**Shadows of the Forgotten Heir**
**Chapter 3: Return of the Prodigal**
Willow Creek, California
June 2018
The Greyhound hissed to a stop at the edge of Main Street just after noon. Dust swirled around the tires like it was welcoming him back. Alex stepped down in desert boots still caked with the fine grit of Helmand Province. He wore faded jeans, a plain gray T-shirt stretched across shoulders that had broadened another two inches since basic, and a black ball cap pulled low. The only thing that hadn't changed was the duffel bag slung over one shoulder—the same one he'd carried out of the D.C. mansion eight years earlier.
He stood on the cracked sidewalk and inhaled. Almond blossoms, diesel from the feed store, faint grease from Millie's Diner. Same smells. Same slow pulse of a town that hadn't moved forward or backward in decades. Only he had.
A horn blared once, sharp and friendly.
Mark Reilly leaned out the window of a battered Ford F-150, engine idling rough. He was thicker around the middle now, beard fuller, but the grin was the same—wide, crooked, impossible to fake.
"Goddamn, Thorne," Mark called, killing the engine and hopping out. "You look like you ate the rest of the Army for breakfast."
Alex met him halfway. They clasped hands, then pulled into a quick, hard hug—the kind men give when they're not sure words will do the job.
"You're late," Alex said, voice low.
"Traffic in Fresno. Some jackass with a trailer full of chickens." Mark stepped back, eyes scanning Alex head to toe. "Jesus. You used to be tall. Now you're… tall and scary."
Alex gave a half-smile, the scar along his jaw pulling tight. "Good to see you too."
They tossed the duffel in the bed and climbed in. Mark cranked the AC to lukewarm and pulled onto the two-lane road that curved past the orchards.
"So," Mark said after a minute. "You really out?"
"Honorable discharge. Captain's bars. Couple boxes of medals they made me take."
Mark whistled low. "Captain. Shit. Back when we were stealing beers from my uncle's garage you were planning to be a lawyer or some crap."
"Plans change."
They drove in comfortable silence for a while. The radio played classic rock so faint it was almost subliminal.
Mark finally spoke again. "You gonna tell me what's next?"
Alex watched the almond trees blur past. "Sleep for about three days. Then figure out the rest."
Mark snorted. "Bullshit. You've got that look. Same one you had the night Vicky walked out. Like you're already counting bodies."
Alex didn't answer right away. His right hand rested on his knee; the knuckles were still faintly scarred from too many nights on the heavy bag in forward operating bases.
"I'm not here to burn the town down, Mark."
"Yeah?" Mark glanced over. "Then why'd you come back at all? You could've gone anywhere. New York. Miami. Hell, D.C.—rub your old man's nose in it."
Alex's jaw flexed once, a quick tic. "Because this is where it started. And this is where it ends."
Mark let that sit. Then: "Vicky's still here. Married. Two kids. Husband's Victor Kane. You remember him?"
Alex's eyes stayed on the road. "The real-estate guy who used to flip foreclosures like poker chips."
"That's the one. Bought half the east side last five years. Including my folks' old place. Gave 'em thirty days."
Alex turned his head slowly. "They okay?"
"Moved to Modesto. Dad's working security at a warehouse. Mom's waitressing. They're alive. Not thriving."
A muscle jumped in Alex's cheek. He looked forward again. "Victor still live on Crestview?"
"Biggest house on the hill. Looks like a Tuscan winery had a baby with a casino."
Alex nodded once. "Good to know."
They pulled up to a small bungalow on the edge of town—peeling beige paint, sagging porch, but the yard was mowed and the windows clean. Mark had kept it up while Alex was gone.
"Rent's paid through December," Mark said, killing the engine. "Figured you'd need somewhere to land."
Alex looked at the house. It was nothing like the mansion on Massachusetts Avenue. And that was exactly why it felt right.
"Thanks," he said quietly.
"Don't thank me yet. Wait till you see the plumbing."
Inside smelled faintly of coffee and pine cleaner. One bedroom, one bath, kitchen barely big enough for two people. A small table held a six-pack of Sierra Nevada and a note in Mark's blocky handwriting: Welcome home, asshole.
