Lincoln drapesa Washington Post jacket over my shoulders, and it takes everything in me not to throw it back in his face as we walk side by side from the precinct to his rental car. He came for me, made all the right calls for the Post’s lawyers to have the charges dropped, and Iknowhe’s sorry for what he did.
I’m just too worried about Trevor to acknowledge any of that.
“Where is this place?” he asks once we’re in the car with the heater on full blast.
“Houston Street.” I hold out my hand for his phone, and when he unlocks it for me, search for the exact address and bring up driving directions. It’s after 2:00 p.m. in Boston, and just after 10:00 p.m. in Turkey, where Austin is.
“Give me your backup phone,” I say as Lincoln pulls out of the parking lot and onto the highway.
“My what?”
“You know you have one. I need it. Mine’s still at Trevor’s apartment, and we don’t have time to get it now.”
Lincoln sighs, then digs into his jacket pocket and comes up with a flip phone. “What?” he says as I look at him in disbelief. “It’s a hell of a lot harder to hack.”
“And probably almost as old as you are.”
Austin’s number—the one that’s only for family to use—goes to voicemail. “It’s Dani. I’m okay, so are Mom and Dad, but something’s happened and I need you. I’m on my way to Second Sight. I think you probably know the number—or can find it. I don’t have my phone and probably won’t for a few more hours, so call me there as soon as you get this, please.”
Disconnecting, I press the heels of my hands to my eyes and curl inward, trying to hold on to the scent of Trevor’s shirt and the memories from the night before.
“Dani?” Lincoln’s tone is full of regret, and I swallow hard before I drop my hands to look at him. “I’m so sorry. The story was too good. A reporter nearly killed just for interviewing a political prisoner? The front pager we were scheduled to run today…a judge delivered an eleventh-hour injunction right before we went to press, and…it was chaos. Sarita was yelling at me to come up with another option, and your writing is always polished, always perfect. I knew it wasn’t finished, but I figured we could do a follow up piece at the end of the week.”
Every word comes out faster and fainter than the last, and a small part of my anger fades. “I know you didn’t mean for all this to happen.” Letting my gaze wander to the steadily falling snow outside, I choose my next words carefully. “Identifying Trevor as a former intelligence officer who knew the area? That was the worst possible thing you could have done. I can’t tell you why. Even if Icould, I wouldn’t. Because I can’t trust you anymore, Lincoln. As soon as I don’t need the Post’s lawyers anymore, I quit. And if you try to stop me or give legal one inkling that I’m not planning on returning to my position? I will go public with what you did, and no news outlet will ever trust you again.”
He nods, his shoulders slumping as he flips on his blinker and eases the sedan towards the offramp. “I won’t say a word. If there’s anything you need to get your friend back, you’ll have it. Any of the paper’s resources I can give you…just ask.”
I clench my hands inside the warm jacket pockets. “What I need now is a miracle.”
* * *
Second Sight’soffices look a lot like I feel right now. Worn down, beaten up, and frantic. The woman at the front desk—Marjorie, I think—is on the phone, her voice totally at odds with her kindly face and white hair. “Well, you tell him Mr. Holloway is expecting a call back in the next twenty minutes. Otherwise, our next call will be to WBZ.”
She jabs a button on the phone and then finally notices me. “I’m sorry, but Second Sight is closed to clients today.”
Suddenly, the hours in the police station, the lack of sleep, and the fact that I haven’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours collide with her impatient tone, and the walls press in on me. I brace both hands on the desk to keep myself upright. “I need to talk to Dax. He’s the owner? It’s about Trevor Moana. He’s…he’s—“
“What do you know about Trevor?” The deep voice with a hint of a Southern drawl commands attention, and halfway down the hall, a man with glasses, a cane, and a commanding presence that fills the space stares at me. Or…in my general direction.
“I’m Dani. Daniella Monroe. Austin Pritchard is my brother. I was with Trevor when they arrested him. He’s already headed to Venezuela, and I think…I think they’re going to kill him. I need your help. Please.”
My knees give out, my hands slip off the desk, and I land on my ass with a very undignified grunt. “Shit.”
Footsteps pound towards me, multiple sets, and then I’m on my feet again, a strong arm around my waist as another man—taller than Dax and with hints of gray in his brown hair—guides me down the hall and into an office with Dax at our heels.
“Here,” the man says as he pulls out a chair and deposits me onto the soft leather seat. “Do you need a doctor?”
“N-no. I just…haven’t eaten today. It’s not important. Who are you?”
“Ford. Ford Lawton.”
Beyond the window, half of Boston spreads out in front of me, beautiful and quiet and serene as the snow continues to fall. But inside, papers are strewn about, some littering the floor, a filing cabinet has one of its drawers hanging open, and there’s a dent in the wall to my right that’s decidedly fist-shaped.
Ford sticks his head into the hallway. “Marjorie! Get us a couple of pizzas? And some coffee? Please?”
I flinch as he shuts the door forcefully, then look between him and Dax. I don’t know where to begin, and even though I need their help, I worry once they find out it was my article that led to Trevor’s arrest, they’ll kick me out and I won’t be able to help find him.
“The Feds showed up two hours ago,” Dax says as he takes a seat across from me. “They had a blanket warrant for anything even remotely related to Trevor’s cases, which, I reckon in this place, covers Hell’s half acre. Wouldn’t tell us a single fucking thing about where he is. How do you know he’s already headed to Caracas?”
