The I.N.G. Foundation occupied the third floor of a building in the West Village that had once been a community center and still felt like one — high ceilings, natural light, the specific warmth of a space designed around people rather than around the impression people were supposed to have of it.
Liam had been coming here for five years.
He'd founded it at twenty-nine — three years into the weight of Gray's death, three years of running a company with his father's name on it and his father's damage underneath it and the specific guilt of a man who had inherited both and couldn't separate them. He hadn't been entirely sure what he was building toward — atonement, maybe. The particular atonement of someone who couldn't go back and undo a specific night but could build something that addressed the category of damage that night belonged to.
It hadn't worked the way he'd hoped.
