Paxton wanted to send someone with me. Roman volunteered. I said no.
I know this building. I know which floorboards creak and which doors stick. I know the alarm code because Art gave it to me months ago and never thought to change it, and I know the spare key is under the third planter by the side entrance because Rosalie told me once when she locked herself out.
I’m not sending someone who doesn’t know these things into a building that sits on top of an underground criminal empire.
The side entrance opens without a sound. I punch in the alarm code with steady fingers, and when the panel blinks green, I exhale.
The tavern smells the same. Wood polish and beer. The bar is wiped down, the stools are up, and the only light comes from the exit signs casting everything in a dim red glow.
Art’s office is at the end of the hallway, past the storage room with the secret entrance, past the back hallway withanotherLye entrance, and to the left of the bathroom that always had a leak.
I test each step with the ball of my foot before committing my weight. The building settles around me with the quiet groans old structures make at night, and every one of them sounds like a threat.
The hallway is dark. I use my phone as a flashlight, keeping it pointed at the floor.
The office door is unlocked.Of course it is.Art locks the desk but not the door, because Art has always trusted the wrong things. He trusts buildings and names and the power of being a Penngrove. He doesn’t trust people, which is why he never told me the truth, and he doesn’t trust himself, which is why he let his father and Brutus and everyone else make his choices for him.
I slip inside and close the door behind me.
The desk is the same. The brass key is still taped under the lip, right where I found it the first time. My fingers feel it in the dark, and I peel it off and fit it into the lock.
Click.
The drawer slides open, and my heart pounds in my ears.
The manila folder is gone. But the hard drive is still there, shoved toward the back, the sticky note withBackupstill attached.
I let out a shaky exhale and pick it up. It’s heavier than I remember, or maybe that’s just the weight of what it carries. Of what Ineedit to carry. Every fight. Every coerced match. Every person who was trapped in that cage and forced to bleed for someone else’s profit.
Six years of Lance’s life are potentially in my hands.
I slip it into the inside pocket of my jacket and close the drawer. Lock it. Press the key back into place under the lip of the desk.
I’m halfway to the door when the light turns on. I jerk back, my hand shooting to my throat, and my stomach dropping to the floor.
Art is standing in the doorway.
He looks terrible. His hair is unwashed, his shirt is wrinkled, and there are dark circles under his eyes that tell me he hasn’t slept in days. He’s holding a glass of something amber, and his hand isn’t steady.
“Ginny.”
My heart slams against my ribs so hard it hurts.
“Art.”
His eyes drop to my jacket, to the pocket where the hard drive is making a barely visible bulge, and then back to my face.
“What are you doing in my office?”
I could lie. I could tell him I came back for my things, or that I forgot something, or that I’m here for him and I’m sorry. But I’m so tired of lying, just as I’m sure he’s so tired of being lied to, and we’ve been doing this dance for so long and enough is enough.
“I’m taking something that doesn’t belong to you,” I say.
“From my desk.”
“From Freddy’s desk. You just inherited it along with everything else you didn’t earn.”
The words land harder than I meant them to. Or maybe I do mean it. My feelings when it comes to him are complicated.
