Page 48 of Never Quite Gone

“What was that about?” I demanded, my voice shakier than I liked.

“Like he recognized you?” Alex's expression held careful neutrality. “Will has his own demons to wrestle with. His own memories to reconcile.”

“That's not an answer.”

“No,” he agreed softly. “But it's all I can give you right now. Not here, not with?—”

Footsteps interrupted whatever he might have said. Rachel appeared, slightly breathless, her eyes taking in the scene with quick assessment.

“There you are,” she said, relief clear in her voice. “David just arrived. He's asking for you, Eli.”

A lie, but a welcome one. An excuse to escape the weighted air of the gallery, the watching portraits, the questions I wasn't ready to ask.

“We should go,” I said, already moving toward the door. But Alex caught my hand, the contact sending warmth through my entire body.

“Tomorrow,” he said quietly. “Dinner, just us. I'll explain everything I can.”

I looked at our joined hands, at the way they fit together like they'd done it a thousand times before. “Everything?”

“Everything you're ready to hear.”

Rachel's presence kept me grounded as we made our way back downstairs, her steady support helping me navigate the rest of the evening. But I couldn't shake the memory of Will's desperate questions, of those painted eyes that looked too familiar, of the way Alex had appeared exactly when needed – like he'd done it before, like he always would.

“You're still in those clothes,” Rachel observed as I slumped at her kitchen counter. “Take it off before you get pasta sauce on it.”

The normalcy of her kitchen after the opulence of the Rothschild mansion felt like coming up for air. David moved aroundthe stove with firefighter efficiency, the smell of garlic and tomatoes filling the space with comfort.

“I have sweats in the guest room,” my sister continued, already pushing me toward the stairs. “Go change. We're having emergency comfort food and you're going to tell us what happened after I lost sight of you.”

“Nothing happened,” I protested, but let her propel me upward.

The guest room – more accurately, my room whenever I needed it – held familiar touches. A spare set of clothes, medical journals I'd left last visit, photos from happier times.

When I came back down in worn sweats and one of Michael's old t-shirts that had migrated here somehow, David was plating his famous pasta while Rachel poured wine with determined purpose.

“Alright,” she said once we were settled. “Start with Will Rothschild cornering you in that gallery.”

I pushed pasta around my plate, suddenly fascinated by the pattern of sauce and noodles. “He was just being protective of his brother.”

“Bull.” Rachel's teacher voice came out full force. “I saw his face when he was leading you away. That wasn't protective, that was... something else.”

David set a garlic bread basket between us with careful neutrality. He'd always been good at knowing when to let Rachel handle things and when to intervene.

“He asked strange questions,” I admitted finally. “About dreams and memories. About Alex and me. Like he knew something I didn't.”

“And Alex?” Rachel's voice softened. “He seemed... intense when he found you.”

The wine was good – probably from the collection Michael had started, that Rachel had inherited by unspoken agreement. “Alex was... he was different than I've ever seen him. Dangerous,almost.”

“Because his brother was threatening you,” David pointed out, breaking his careful silence. His firefighter's instincts for human nature often cut straight to truth.

“Will wasn't threatening me exactly...” But even as I said it, I remembered the desperation in those eyes, the way he'd backed me against the wall. “It was more like... like he was trying to warn me. Or himself. I don't know.”

Rachel's hand found mine across the counter. “You like Alex.”

It wasn't a question, but I answered anyway. “I barely know him.”

“That's not what I asked.”

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