
He doesn't answer for a long time. I hear his voice. The quiet. The city twenty seventh floor down.
Then: " I don't know how."
That's it. That's the truth. Gregory Hale doesn't know how to care for something without buying it. Greg doesn't know how to care for something without losing it.
"You start by not leaving her in the dirt," I say. " You already failed that one, so try again."
"I'm not good at this, Zack."
"I know," he said. "That's why I'm here."
He laughs. Barely. Broken.