Page 1 of Rhythm and Rapture

Prologue

FIVE YEARS AGO

"I hate you."The words come out steady as I clutch Kael to my chest, his car seat balanced in Kade's strong arms beside me.

After four weeks in the NICU—four weeks where my early medical training kicked in, allowing me to understand every monitor reading, every medication dosage, every whispered concern between doctors who didn't expect the seventeen-year-old asking pointed questions about respiratory distress syndrome and neonatal abstinence protocols—he's finally coming home. Not to his mother. To me, Stanford's youngestearly-admit to their MD/PhD program, who just inherited both a house and a baby.

The NICU nurses had been shocked when I corrected a resident's calculation for Kael's medication dosage. "Where did you learn that?" they'd asked. "Stanford pre-med summer intensive," I'd replied, not mentioning I'd been the youngest participant by three years.

The house looks exactly as my grandparents left it—a sprawling four-bedroom Craftsman with original hardwood floors and built-in bookshelves that still smell like Grandpa's pipe tobacco. Afternoon light streams through the leaded glass windows, casting rainbow patterns on walls that have witnessed three generations of our family. It's beautiful, well-maintained, worth more than most people make in a lifetime thanks to Palo Alto real estate.

Kade helps me through the front door, past the living room where Maria and I used to build blanket forts, past the kitchen where Grandma taught us to make tamales every Christmas. Everything looks the same, but feels entirely different. This isn't just my grandparents' house anymore—it's Kael's home, his sanctuary, the place I'll protect with everything I have.

We're barely settling in when we spot him—Rick, standing in the kitchen like he belongs there. Behind him, through the French doors, I can see the backyard where workers just yesterday finished installing a fence—paid for with Maria's life insurance money. The bitter irony isn't lost on me: she's providing more for her son in death than she could in life.

"How the hell did you get inside?" Kade's voice is tight with fury. "I checked all the locks before we left for the hospital."

Rick waves a key—Maria's key, the one she swore she lost months ago. "Your sister was better at sharing than you think."

My stomach turns. He's been here before. In our home. Who knows how many times while I was at school, at the hospital, trusting that locked doors meant safety.

He's holding a baggie of white powder—cocaine, based on the crystalline structure visible through the plastic. The same poison that killed Maria five weeks ago. I know its chemical composition (C17H21NO4), its metabolic pathway, exactly how it shut down my sister's cardiovascular system.

"Come on, Sabina," he drawls, false sympathy dripping from every word. "Maria would want you to celebrate. The kid made it out alive—that's something, right?"

That's something.As if my sister's death and her son's survival are statistics to balance. As if watching Kael fight through withdrawal—understanding every symptom, every treatment protocol, every statistical probability of long-term effects—was just an inconvenience.

Before I can speak, Kade steps forward, placing himself between Rick and us. "Get out." His voice is deadly quiet. "Now."

Rick laughs. Actually laughs. "You don't get to kick me out, kid. That's my son."

"No." Kade's fists clench at his sides. "You're the drug dealer who supplied the cocaine that killed his mother. You have no rights here."

His expression shifts from amused to dangerous, but I'm past caring. I held Maria while she died. Watched her flatline three times. Signed papers making me responsible for a premature infant with complications—all because she chose getting high over staying alive for her son.

"Maria made her own choices," Rick says defensively.

"You sold drugs to a pregnant woman," I spit out, my voice shaking with rage. "You profited from her addiction while she carried your child. And now you're bringing the same poison that killed her into the house where I'm raising her baby."

I look down at Kael's tiny face—peaceful despite the chaos that brought him here. "She died calling your name. Not mine, not her son's. Yours. Even while the cocaine stopped her heart, she worried about protecting you."

Rick goes still. "What?"

"The paramedics asked what she'd taken. She was conscious for thirty seconds after they got her back, and she used those seconds to lie. Said she bought from some stranger downtown instead of her boyfriend."

It's not true—Maria never regained consciousness. But the guilt flooding Rick's eyes says the lie worked.

"Even dying, she protected you. But you're here a month later, trying to profit off her memory."

"I loved her?—"

"You loved the money she spent," Kade interrupts, his voice ice cold. "You loved having someone desperate enough to risk their child for your approval. If you'd loved Maria, you'd have gotten her clean instead of keeping her addicted."

Kade steps closer to Rick, and there's something dangerous in his movement—all the music and gentleness gone, replaced by protective fury. "You will never get anywhere near my nephew or sister. And I will kill you if you try." His voice drops lower. "But you'll never have the chance to. As long as I'm alive, they will thrive. And you'll rot where you belong."

Rick's hands shake—withdrawal or fear or both. "You can't cut me out. I'm his father."

"Biologically," I say, finding strength in Kade's presence. "A real father protects his child. Doesn't sell drugs to his pregnant girlfriend." I shift Kael and pull out my phone. "Sixty seconds before I call Detective Morrison at narcotics."

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