I pace the small safehouse for what feels like the thousandth time, my fingers twitching for my laptop keyboard. Five days since Flint locked me away here, and the walls keep closing in tighter. Every time I close my eyes, I see Marshall’s body crumpling in that alley, see Flint’s cold efficiency as he…
No. I can’t think about that.
The burner phone sits useless on the counter. I could call Ash, but what’s the point? He made it clear that I’m nothing but an inconvenience to their plans. And Flint… my stomach knots at the thought of him. The man I was falling for doesn’t even exist. Flynn Tine was a lie. Flint Ifrinn is a stranger who murders people in alleys.
I shuffle through my research papers again, but without my computer to cross-reference and organize, I’m getting nowhere. The story of the century is right in front of me. The lost Ifrinn brothers returned for revenge. But I can’t write a word of it, can’t even call my editor to let him know I’m alive.
My hand drifts to the newspaper clipping about the Ifrinn house fire. The faces stare back at me. The parents, staff, Ash’s girlfriend. All dead. Four sons presumed dead. Except they weren’t dead, were they? They were hiding. Plotting.
And I slept with one of them.
The nausea hits again, same as it has every morning this week. I barely make it to the bathroom in time. When I’m done retching, I press my forehead against the cool tile and try to blame it on stress. On being trapped here. On anything but the growing fear in the pit of my stomach about what that night in the bathroom at the fight club might mean.
I need my computer. I need my phone, not this one limited to calling two people. I need to be working on this story instead of sitting here useless while my whole life spirals out of control.
Ash drops by each afternoon with groceries and essentials. Two days ago, he brought tampons without my asking, saying, “I know sometimes women need these…” It only served to remind me that I’m late. Like the nausea, I stuffed that thought deep down.
Today, I’m thinking about reorganizing the groceries when the door bangs open without warning. I jump, panic surging through me as Ash strides in.
‘Pack your things. You can go home.’
‘What?’ Is this a trick? Is he going to take me away and kill me?
‘There doesn’t seem to be any link to you and the pub or Marshall. The report is a mugging, but rumors hint at the Keans. Either way, no one’s connected you or Flint. You’re in the clear.”
My legs feel weak. I sink into the nearest chair. ‘So I can just… leave? Go back to my life?’
‘Yes, but Lucy…” His blue eyes lock onto mine, reminding me so much of Flint, it hurts. ‘You need to drop this story.”
I rise and gather my scattered research papers, eager to go home. ‘And if I don’t?’
‘Then everything Flint did to protect you was for nothing.’ Ash’s voice hardens. ‘Because next time, you’ll end up dead.”
“So you keep telling me.”
He stares at me like I’m an idiot. Maybe I am. I just don’t like being threatened and intimidated.
“Well, I’m done telling you and Flint… well, he knows how you really feel about him, so he’s staying away. You can do what you want. But I swear to God, Lucy, I’ll throttle you myself if you break my brother by getting yourself killed because you’re too stupid to understand how close you’ve come to dying already.”
If I’m killed, Ash can’t throttle me, but I get the gist of what he’s saying. I’m aware I’ve dodged a bullet or two. The memory of Flint bursting into that alley, taking down those men who meant to hurt me, flashes through my mind. Even then, before I knew who he really was…
‘He won’t be able to protect you again,’ Ash says quietly. ‘You’re on your own.’
The weight of his words begins to sink in. No more Flint appearing out of nowhere to save me. No more backup when I get in over my head. Just me against a crime family that kills without remorse.
“This story isn’t worth your life,’ Ash adds. ‘Remember that.’
We don’t talk as he drives me home and walks me up to my apartment. I go to open the door, but it looks different. There’s now a deadbolt.
“Here’s new keys to your new locks. Flint insisted that I get them installed.” He drops keys into the palm of my hand. He then turns and leaves. I get the feeling he’s glad to be rid of me. The feeling is mutual. Mostly. I can’t deny that I feel some fear knowing neither Ash nor Flint will be around. I think about all the time I’ve spent chasing this story, convinced it would make my career. And it would if I lived to write it. Even publishing it would put a target on my back. And this time, there would be no tattooed fighter stepping out of the shadows to rescue me.
Inside my home, I do my best to push everything over the last few weeks away. I lock my door with both new locks. I put my clothes away and my research back on the table. Then I draw a bath and do my best to escape.
