Now . . . she was angry at that man with the eye patch. Viciously angry. If Daniel had lived, maybe they’d have figured it all out. Forgiven each other, all three of them, for the past. Moved along to . . . something that their family had had only on the surface. After all, privilege and money and breeding could cover up a multitude of problems—and didn’t ensure that the closeness on a Christmas card was actually more than a pose once a year for a photographer.

Shaking her head, she went back to her seat and stared at the dossiers.

Isaac was going to even the score for her family, she thought. By being the one who brought down that maniacal bastard who had killed her brother and all but ruined her father.

Flipping through the photographs, she recognized each of the men now, because she’d gone through the pages over and over again while waiting for Daniel to show. There were a hundred or so pictures, but only a total of some forty men, with multiple shots illustrating them through the years. Out of the lot of them, there were five that she recognized—or at least thought she’d seen before. Hard to know . . . on some level, they looked so similar.

Isaac’s picture was in there and she returned to it. The photo was a candid, caught on the fly. He was looking directly into the camera, but she had the impression he didn’t know he was being photographed.

Hard. God, he looked so hard. As if he were prepared to kill.

The birth date under his name validated the age she knew him to be, and there were a couple of notes about foreign countries he’d been to. And then there was one line that she kept coming back to: Must be provided moral imperative. She had seen the phrase under only two other men’s profiles.

“How are you holding up?”

Grier jumped at the sound of Isaac’s voice, the chair under her butt screeching across the floor. Grabbing her chest, she said, “Jesus . . . how do you do that?”

Because, all things considered, she would have preferred not to get caught staring at his picture.

“Sorry, I just thought you might like a coffee.” He came over, put a mug down, and then retreated back to the doorway. “I should have knocked.”

As he paused between the jambs, he was now just in the hooded sweatshirt he’d used as a pillow, his shoulders oh, so wide beneath its gray expanse. And considering what the last forty-eight hours had been like, he looked amazingly strong and focused.

Her eyes went to the coffee. So thoughtful. So very thoughtful. “Thank you . . . and sorry. I guess I’m just not used to . . .” A man like him.

“I’ll announce my presence from now on.”