As I shut the door, a brief pang of regret twists my heart into a knot. Spending Thanksgiving with a family whowantsme? It’s the stuff of my dreams. But I’d dosomethingto screw it up, and then? I’d have nothing left but the shattered pieces of too many dreams that will never come true.
Chapter One
Ronan
A light snowdusts the sidewalks outside the T station, and I tug the collar of my leather jacket higher around my neck. Dax, Trevor, and Ford are due back in the office, and the text message waiting for me when I woke up this morning confirmed I’m getting my first solo assignment.
I’m torn between apprehension and excitement. My whole life, I’ve played second chair to…well…everyone. The afterthought. Mum never thought of me as “less than,” but the rest of the family? There’s a reason my brother’s wedding was the first time I’d been back to Ireland in years.
The ten-minute walk to Second Sight’s offices leaves me invigorated. Maybe Icando this. Maybe Iwon’tscrew this case up. Whatever this case turns out to be.
“Good morning, Ronan.” Marjorie greets me with a smile. “How was your Thanksgiving?”
“Quiet.” I don’t elaborate. If she finds out I spent the holiday alone with a take-and-bake pizza and the Crystal Palace match on my DVR, I’ll never hear the end of it. Marjorie’s holidays involve dozens of guests without a moment of peace. I made the mistake of going to a Memorial Day cookout my first year in Boston. I still haven’t recovered.
“Dax called. He won’t be in until nine. Weather delayed their flight from Seattle.” She swipes a cloth over the top of her desk—not that I can see a speck of dust on the polished wood—and nods toward the break room. “There are three pecan pies in the fridge. Grab a slice now before Trevor gets here. You know he’s going to put at least half a pie away before five.”
“Thanks, Marjorie. I’ll do that.” She hands me a small stack of messages, and I shuffle through them on my way to my office. Nothing requires an immediate response. As one of three junior investigators—along with Vasquez and Tank—I used to juggle multiple cases at once. Grunt work usually. Research. Surveillance. Paying off informants.
The First Bank of Boston is my only active case. They had a block of ten safe deposit boxes all rented in the same week, and their head of security got suspicious.
Wren—Second Sight’s hacker and tech genius—tracked all the renters back to two separate shell companies out of Nova Scotia, and now, I get to spend the next few days combing through security footage to identify the men who rented each box.
At my desk with a large slice of pecan pie and a cup of strong tea, I send Wren a quick email to thank her for working over the holiday. Two minutes later, I almost knock over my mug as a video chat window with her name on it flashes on my screen.
“What are you doin’ up at this hour?” I ask when the call connects. Fuck me. She looks knackered—and not in a good way.
Wren takes a quick sip of water and grimaces. “Morning sickness. I’ve been up since four.”
“Isn’t that supposed to pass by now?” Wren and I aren’t close. She moved out to Seattle two years ago to be with Ryker McCabe, Dax’s brother in arms, and we only worked together for eight months before that, but she’s one of the nicest people I’ve ever met.
Covering her mouth with her hand, she darts a glance behind her for a brief moment. “Fudgsicles. Thought I was about to hurl again. Sorry. I’m not quite at five months. My doctor isn’t worried. Ry, on the other hand…” she rolls her eyes. “At least he finished the nursery and second bathroom so I don’t wake him every single time now.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Wren. Go back to bed! Nothin’ you’re workin’ on for me is as important as takin’ care of yourself.”
“If I go back to bed now, Pixel will whine until Ry gets up to walk her, and then he’ll insist on making me one of his protein-electrolyte-superfood shakes.” She shudders, and her little white Maltese sits up and noses her chin. “They’re disgusting, even if they do work.”
“I won’t tell him you said that.” Cracking a smile, I take another sip of tea. “So what do you have for me?”
She eases the dog off her lap and starts typing. Within seconds, a file transfer pops up on my screen. “Background information on the murder of Jasper Yoden. Crime scene photos, local police case notes, and a partial file from the General Intelligence and Security Service. The assassination took place in São Paulo, but Yoden was a Belgian citizen, so they’re on point for the investigation.”
“Who the bloody fuck—sorry—fudgsicles—is Jasper Yoden?” I cringe at my language. Wren doesn’t swear, and while she maintains she doesn’t care if those around her do, I try to keep thingsa littlecleaner when I talk to her.
“Haven’t you met with Dax yet?” she asks, her reddish blond brows knitting together.
“No. You didn’t hear? Their flight was delayed out of Seattle. He won’t be in for another hour.”
Her cheeks flush a bright red. “Spitsnacks. Well…um…when he gets in, pretend I never called. Okay? He’ll be crushed if he knows I ruined the surprise. Anddon’tlook at that file until after you talk to him.”
A door opens in the background. “Wren? Sweetheart? What are you doing up?”
Ryker McCabe’s nearly seven feet tall and currently wearing only a pair of boxer shorts. Fuck. I knew he’d been tortured within an inch of his life in Hell—a system of caves deep in the Hindu Kush—but despite spending several days with the man on mission in Venezuela last year, I had no idea what he’d been through.
“Rice Krispies!” Wren says sharply and reaches for the camera to swivel it away. “I’m on with Ronan.”
“Fuck.”
Before I can assure Ryker I didn’t see—exactly what I saw—his face fills the call window. Long-healed burns cover his left cheek, and his eye doesn’t fully open, a scar bisecting the lid.