The next morning, I head to work, my eyes darting everywhere from the moment I leave my apartment, looking for suspicious men out to get me. I don’t see anything out of the ordinary.
When I get to my workplace, I savor the familiar buzz of the newsroom. My desk sits exactly as I left it the last time I came in. Jeez, how long has it been? Do I even still have a job since I haven’t called in for several days?
‘Ketchum!’ My editor’s voice booms across the office. ‘In my office. Now.’
I draw in a steadying breath and weave between the cubicles, avoiding the curious stares of my colleagues. No doubt they’ve been wondering, like I am, if I’m about to be fired.
My editor, Bud Graves, waves me into his office, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. ‘Nice of you to finally grace us with your presence.’
‘I’m sorry, I was—”
‘Chasing a lead?’ He arches an eyebrow. ‘Must have been one hell of a story to go dark. What is it?’
I sit down knowing that if I don’t have a hot story, I’m probably out of a job. The good news is that I do have a hot story. I heard a confession from Superintendent Marshall about helping with and covering up the Ifrinn fire. I know who killed him.
“I… uh… I have some interesting new info about the Kean story, but I’m still needing to confirm—”
“Really? Rumor is the Keans killed Superintendent Marshall, but the official story is a mugging. Surely, you have some thoughts on this.”
I nod. “Thoughts, yes, but nothing ready to print just yet.”
“What the hell have you been doing? You’ve been digging into the Keans for months. Now a dirty cop turns up dead right when you disappear? This could be the break we’ve been waiting for.’ He pulls out a notepad. ‘What did you find?’
Two weeks ago, I would have killed for this opportunity. Now…
‘I can’t write the story.’ The words come out barely above a whisper.
‘What do you mean, you can’t? This is exactly what you’ve been working toward. The Keans, their rise to power, their corruption of law enforcement, even I can see it’s all connected.’ He taps his pen impatiently. ‘Give me something we can print.’
‘I…’ My fingers drum against the chair arm as I search for the right words. ‘I actually uncovered something bigger. The Keans are just a piece of it.’
His eyes light up, exactly as I knew they would. ‘I’ve been tracking money laundering through their legitimate businesses. Shell companies, fake contractors, the works.’ The lies flow easily, close enough to truth to be believable, far enough to keep the Ifrinns safe. ‘I can prove they’re using their construction contracts to funnel dirty money through city projects.’
He leans forward. ‘We can tie this directly to City Hall.’ The excitement on his face makes me feel sick. Here I am, protecting the very kind of people I’ve spent the last few months trying to expose. Men who kill in dark alleys. Men like Flint.
But then I remember the pain in his voice as he listed the names of his dead family members. The way he stepped between me and danger time after time. The way he looked at me like I was the most precious thing in the world to him.
“I want the first draft by Friday, Ketchum.”
I force a confident smile even though I don’t have nearly enough facts to link the Keans to corruption at City Hall. “Yes, sir.”
As I walk back to my desk, I try to convince myself that I’m doing the right thing. A story about money laundering might not be as explosive as exposing the returned Ifrinn brothers. I can already hear Flint saying it’s just as dangerous, though.
That evening, I drag myself through my front door, exhaustion seeping into every cell of my body. On the way home from work, I made a stop at the drug store because I can’t put off knowing the truth about my nausea and missing period. I can’t keep blaming stress and poor eating habits.
I dig through my purse for the pregnancy test and take it to the bathroom. Five minutes. That’s all it takes to know whether my life is forever changed.
I pace the bathroom as I wait. That night in the fight club bathroom floods back. Flint’s hands on my skin, his breath hot against my neck. No condom. If I am pregnant, that had to be the night it happened.
What if it’s positive? What would that even mean? I’m carrying the baby of a man who murders people in alleys. A man whose entire family lived off crime and was murdered for it. A man whose singular goal in life is revenge.
The timer on my phone chimes, making me jump. I grab the test with trembling fingers but close my eyes, too afraid to look.
I peek one eye open, then the other.
PREGNANT appears in the little result window.
I sink to the side of the tub, the test slipping from my hand. Pregnant. I’m pregnant with Flint Ifrinn’s baby.
I press my hand against my still-flat stomach, trying to process the reality. There’s a life growing inside me. Flint’s child. Our child.
A hysterical laugh bubbles up in my throat. All those years of being careful, of putting my career first, and now I’m pregnant from unprotected sex in a fight club bathroom with a man who turned out to be part of the Irish Mob. God, truth really is stranger than fiction.
