It takes everything I have not to burst into tears, knowing I’m going to lose him minutes after I see him again. But I agree to his terms, and when he hangs up the phone, I collapse against Ronan’s strong chest, my eyes dry, but my heart in a million pieces.
* * *
With every hour that passes,my anxiety grows until my hands are shaking. Ronan sharing Dante’s email message from the previous night helped slightly. One more piece of evidence against him. But until I see Martín, I won’t be able to settle.
“Ya have to eat somethin’, luv. Toast?” he asks, setting yet another cup of tea in front of me. I’ve had so much caffeine, I’m buzzing.
“What’s taking him so long?” I ask.
“He’s leavin’ everythin’ he has in the world.” Sinking down next to me, Ronan rubs gentle circles over my back. “That kind of packin’ takes a little time. It’s only been three hours. He said he had a wife. If she lived wherever he is now…that’s got to be hard, yeah?”
Hearing Ronan put it like that, I kick myself for not being more understanding. Everything we have to do once we leave Ronan’s apartment today? Say goodbye to Martín, get his evidence, go to Second Sight? It all weighs on me.
I should be happy. This amazing, handsome, protective man cares for me. Might even love me. But I’m too tense to tell him how I feel. Too on edge. Because if I say the words and he doesn’t? I don’t know what I’ll do.
After he insists another half dozen times, I force down a few bites of toast. If nothing else, I need something to steady my hands. I’ve memorized Wren’s cloud storage address and passkey, and once we get to Second Sight, I’ll transfer all the files I have on the cartel to her—along with whatever I get from Martín.
My laptop—and only my laptop—is nestled in my backpack. I thought about packing all of my things. Even started. But Ronan believes so passionately that everything will work out today, I have to believe too.
“Finally!” I snatch my phone from the table before it stops buzzing to find an address on the screen. “How far away is this?”
Ronan pulls on his shoulder harness and tucks his Glock into the holster, then glances at the address. “Twenty minutes. Maybe thirty dependin’ on traffic. Parts of Boston are a mess even when it’s not rush hour. But I know a couple of shortcuts.”
I tap out a quick reply telling Martín we’re on our way and that we’ll see him in under half an hour, slip on my shoes, and yet another pair of cheap, drugstore sunglasses. I don’t bother to hide my hair. We’ll be at Second Sight in less than two hours, and after that—I hope—I’ll never have to run again.
* * *
Ronan wasn’t kiddingabout the traffic. Even with truly impressive defensive driving skills, it’s a full twenty-eight minutes from his parking garage to Martín’s house. We’re not that far from the run-down neighborhood we visited yesterday.
Easing his car into an open space a little over a block away, Ronan turns to me, his blue eyes blazing with an intensity I can’t ignore. “Stay by my side the whole time. I don’t want a repeat of yesterday.”
My fingers flutter over the bruises on my neck. One of the few times I wish I wore makeup. I didn’t have anything to cover them with this morning. “Neither do I. But Martín might not trust you. Hang back just a few steps when I knock on his door.”
He shakes his head. “Not happenin’.”
“One step? My face has to be the first one he sees. Or he won’t let us in at all. He’ll be out the back in under ten seconds and we’ll never see him again.”
Whatever Ronan finds in my eyes or hears in my voice convinces him, because he nods, though from his scowl, he doesn’t like it. “Fine. Let’s go. The faster we can get to Second Sight, the better.”
The house is as nondescript as they come in Boston. White paint, gray trim. Spider webs cover the light next to the door. Motioning to Ronan to stay at the bottom of the two wooden steps, I ring the doorbell.
For several seconds, nothing happens, but as I’m about to press the button again, two separate locksthunkand Martín stands in front of me.
His lined face holds nothing but sadness, and his hair—once black as night—is mostly gone on top, a yellowish gray on the sides. “Zephyr. My God. You…I never thought I would see you again.”
The weariness in his voice tugs at my heart, and I gesture behind me. “This is Ronan. Can we come in?”
Martín shakes his head. “No. Only you.”
“Over my dead body,” Ronan growls.
“I will only speak to Zephyr.” Martín stands up a little straighter, some of the fight back in his eyes.
“I won’t be long,” I say, turning to Ronan and linking our fingers. “You can wait right here. Martín won’t hurt me.”
“We agreed to stick together, luv.” He touches his forehead to mine, and I canfeelhow much he wants—and needs—to protect me. The light from Martín’s living room spills onto the top step, and I cast a quick glance inside. A small suitcase stands by a potted plant, but the rest of the room—what I can see of it, anyway—is in pristine order.
“Five minutes,” I whisper. “You’ll hear me if I need you.”
