5. Three Cars, One Truth

Kieran's Point Of View

I stood in the lot, three cars around me and not a single clear direction. Jean sat in hers, engine purring like a threat or a promise. I hadn't decided yet.

Then came the voice.

"Jean."

A boy—Felix, my senior—stepped out from behind one of the admin buildings, like he'd been waiting in the shadows. Calm, tall, easy in his own skin. I'd seen him before. Around school. Never knew much about him. Didn't really care.

But apparently, he knew her.

Jean opened her door without a word, slid out like this whole thing was routine. No surprise. No hesitation. Just tired eyes and crossed arms.

"You were supposed to wait," she said.

Felix gave a one-shouldered shrug, walking over to her like this wasn't new. "You always take forever. I figured you'd bail again."

Jean raised an eyebrow. "You're the one who disappears when things get uncomfortable."

"Yeah, well," he said, smirking, "one of us has to play the stable sibling."

I blinked.

Sibling?

That… didn't make sense. I didn't even know they were friends, let alone family.

Jean didn't react. She just let the silence hang.

"You good?" he asked, softer now.

She exhaled through her nose. "Define good."

He grinned. "Still your favorite line."

They weren't stiff. Weren't pretending. Their words had the kind of rhythm people only get after years — shared meals, shared secrets, shared something. And I was standing outside of all of it, watching like a stranger.

"You didn't hit him," Felix added, tossing a nod toward me without fully looking. "That's something."

Jean's lips twitched like she wanted to deny it, but didn't.

"Still don't remember anything?" he asked, voice low now, almost a whisper.

She shook her head.

I didn't know what that meant, but it dropped in my chest like a stone.

Felix stepped back, heading toward the black car in the far corner. Third in the lot. Definitely his.

He paused before opening the door. Looked back over his shoulder and said, not loudly but clearly:

"See you at home. Come fast, I'm starving."

Jean rolled her eyes, but there was a twitch of something real there. Something warm.

Then he was gone. Just like that.

She climbed back into her car.

And I stood there like a fool, trying to piece together a puzzle I didn't know I was part of.

Three cars. Two siblings.

And me — alone, pretending I still understood how any of this worked.

I stood there for a beat after Jean shut her door. The low rumble of her engine was steady, like a second heartbeat in the lot. My hand hovered over my keys, caught in a moment I didn't understand.

Then I turned away.

Didn't say goodbye. Didn't nod. Just walked to my car — the one no one expected me to drive. Sleek. Quiet. Empty.

I slid into the driver's seat, the leather cool against my back. Turned the engine over. It purred, but it didn't feel like it used to. Everything felt off. Like someone had rearranged the furniture in a room I thought I knew.

In my rearview mirror, I caught a last glimpse of her taillights — Jean's — already heading toward the exit. A shadow in motion.

I pulled out slowly.

The sky was dimming into that late-evening kind of blue, where streetlights haven't quite figured out if they should wake up or not. The roads were nearly empty. My hands gripped the wheel, but my mind wasn't on the asphalt.

Jean and Felix.

Brother and sister. That part still sat weird on my tongue. Not because they didn't act like it — if anything, they acted too much like it. It was more that I hadn't known. Like there was this entire web I wasn't seeing.

And the way Felix looked at me... like he expected something from me. Or remembered something I didn't.

I reached a red light and sat there too long after it turned green. The car behind me honked. I moved on autopilot.

A flash of Jean's face.

The way she didn't flinch when I bled. The way she stood her ground like she'd built the earth beneath her feet herself.

Felix's voice: Still don't remember anything?

No.

No, I didn't.

And maybe that was the problem.

Maybe I had forgotten something important. Something real. Something that used to matter.

But how do you chase ghosts in your own head?

By the time I pulled into my driveway, the sun was gone and the sky had settled into quiet. I sat in the car long after I killed the engine, just listening to the ticking of the cooling metal.

Something was off.

Not with them.

With me.

And the worst part?

I didn't even know what I'd lost.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________

Jean's Point Of View

Three cars were parked in front of the house.

That was the first bad sign.

The second was the silence. Not the calm kind, but the kind that follows a scream — heavy, waiting, like the house was holding its breath.

I stepped inside.

The living room was a mess. Cushions knocked to the floor, a shattered glass near the wall, papers scattered like someone had tried to erase an argument by throwing it into the wind.

And then I saw them.

Three men standing where they didn't belong.

My father.

Jennie's father.

Kieran's father.

Three men who used to be friends — before they became something darker. Before the consequences of their ambition started killing people. Including our mothers.

They looked up at me like they weren't breaking into something sacred. Like they weren't standing on the ashes of women they'd loved, women they'd betrayed.

On the coffee table between them was a thick envelope. Too clean, too deliberate. Inside, I already knew what waited: the inheritance papers.

They wanted our signatures. Mine. Jennie's. Kieran's. Felix's.

They wanted to take back what their wives had stolen from them — power, control, billions in assets left behind with one purpose:

To keep them out of reach.

To protect us.

I didn't speak. Not yet. I heard movement behind me — the soft thud of a shoe on the tile — and turned to see Felix. His eyes scanned the room fast. He didn't ask questions. He already knew.

Jennie was there too. She stood against the far wall, arms crossed, jaw tight. Her father glanced at her, but she didn't return it. I saw it in her face: this wasn't the first time she'd stared him down.

Kieran wasn't here. That made it worse. He didn't know the plan. He didn't remember anything. The accident took that from him. The friendship. The truth. Even me.

