When the door closes behind Flint, I sink to the floor. The man I’ve been falling for is Flint Ifrinn, one of the missing brothers I’ve been investigating. I cover my face with my hands as I try to process this bombshell.
How did I not see it? And yet, how could I? Yes, he dodged questions about his life. He was evasive about his work. But how could I have put together that Flynn Tine was Flint Ifrinn?
What hurts most is how he turned this around on me. Like I’m the one who betrayed him. I never hid who I was or what I wanted. From day one, he knew I was investigating the Keans. Meanwhile, he watched me dig into his family’s history, probably laughing at how clueless I was.
No, not laughing. When I first showed him the list of the deceased, emotion was there. I just didn’t understand it. But now I do. It was hard not to be affected by the passion in his voice when he listed off the names of the dead. His mother who sang to him. The cook who taught him to make pancakes. The pain in his eyes was real. Just like what I felt for him was real. And he had the gall to suggest all I wanted was the story. Damn him! How dare he accuse me of toying with his heart when he’s the one who’s been lying this whole time. And now he has the nerve to lock me away for my protection after he’s the one who murdered someone right in front of me?
I’m furious at him for lying and at myself for falling for it. But mostly, I’m angry that he somehow twisted this to make it my fault. He’s the one who chose to use me, to seduce me, to make me care about him while hiding who he really was.
Finally pulling myself together, I push up from the floor on shaky legs. The house is tiny, a living space open to a small kitchen. Behind me are three doors, two to bedrooms, one to a bathroom. The walls are bare. The furniture is scarce.
Opening cabinets at random, I find them mostly empty except for some basic provisions. No personal items, no mail, nothing that would give away who really lives here. It’s clearly just a safehouse, stripped of anything meaningful.
In the bedroom, the bed tucked into the corner calls to me as exhaustion overwhelms me. I’ve been running on adrenaline since Marshall recognized Flint, since watching him… I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to replay that moment again.
Despite my racing thoughts, my body feels like lead. I curl up on top of the covers, telling myself I’ll just rest for a minute. I yearn for the warmth and safety I’d felt in Flint’s arms, which annoys me. How can I still crave his presence when I now know he’s a liar and murderer?
Sleep pulls me under before I can find an answer.
I jolt awake at the sound of keys in the door, my heart racing as I bolt from bed. My eyes dart around the room as I look for something, anything to protect myself with.
“Lucy?”
It’s not Flint’s voice. I peek out the bedroom door. The man in the living area has the same dark hair and blue eyes that Flint does. I remember him from the group of men at Flint’s place that first night I met Flint. Not his coworkers, I realize now. His brothers.
‘I’m Ash,’ he says, setting down grocery bags on the counter in the tiny kitchen. ‘Flint’s brother.’
I wrap my arms around myself, watching him warily. ‘Did he send you to make sure I don’t escape?’
‘He sent me to make sure you have what you need.’ Ash drops a duffel bag on the two-person table. ‘Your clothes. And this.’ He pulls out my research bag.
“You went through my stuff?”
If he notices I’m incensed, he doesn’t show it. “Flint figured you’d want your work.”
I’m more worried about his going through my underwear drawer but don’t say that. ‘My laptop?’
‘We’re keeping that safe for now. The Keans are good at tracking digital footprints.’ He places a basic flip phone on the counter. ‘Only use this if it’s an emergency. My and Flint’s numbers are programmed in.’
‘What if I don’t want to call Flint?’
He shrugs like it’s nothing to him. “I hope you don’t.”
I frown. Does he put this all on me too? ‘How long do I have to stay here?’
‘Until the Keans are dealt with or we’re certain the Keans won’t come after you.’ Ash leans against the counter, arms crossed. ‘Marshall was well-connected. Once they find his body, they’ll start asking questions. Flint says people probably saw you follow Marshall out the door, which puts a target on you if they can figure out who you are.’
My stomach churns at the reminder of what happened. ‘So I’m just supposed to sit here indefinitely while you and your brothers wage your war?’
‘Would you prefer we left you to face the Keans alone?’
The steel in his voice makes me shrink back. Despite his calm demeanor, there’s danger radiating off him, the same dangerous edge I’d found so thrilling in Flint before I knew who he really was.