Alex set the duffel down and opened the fridge. Empty except for the beer.
Mark leaned in the doorway. "You hungry? Millie's still does the double cheeseburger platter. Greasy as sin."
"In a minute." Alex twisted the cap off a bottle, took a long pull. The cold bitterness grounded him. "Tell me about her."
Mark sighed, rubbed the back of his neck. "Vicky? Or the whole damn soap opera?"
"Start with Vicky."
"She goes by Victoria now. Kane. Drives a white Range Rover. Volunteers at the elementary school, chairs the harvest festival committee. Picture-perfect. Except she drinks more than she used to. And Victor… he's not exactly husband-of-the-year material. Word is he's got a side piece in Fresno. Blonde. Younger."
Alex stared at the bottle label, peeling the corner with his thumbnail. "She happy?"
Mark gave a dry laugh. "She's comfortable. That's what she always wanted, right?"
Alex didn't reply. He finished the beer in three swallows, set the empty on the counter with deliberate care.
Later that afternoon they walked into Millie's Diner. The bell jingled. Heads turned—slowly at first, then faster. Whispers followed like ripples.
Old Mr. Delgado at the counter squinted. "That Thorne boy?"
Millie herself—seventy if she was a day, hair still in the same beehive—stopped wiping the counter. Her eyes widened behind her glasses. "Alexander?"
Alex tipped his cap. "Hey, Millie."
She came around the counter faster than anyone that age should move and wrapped him in a hug that smelled of coffee and bacon grease. "Look at you. All grown and mean-looking."
He let her hug him. "Missed your pie."
"You'll get a whole one. On the house." She pulled back, patted his cheek. "Sit. Eat. Tell me you're staying."
"For now," he said.
They took a booth near the window. Burgers arrived fast. Fries still sizzling. Mark talked about local gossip—new stoplight at the highway, the high school football team finally winning a game. Alex listened, nodding, saying little.
Then the door jingled again.
Victoria Kane stepped inside.
She wore cream linen pants, a pale blue blouse, hair pulled into a sleek ponytail. Designer sunglasses perched on her head even though the day was overcast. She carried a reusable tote from the farmer's market. Two small boys trailed her—five and seven maybe—arguing over who got the last apple.
She saw him.
Froze.
The tote slipped an inch in her grip.
Alex looked up, met her eyes across the diner. His expression didn't change. No smile. No scowl. Just steady blue eyes that held hers without blinking.
Victoria's lips parted. She swallowed once, visibly. Then she lifted her chin—the old gesture, the one she used when she was nervous but refused to show it—and walked toward the booth.
"Alex," she said. Her voice was softer than he remembered, almost careful.
"Victoria."
She stopped a few feet away. The boys stared up at him like he was a statue that might move.
"You're… back."
"Looks that way."
Mark leaned back in the booth, arms crossed, watching like it was premium cable.
Victoria glanced at the empty beer bottle on the table, then back at Alex. "How long are you staying?"
"Haven't decided."
Her fingers tightened on the tote strap. "You look… different."
"So I've been told."
A small, uncertain laugh escaped her. It died quickly. "I—I didn't expect—"
"To see me again?" Alex finished. His tone was even. Almost polite. "Yeah. Neither did I, for a while."
One of the boys tugged her sleeve. "Mommy, can we get milkshakes?"
"In a minute, sweetheart." She looked at Alex again. Something flickered in her green eyes—regret, maybe. Or just surprise at how much space he took up now. "We should… catch up. Sometime."
Alex studied her for a long beat. Then he gave the smallest nod. "Maybe."
She hesitated, like she wanted to say more. Then she herded the boys toward the counter.
When the door jingled behind her, Mark let out a slow breath. "Well. That was awkward as hell."
Alex picked up a fry, stared at it. "She's scared."
"Of you?"
"Of what I might do." He ate the fry. Chewed slowly. "She should be."
Outside, the afternoon sun slanted through the almond trees, turning the leaves gold. A pickup rumbled past. Somewhere a dog barked.
Alex leaned back in the booth and looked out the window at the town he'd once hated.
It looked smaller now.
Everything did.
(End of Chapter 3)