I stepped forward, slowly.

"You shouldn't be here," I said to the room.

My father smiled like this was all civilized. "We just came to talk."

"You brought contracts."

"It's time," he continued. "Your mothers — they left these inheritances for you all. It's safer if we manage it now. For everyone's sake."

Felix barked a laugh. "Yeah. 'Everyone's.' You mean you."

Jennie's father sighed. "Look, this doesn't have to be a fight."

Jennie pushed off the wall. "Doesn't it? You're here to convince us to sign over the one thing our mothers died to keep from you."

Kieran's father tried to play the wise voice. "Kieran would sign. He's reasonable."

"You mean he forgot," I snapped. "That's not consent. That's manipulation."

My father's voice hardened. "You don't understand what's at stake."

"No," I said, stepping between him and the table. "You don't."

Because I knew. I'd read the letters. I'd pieced together the broken whispers, the off-limits files, the last messages sent from hospital beds and safe houses and motel rooms.

Our mothers didn't just die. They fought. They sacrificed everything to stop whatever scheme these men once built together. A plan big enough to hurt more than just their families — something massive, and secret, and unfinished.

And if we signed these papers — gave them access to the money, the resources, the legacy — they'd finish it.

And we'd pay for it with more than our names.

We'd pay for it with our lives.

Jennie's voice was low. "We're not signing."

Felix stepped beside me. "Not today. Not ever."

The fathers looked at each other. One by one, their faces changed — polite masks cracking into frustration. Anger. Something uglier beneath.

"You'll regret this," Jennie's father muttered.

"No," I said. "You will."

Because this wasn't their world anymore.

It was ours.

The silence didn't last.

My father stepped forward, picking up one of the scattered papers like it was some kind of olive branch instead of the loaded contract it was.

"You're making a mistake," he said smoothly, like he was used to being obeyed. Like being my father gave him any weight here. "This isn't betrayal. It's security."

"You don't get to say what safety looks like," I snapped, my voice rising without permission. "Not when you're the reason we needed protection in the first place."

Jennie's father folded his arms, the way bullies do when they want to look patient. "Your mother was paranoid."

"No," Jennie said coldly. "She was right. She saw through all of you."

Felix moved closer to the fireplace, but I could tell he was positioning himself — not for comfort, but like he was ready to jump in if anyone even looked at us wrong. He wasn't talking yet. But I could feel the fury under his skin like it was mine.

Kieran's father tried to play peacemaker. "Your mothers were emotional. Grief can make people—"

"Don't." I cut him off sharp enough to slice the air. "Don't you dare stand in this house and talk about their grief. Not when every step of it was because of you."

My father held out the pen like that could still fix it. "Just sign. Do this one thing, Jean. You don't know what it'll cost if you don't."

"I know exactly what it'll cost if I do," I hissed. "Everything they died for."

A pause. Heavy. Long.

Then Jennie's father muttered, "You think this is the end of it?"

Jennie smiled — that cold, elegant kind of smile that says burn. "I hope it is. But if it's not? Then come back. Try again. And see what's waiting for you next time."

My father's hand tightened around the pen. "Jean—"

"No." My voice was steel now. "You're not the man I remember. And I'm not the girl who used to listen to you."

I turned my back on him.

And that was it. The line was drawn.

My father sighed — long and dramatic, like a man who thought he was the victim here — and tucked the papers back into the envelope.

One by one, they filed toward the door. But not before Jennie's father turned and muttered to her, "You're making it harder than it has to be."

She didn't blink. "So did my mother. Look where it got her. And I'll do the same."

No more words.

No threats.

Just the sound of the front door opening.

Then closing.

And they were gone.

Gone — but not finished.

Not yet.

"We have to tell him," I said. No frills. No sugar-coating. Just the truth, dropped like a stone.

Jennie crossed her arms. "Jean..."

"No. Don't judge him. He's not some puzzle to fix or need a ghost to manage — he's Kieran. And he deserves better than us pretending he isn't real just because it's easier that way."

Felix leaned against the wall, that usual lazy smirk absent for once. "You really think he'll believe us? Just like that?"

"He deserves to know. Even if he thinks we're insane. Even if he hates me after."

Jennie's gaze narrowed, sharp as glass. "You don't get to drop a grenade like that and expect it to heal him."

"This isn't about healing," I snapped. "It's about truth. About giving him a choice to remember. Or not. But at least it'll be his choice. Not one made for him in a locked room by scared parents."

Felix raised his hands like I'd hit a nerve. "Okay, okay. Damn. You don't have to yell."

"Apparently I do. Because you two are still acting like hiding the truth is kindness. It's not. It's fear."

Jennie was quiet for a beat too long. Then: "And what if telling him breaks him, Jean? What if you break him and can't put the pieces back?"

I looked her in the eye, steady. "Then I'll break with him. Piece by piece. Until he remembers who he is."

That was the moment they broke.

Felix sighed, then stood up, brushing the dust off his jeans. "Then we start from tomorrow...phase 1"

Jennie raised an eyebrow. "With what? Just casually strolling up and saying 'Hey, remember the secret childhood you blocked out like a trauma commercial?'"

"No," I said, slowly. "We find the things that mattered. The people. The moments. The scars. And I become the mirror."

Felix made a soft sound, teasing. "Damn, poetic. You should write that on a Hallmark card."

Jennie elbowed him, grinning. "Or tattoo it on your forehead."

We laughed.

And in that moment, surrounded by ghost-plans and legacy lies — we felt like kids again.