Page 114 of Kept

He died without an answer.

My hand clenches on the sketch as I reach into my pocket, tugging out the crumpled photo and holding it out to Zella silently. She stares down at it, at the unmistakable resemblance between the woman in the photograph and the woman in her sketchbook.

“Nineteen years ago,” I say hoarsely, “my father’s best friend lost his wife and daughter in a fire. It ripped through their home, so much so that they were unidentifiable. But they only ever found one body. The police dismissed it. They couldn’t identify the body due to its condition, and they said that because of the heat of the fire, it was likely that the daughter had perished too. They thought it was a simple house fire, and they closed the investigation.”

Zella closes her eyes. “I think they got it wrong.”

“My father did, too,” I say quietly. Her eyes fly open, and I give her a strained smile. “His best friend needed help, and it drove him to open up an investigative company. But he never found any explanation of what might have happened to Maria and Aria Cooper.”

Zella flinches, and I reach for her hand. It feels cold in mine, so fucking cold, and I pull her into me. Her entire body is trembling.

“What does this mean?” Her voice is hoarse and shaky as I hold her. “What did Ethan do?”

I rub my hands over her arms, trying to warm her. “I wish I had an answer for you,” I say softly. “But we’re closer to an answer now than we’ve ever been.”

She swallows. “What do we do now?”

I blow out a breath. “I think,” I say carefully, “that a DNA test is needed.”

“A DNA test?”

I cup her cheek. “It will tell us if you’re really Aria Cooper, Zella,” I say, trying to soften my words. “It will tell us if Emerson is your real father.”

Her eyes glisten, spilling over with tears. “And if he is?”

“Then,” I say softly, “we will think about what happens next. One step at a time, okay?”

It takes her a second to nod. “But… Ethan might have killed my mother. Why would he do that? Did he know them?”

“I don’t have all the answers,” I swallow, stroking her cheek. “But we’re going to get them, Zella. I swear to you.”

She straightens. “Can you… call him now? Emerson, I mean?”

“Are you sure, little thief?” Ryder interjects softly. “This is a lot to process in a short amount of time.”

Zella shakes her head. “It’s been twenty years,” she chokes out. “I don’t think… I think he deserves to know.”

We all exchange glances. “Alright,” I say roughly, trying to keep the ache in my throat down. “I’ll call him.”

Zella slips from my lap, and I glance up. She shifts on her feet.

“I want him to know,” she explains wanly. “I just… I don’t think I can be in the room for that. Not straight away. Does that make sense?”

“Of course,” I acknowledge. “I completely understand.”

She holds up her hand to stop Ryder and Enzo as they both rise from their seats. “I just… I’m going to have a bath. And maybe a nap.”

She wraps her arms around herself as she leaves, looking so small and fragile that it just about breaks my fucking heart. The others look just as struck, and Enzo’s hands are so tight on the arms of his chair I think I hear a crack.

Twenty years. Twenty years of looking for a ghost, of praying for a damn fucking miracle, and here she is.

“We could be wrong,” Ryder says quietly, and I shake my head.

“We’re not wrong,” I say, picking up the phone and bracing myself.

“Wait,” he bursts out. “Just… wait.”

He looks between the three of us. “This changes nothing,” he says hoarsely. “With us. With her.”

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