Conflicting emotions war inside me. Part of me, a part I didn’t even know existed until this moment, feels an unexpected surge of joy. I’m going to be a mother. Despite everything else, that thought sends warmth through me.
But then reality crashes back in. The father of my child is a dangerous man who is locked in a deadly feud with one of Boston’s most powerful crime families. Fear grips me as I imagine bringing a child into this world of violence and revenge. Would the Keans come after my baby if they knew? Would they use my child to hurt Flint?
And Flint… what would he think? A child doesn’t fit in his plans for sure. But then I think about his face when he talked about his family. There was love there. Despite his family’s vocation, Flint was raised with love. I think of Ash and all he told me about Flint, particularly wanting me to stay away from him. I don’t like his attitude, but I see he’s being protective of Flint because he loves him.
When I think of Flynn, my heart swells and I yearn to be near him. Flynn is Flint. They are the same man. Or are they? I can’t believe it, but despite everything, the lies, the violence, the revenge, I can’t deny that I still have feelings for Flint. And now we’re connected in the most permanent way possible.
I grab my phone and go to my bedroom, flopping down on the bed at a loss for what I should do. There’s only one person I can trust with all this. After three rings, my sister’s familiar voice fills the line.
‘Hey, stranger! I was starting to worry—”
“I’m pregnant.” I probably shouldn’t blurt it out like that, but that is the point of this call, right?
“What?”
‘I’m pregnant. And the father… he’s not who I thought he was.’
Silence stretches across the line. ‘Is this the dangerous stranger who took care of you? Did he hurt you—”
“No. It’s nothing like that.” I start from the beginning and tell her everything. Well, almost everything. I leave out the part about Flint being an Ifrinn and about witnessing a murder. Instead, I say he’s involved with dangerous people, that I got in over my head investigating a story.
‘Come stay with me,’ Kate says immediately. ‘Mike and I have plenty of room, and Springfield is far enough away that no one would think to look for you here.’
‘I can’t just run away,’ I say, although I can’t deny it’s tempting. I feel like the Kean reach is probably everywhere in Massachusetts. If I’m going to get away, I should go home to Maine. Or maybe leave the country. I could start over, find a safe place to raise my baby.
‘Why not? Lucy, you’re talking about bringing a child into what sounds like a really dangerous situation.’
‘I know.’ I rest my hand on my stomach. ‘But I want this baby, Kate. I didn’t realize how much until I saw the test.’ I can see now that I worked a lot not just because I liked it, but because there wasn’t anything else in my life. Perhaps that’s why I got so quickly and easily caught up with Flint. While being a mom does sound scary, it doesn’t sound dangerous. It’s a much better way to find more purpose in my life than my work.
‘Then that’s exactly why you should come here. We’ll help you. You can have the baby safely, away from all of this.’
The thought of leaving Boston, of leaving Flint, creates an ache, even as I think it’s exactly what I need to do. Except… what if Flint comes looking for me? Or worse, the Keans. I can’t bring that to my sister and her family. Or to my parents.
“I’m fine, Kate. I was just in shock about the pregnancy. But I’m good—”
“Lucy—”
“No, really. I’ve got a good job, and Boston has wonderful resources. It’s all good. Thank you for letting me sort this out. Give my love to Mike.” With a quick goodbye, I hang up.
My hand drifts to my stomach. ‘I’m going to keep you safe, I promise.” The only way to do that is to expose everything—the Keans’ corruption, their violence, their stranglehold on Boston. But I need concrete proof, something that can’t be buried or dismissed. Something that will bring them down for good.
I return to my table and pull out my laptop. I sort through my notes with fresh determination. My journalist instincts kick in as I create a new timeline, this time focusing on the months leading up to the Ifrinn fire. Property transfers, business licenses, police reports. The Keans had Marshall in their pocket. Who else could they have had? Prosecutors? Judges? Politicians?
And if Hampton Kean and Mr. Ifrinn were once close, what made Kean turn on him in a way that was able to turn Ifrinn’s allies against him too?
I make a list of calls to make tomorrow, starting with my contacts in City Hall. Now, I’m not just chasing a story. I’m trying to bring down a family so my child can be safe. And maybe, I’m doing it to save Flint as well. The Keans didn’t just take his parents. They stole his whole world, forced him and his brothers into a life of violence and revenge. I won’t let that become my child’s legacy.
