Peter POV
My mother always said the Kavinsky men are cursed. Not with bad luck—with conscience.
I used to think she meant it as a warning. Now, standing in my office at midnight surrounded by files from three decades ago, I understand.
We feel things we shouldn't. We ask questions better left unasked. We dig until we find graves.
The files spread across my desk like evidence of a crime I didn't know existed. Company records from the year Lara-Jean's father died. I've read every page twice. Personnel listings. Project budgets. Meeting minutes. Nothing obvious.
That's the point. The absence is the message.
Someone removed everything relevant years ago. Someone who knew exactly what to hide.
My phone buzzes. ‘Lara-Jean: ‘Still working?'
I type back: ‘Still digging.'
Her response come
