“He was waitin’ downstairs when I finished. Can’t be sure he hadn’t been upstairs before I got there, but I picked the lock on the back door after I disabled the alarm system. I’d lay odds he arrived after I did.”
Zephyr doesn’t share my confidence, turning and holding my gaze. “Would you bet my life on it?”
“Fuck me. No.” Shame prickles along the back of my neck, and I want to tell her I’ll keep her safe, but the only promise I can make? That I’ll stay by her side until the end.
Flopping back against the cushions, she closes her eyes, her lips pursed, and a little furrow in the center of her brow. Her breathing takes on a rhythmic cadence. A deep inhale, a long hold, and an even longer exhale. Slowing down her heart rate, calming her mind. I know the technique. Both Ry and Dax used it when they served, and it’s how we start our monthly staff meetings.
“Ronan?” she says after a full three minutes. Her eyelids flutter open, and from her tone, she still expects me to change my mind and turn her in. “I know you don’t have any reason to trust me, but…”
Cupping the back of her neck, I lean in so close, her warmth seeps into me. “We’re not doin’ this again, luv. I trust you.”
“Why?”
The pain in that single word sends me over the edge, and I seal my lips to hers. She tastes of tea, of maple syrup, of promise. And I don’t want to let her go.
“Stop. Please,” she whispers. Her hands tangle in my hair, and though she breaks off the kiss, she doesn’t pull away. “I’ve lost everyone I’ve ever cared for. I can’t—Iwon’t—let myself believe it’ll be different this time.”
I’m going to find the people who stole Zephyr’s hope and turn them to dust. Holding on, I close my eyes, memorizing her scent, the feel of her, the heartbreak in her voice. “Believe forthismoment. Thisonemoment. Can you do that?”
“I don’t know.”
Shifting so I can cup her cheek, I draw my thumb gently under her left eye. A single tear balances on her lower lid. “Well, I do. Get on with it. Whatever you were goin’ to do. I trust you’re not about to throw me to the wolves.”
Zephyr draws in a shaky breath, then turns her full focus to her laptop. I’m not prepared for the loss of her closeness, her warmth, the connection we shared. But we’re on borrowed time, and clearing her name is a hell of a lot more important than kissing her again, even if it’s theonlything I want to do.
I don’t understand half of what’s happening on screen. Wren would probably squeal and claim Zephyr as her new best friend if she were here. After a minute or two, she launches a chat program.
Z: You there?
Her fingers drum against the machine’s black case over and over again until the cursor on screen stops blinking and another line of text appears.
Dante: Was worried. It is not like you to be late checking in.
Z: Someone jacked all my shit. Had to find a clean laptop and phone.
Dante: Random theft? Or were you made?
Z: Don’t know. Playing it safe either way. Not staying anywhere more than a few hours. Our mutual friend never showed at the bank yesterday. Can you flag his account? Do anything that would require him to make an in-person visit?
Dante: I’ll see what I can do. Stay safe.
The chat window vanishes, and Zephyr runs a hand through her hair, highlighting the blue and teal streaks. “This could be suicide. But Dante will send Theo—or whoever else is in Boston—to stake out the bank now that I more or less confirmed I’m going back there. Last night, I hacked into three shops on the same block, so I have full access to their security camera feeds. If we keep an eye on all of them, maybe we can figure out how many people François sent after me this time.”
“You really don’t think he’ll suspect you’re onto him?”
She offers me a weak smile. “Not if you can convince your boss you’re close to catching me.”
* * *
LeavingZephyr at my apartment alone doesn’t sit well with me. I’m not worried about her running. I’m terrified that I haven’t been careful enough. That Dante Lambert has the resources—and the motivation—to find out where I live.
Ronan Murphy didn’t sign my lease. Patrick O’Roarke did. Patrick has a driver’s license, passport, credit cards, and enough to his backstory no one will ever suspect he’s a figment of my imagination. Not even Wren knows his name. Dax has three separate resources the members of Second Sight can use for fake IDs, and when I joined, he handed me their names.
“Every one of us has at least five separate identities we can use if we’re ever burned. Marjorie will set you up with a fifty-thousand dollar off-shore account you can use to pay for the work. Don’t tell me the names you picked or who you used to set everythin’ up. Safer for everyone that way.”
If Dax wanted to, he could probably track me down. But he won’t. Not unless I give him a damn good reason to.
Parking the SUV back in the garage, I return the key to the lock box. I’ll pick a different vehicle to drive home and call the cleaners to take care of the blood staining the seat of my sedan.
