As if another alien incursion wasn't enough, the events of Infinity War reach Brooklyn. You can set a whole life in motion with one breath, if you know who you're talking to.
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"He can't go through it again. Promise me you'll—" And that was it.
An hour later, he was fighting the urge to kick in the door. Half the city was screaming and that made it too quiet. He found the key.
"Genevieve?" he called out, ducking past gleaming pots and pans.
Then, like a mouse breathing into a vent: "Mom's not here."
"Nicolaj," he said, stepping over a chair. It was upturned, like someone had pushed it over to see if anyone was hiding underneath. Nicolaj was sitting on the floor, paint on his glasses, a barely touched easel behind him. He was holding her brush.
No smile. No "Uncle Jake." No correcting his pronunciation.
"Why isn't Papa with you?"
It was time to be Rosa. It was time to be Holt. It was time to show what would help and nothing else.
For all the over-the-top hero worship, Charles Boyle had always known exactly who Jake Peralta was. So it only took nine words, like nine starter brush strokes, to show what it would look like when it all filled in: A kid, and the one guy in the picture who knew why you couldn't get left.
Jake held out his hand. Be Terry. "We're going back to the station for now. Once things settle down, you'll come stay with me."
Nicolaj looked up. "You mean with you and Amy?"
Be Charles.
"No."
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