‘No. But I hate feeling trapped here.’
Again, Ash seems to not care one way or another. “It’s the price of being safe. Flint would never forgive himself if something happened to you because of us.’ He pushes off from the counter. ‘Try to understand, we can’t let anything compromise our chance at justice.’
I’m torn between feeling sympathy for their loss and fear of what they’re capable of. What Flint is capable of.
‘I understand wanting justice. But murder isn’t justice.’
‘Sometimes, it’s the only justice we get.”
I arch a brow. “And if others get hurt in the process?”
Ash’s shoulders tense, his previously calm demeanor shifting. ‘If you’re talking about Marshall, he’s no innocent bystander. If you’re talking about you, you’re your own worst enemy. You’re here because of what you did, not Flint.”
“Flint is the one who put me in danger—”
“Bullshit. It was your idea to help with this mission. Flint didn’t want you anywhere near this. I know he warned you repeatedly to stay away from the Keans. But you couldn’t leave it alone, could you? Flint tried to protect you, and you repaid him by putting yourself in more danger. Now we’re all exposed because you couldn’t take a hint.’
The accusation stings, especially because there’s truth to it. But I lift my chin defiantly. ‘He didn’t have to get involved. He chose to.’
‘Yeah, and now I’m starting to wonder whether you’re worth all this trouble.’
I flinch at the idea that he thinks I’m not worth living.
“You’re one ungrateful woman, you know that? You’d be dead if not for him.” He shakes his head. “You don’t deserve Flint. Despite what you think, he’s a good man. He truly cares for you, the poor sap. So go ahead. Leave. I hope you do because you’re a danger to him in more ways than one.” He looks at me like I’m lower than pond scum. “So take your chances and go home and keep poking around the Keans. See how long you last without Flint there to protect you.” He heads for the door. ‘I’ll check on you tomorrow, assuming you’re still here.’
The door clicks shut behind Ash, and I slump against the wall. The room spins slightly as stress catches up with me. My legs feel wobbly, and my stomach churns with acid.
I stumble to the kitchenette, rifling through the bags Ash brought. There’s bread, some fruit, and basic supplies. I find an old toaster and pop in a slice of bread, hoping toast will settle my stomach.
I get the jar of peanut butter Ash brought and spread it on the slightly burnt toast. I take a bite, but quickly, a wave of nausea sends me to the bathroom. I barely make it before bringing up what little is in my stomach. Tears stream down my face as I heave, though I’m not sure if they’re from being sick or from everything else. Probably both.
I give up and go back to bed, curling up under the covers to block out everything—Ash’s accusations, Flint’s betrayal, Marshall’s death. Maybe if I just rest here a while, the nausea will pass. Maybe if I stay very still, I can pretend none of this is real.
After hours of sleepless wallowing, I decide that while I may be trapped here, I don’t have to be helpless. Rising from bed, I find my bag and spread my research across the small table. It all seems to be there. Surprising, as I’d have expected Ash to sort through and take out anything incriminating about the Ifrinns.
I study the grainy newspaper photo of the burned mansion with new eyes. Knowing Flint lived there, that he lost his family there, makes it feel more real somehow, which I suppose was what he was telling me as he listed the people who died.
Still, I force myself to look at it objectively, like the journalist I am. I can’t get caught up in the emotions. Yeah, right, like not falling for the subject of your article.
I may be stuck here for now, but I can use this time to organize my story. Not just against the Keans, but documenting everything, including what I’ve witnessed. The violence, the corruption, all of it. And now there’s another big piece. The four missing Ifrinns are no longer missing.
I remember the hurt on Flint’s face when he realized he was right in that despite the traumatic experience with Marshall, I knew I had the story of a lifetime. I try to push down the guilt that comes with adding the news that the Ifrinns are back with a vengeance to my research notes.
The Ifrinns may think they’re protecting me by keeping me here, but they’ve actually given me exactly what I need—time to put all the pieces of this story together. But for the first time, the excitement that comes with knowing I’m about to break open the biggest story in Boston in years is missing. It’s not just that this story can get me killed even before it sees the light of day. It’s knowing that by exposing Flint, I’m betraying him.
I shake my head of the guilt. He’s the one who lied to me. Betrayed me. I’m going to do my job, just as I always told him I’d do.
