Morning had already settled into the house when Mr MarQueen descended the stairs, the silence heavier than usual. He headed for the kitchen on instinct, prepared to occupy his hands with breakfast-anything to keep his mind from drifting.

He stopped short.

The kitchen wasn't empty.

Kelvin stood at the counter, apron on, shoulders tense but deliberate as he plated the food. Loaded pancake tacos sat neatly arranged beside a tall glass of coconut-raspberry smoothie.

His favourite.

The same way his wife used to make it.

Something tightened in Mr MarQueen's chest.

The table had already been set-precise, careful. Kelvin finished rinsing the last utensil and carried it to the sink before finally taking a step toward the dining table.

"Good morning," Mr MarQueen said quietly.

Kelvin didn't look up. "Morning. I made breakfast. You should eat something."

Mr MarQueen pulled out a chair and sat. A minute later, Kelvin joined him. They ate in silence, forks scraping plates, the unspoken tension thick enough to taste. Neither man met the other's eyes.

Minutes dragged by.

Finally, Mr MarQueen set his cutlery down and dabbed his lips with a napkin. "Thank you for the meal."

Kelvin kept eating.

A pause.

"About last night," Mr MarQueen continued, voice low. "I was wrong to lose my temper. I don't know what came over me. I... nearly hurt you." His fingers tightened around the napkin. "And for that, I'm sorry."

Kelvin exhaled sharply and pushed his plate away. "You don't need to apologise Mr MarQueen. I pushed you. You snapped." He finally looked up, eyes sharp but wounded. "But you scared me. Sitting in the dark like that. Saying nothing. Just staring at the TV."

He shook his head. "I know you're hurting over Mom's death-but seeing you like that scared the hell out of me."

Mr MarQueen swallowed. "I know." His voice faltered before he steadied it. "I just feel... useless. I can get justice for strangers. For clients I barely know. But not for my own wife."

His gaze dropped to the table. "I can feel it in my bones-her death wasn't an accident. But whoever did this was a professional. And the police?" He scoffed bitterly. "They're going in circles."

Kelvin leaned forward. "You think I don't feel that too?" His voice rose despite himself. "I lost a mother. And not having answers is driving me insane. But you don't see me locking myself away."

He straightened. "You're a lawyer. Your battlefield is the courtroom. Mine is the field. You've trusted me before to get you evidence-real evidence. But now that it's personal, you're pushing me out."

"Carrying out your own investigation."

His voice softened. "That's what Mom was afraid of."

Silence fell.

"She wouldn't want you joining her," Kelvin said quietly. "So let me look into her death. When I find something-anything-you'll be the first to know."

Mr MarQueen leaned back slowly, studying his son as though seeing him anew. "And what makes you think your mother would want you investigating her death instead of me?"

Kelvin stood abruptly, moving behind his chair. His hands gripped the wood, knuckles whitening.

"She wouldn't," he admitted. "But the difference is-I'm a detective. You're not."

He met his father's eyes. "You handle the strategy. I take the risks. One of us stays in the shadows while the other walks straight into the fire."

"All I ask of you is to keep back and let me do the lifting."

A long breath left Mr MarQueen's lungs. "Fine." His shoulders slumped. "If this is the only way to honour your mother's wishes... I'll agree."

"Yes!" Kelvin blurted out, relief flashing across his face.

Mr MarQueen raised a finger. "On one condition. You keep me informed-everything you find."

Kelvin nodded without hesitation. "You have a deal, Mr MarQueen."

For the first time that morning, the tension at the table eased-just a fraction-but it was enough.

***

It had been four years since the death of Mrs Phidous MarQueen, and still, the police had produced no meaningful leads.

In Kelvin's apartment, dawn crept in through the blinds as he dragged his naked body out of bed and sat at the edge of the mattress. He rubbed his hands down his face, exhaustion etched into every movement, then stood and headed for the bathroom.

At the toilet, he emptied the contents of the condom and flushed. Back in the bedroom, he tossed the used latex into the fireplace. The flames caught quickly. He stood there, watching it burn to ash-just another thing erased.

From the bedside drawer, he retrieved the small, mysterious medal.

Now dressed only in boxers, Kelvin leaned against the table by the window, turning the medal over in his fingers. He had found it at the scene of his mother's accident-out of place, unnoticed by the police, but impossible for him to ignore.

For four years, he had chased its origin. Underground bars. Shady neighborhoods. Backroom conversations. Even the city library. Every favour he was owed had been called in-and still, nothing.

Four years of dead ends.

He had nearly lost his mind.

That was why he'd gone to the nightclub.

People liked to ask what a detective was doing in places like that, but anyone who'd spent years hunting ghosts would understand. Sometimes, you needed something strong to quiet the noise in your head.

That was where he met her.

He had been at the bar ordering a drink when the dancer approached him-confident, calculating. She saw a customer. He saw a distraction. They used each other without pretence and disappeared into a private booth.

It was there she noticed the medal hanging around his neck.

She told him she had seen it before.

Months back, she said, a man wearing the exact same medal had been in the club. After they'd slept together, he told her where he was from-but never what business had brought him to Boston.

That scrap of information had hit Kelvin like a bolt of electricity.

He had brought her home to celebrate-too excited, too relieved to care. And now, there she was, naked in his bed, fast asleep.

Kelvin looked from the woman to the medal in his hand.

For four years, he had kept this from his father. There had been nothing solid, nothing worth giving him hope over. But now he had a lead-and even a rough sketch of the man.

Time to move.

First, the problem in his bed.

He picked her dress up from the floor and tossed it onto the mattress. "Hey. Get up. It's morning."

She stirred, confused.

"We had our fun," he continued flatly. "Now it's time for you to go. I've got work."

She sat up slowly, glaring at him. "So after getting what you wanted, you're throwing me out like trash?"

Kelvin didn't flinch. He picked up his trousers, pulled out his wallet, took some money, and tossed it onto the bed beside her. "You knew the deal. I told you-no relationship. One night. You agreed." His voice hardened. "Now get dressed and leave."

Muttering curses, she grabbed her clothes and dressed quickly. At the door, she shot him one last look.

"Men," she spat. "You're all the same."

The door slammed shut behind her.

Kelvin didn't react.

He only closed his fist around the medal.

Finally, something to chase.