My baby went BLUE on the kitchen floor at Pop's birthday party. My brother SPRAYED something up her nose. She GASPED and screamed. The whole family CLAPPED for him. And while everybody hugged him and Ma cried into his firefighter T-shirt, I knelt on the floor picking up the little blue pill she spit out.

By 2:00 p.m., Captain Higgins and Lieutenant Markowski had loaded Ryan into the back of the unmarked department SUV, driving north toward the New Hampshire border. Ryan had looked at me through the tinted window before they pulled away—his face pale, exhausted, but carrying a faint, fragile spark of hope that hadn't been there that morning.

I stood on the sidewalk watching the red SUV disappear, feeling a strange mixture of relief and lingering terror. My brother was finally on his way to professional help, but the legal storm in Lowell was still gathering speed.

I drove straight to my mother's house on the South End.

When I walked through the back door, Ma was sitting at the kitchen table with cousin Danny. Danny was holding a mug of coffee, looking uncomfortable, while Ma fussed over a batch of homemade chocolate chip cookies.

"Erin, sweetie!" Ma exclaimed, looking up with a bright smile. "Look who dropped by to check on little Riley! Danny was just telling me about his recovery anniversary."

Danny looked at me, his eyes sharp and perceptive. He stood up from the table. "Hey, Erin. How's Riley doing today?"

"She's doing great, Danny," I said, stepping into the kitchen and setting my purse on the counter. "Thanks for asking."

Ma stepped over to the stove, pouring me a cup of tea. "Have you talked to your brother today, Erin? I called his cell three times, but it went straight to voicemail. I hope he's resting. Poor boy works so hard for this city."

I looked at Danny. Danny looked at me. He saw the faint red marks around my eyes, the exhaustion in my posture, and he knew. A man who had survived three years in recovery knew the subtle language of addiction trauma better than anyone.

"Ma," Danny said smoothly, turning to my mother. "Ryan called me earlier. The captain sent him down to a regional training seminar in southern New Hampshire for the next couple of weeks. Advanced rescue protocols. He won't have much cell service up in the woods."

Ma beamed with pride, clasping her hands together. "Oh, another training! See that, Danny? Always improving himself. My Ryan never stops serving."

I took a deep breath, fighting back the lump in my throat. "Yeah, Ma. He's learning how to save lives."

When Ma turned her back to fetch the cookie sheet from the oven, Danny leaned in close to me, keeping his voice down to a quiet whisper.

"Is he in a bed?" Danny asked bluntly.

I nodded once, tears threatening to break through again. "First responder facility in New Hampshire. Higgins took him."

Danny let out a long, slow breath, bowing his head slightly. "Good. That's good, Erin. He's lucky he's got you and Higgins. When I fell apart three years ago, nobody covered for me. I had to hit the rock bottom of a jail cell before I got help."

"Detective Miller is matching the chemical batch from Apex's bust," I whispered, my voice trembling. "If Ryan's name comes up on that phone log, they'll issue a warrant."

Danny reached into his pocket, pulled out his familiar bronze sobriety coin, and rubbed his thumb over the smooth metal edges.

"Detective Miller came to my apartment again this morning," Danny revealed softly.

My heart stopped. "What?"

"She asked me if I recognized any names on Apex's client list," Danny said, looking me straight in the eye. "She showed me a paper printout with twenty phone numbers on it. Ryan's cell number was right there near the top."

"Danny..." I gasped, grabbing his sleeve in sheer panic. "What did you say?"

Danny smiled—a quiet, sad, resilient smile. He reached out and gently patted my hand.

"I told her that number belonged to a burner phone I used to use back in 2021 when I was still using," Danny said calmly. "I told her I must have left it in Apex's garage years ago. I took the hit for the contact entry, Erin."

I stared at my cousin in absolute, stunned disbelief. "Danny... why would you do that? If they look deeper into that burner line, you could get dragged back into court!"

"I have three years of clean drug screens in the state database, Erin," Danny whispered firmly. "My probation officer knows I'm clean. The police can't charge me for a phone entry from three years ago. But if they put Ryan's name on that board today, he loses his badge, he loses his life, and this family gets destroyed."