by J. Kenner
“What is with you?” she snapped. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you were jealous.”
“I am so not in the mood for jokes.”
“Fine.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Are you in the mood for walking down Memory Lane? Because I don’t understand why we’re talking about this. You didn’t even clue in that I was sleeping with him back then, so why the hell do you care now?”
“You’re right,” he said. “I didn’t know.” There’d been a few rough months after the one time he and Anna had slept together, but after that, they’d slid into a solid friendship. Even so, he hadn’t noticed that she’d been screwing Peter White. Probably because he’d been so focused on Ellie. And, honestly, even if he had noticed, would it have mattered? He might have said something to Anna because of the age difference, but in the end, it was none of his business.
Now, though…
“You were seen,” he said. “It matters because you were seen.”
“Gee, you think? Believe it or not, I figured that one out on my own, considering you marched into the office and started interrogating me. So what?”
“Do not be dense, Anna. It doesn’t suit you. Peter White’s murder is an open case again, and now not only Ellie but her detective know that he was sleeping with a girl about half his age. That’s not good.”
She pressed her lips together, for the first time looking a bit chastised. “No,” she said. “That’s not good. But do you really think the cops are going to pursue the case? It’s so old, and it’s so hard to get a conviction when someone has already served time for the crime.”
“That’s what I’m hoping,” he admitted. “That it will fade slowly away. It’s not as if Ellie’s going to push the matter.”
“I still can’t believe you told her.”
“Only that I killed her uncle.” Both Tamra and Anna knew that Devlin had killed Peter. And he’d more recently told them that he’d confessed that truth to Ellie. He hadn’t yet shared the revelation that both Lamar and Brandy knew as well.
Only Ronan knew that. And for now, that was enough.
“I told Ellie because I trust her,” he said, pointedly meeting her eyes. “There aren’t many people I trust. You know that.”
She nodded, her hands smoothing her skirt before she stepped forward and took both of his hands in her own. “Yeah. I do. I won’t second guess you. I like Ellie, too, but I worry about you. About all of this,” she added, looking around his office.
“I know.”
“We both escaped, Devlin. We have new lives. Good lives. I don’t want anything to mess that up.”
“Believe me,” he said, “neither do I.”
“So how much do you trust her?” Anna asked. “How much more are you going to tell her?”
“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “Everything? Nothing? Somewhere in between?”
“Can I give you some unsolicited advice?”
“Go ahead.”
“Tread carefully.”
He studied her. “You don’t think I should say anything.” The thought rankled. He’d carried his secrets for so long that he knew he could continue to do so indefinitely. But for the first time, he didn’t want to stick with the status quo. He wanted Ellie to know the full man he’d become. A man with secrets and faults and deadly enemies. A man with a code and a purpose that both drove and defined him.
He wanted her to fully know him, because that was the only way for him to be sure that she was truly his. That she loved him and not the man she’d manufactured out of memories from the past and snapshots of the present.
He said none of that to Anna, though. Instead, he said, “You think she’ll bolt.”
“I don’t know her well enough to answer that. But I know she was a cop. And I know she almost walked away after learning that you killed Peter. How’s she going to feel when she learns that was just the tip of the iceberg?”
“Right.” He swallowed. “Well, that’s something to consider.” He turned and moved to the window, then lost himself in the view of the ocean. He pulled open the door and stepped out onto the balcony. If he turned to face the ocean, he could just make out the tidal pools where he’d first kissed Ellie. And where, more recently, he’d let her see the old Alex hidden beneath the countenance of the man he was now.
She was his again, goddammit. No way was he losing her.
But whether that meant he had to tell her the truth or hold his secrets closer, he truly didn’t know.
“Devlin?”
He turned back. “Ask Tamra to come in. I need to start working on the speech for the award ceremony.”
“Okay. Sure. But aren’t you going back to Vegas?”
“No.”
“So it’s all sorted out? Did you get the breach locked down? And what about—”
He held up a hand. “We can talk more later. Suffice it to say that everything’s under control. I’ve got more information about the breach and Reggie’s handling the rest of it.”
“But what about—”
The buzz of the intercom interrupted them, followed by Tamra’s voice. “Mr. Saint? Paul told me you were in the building. Do you mind if I come in?”
He pressed the button to open the doors, and Tamra walked in holding a folder, her expression tight. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I thought you might want to know. This just came over the wire services.”
Anna glanced at the printout as he took it from Tamra. “Is that—?”
“It’s an article on the death of Adrian Kohl,” Devlin said, referring to the man he’d grown up with. A man who’d recently positioned himself as the head of a criminal network in the Southwest. “Looks like I need to go back to Vegas this evening, after all.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
After Devlin heads to the office, I settle in bed with my computer on my lap to check my emails. I haven’t been able to get my work account on my phone for some reason, so I open up my laptop and check my account for The Spall. There’s not much there, but one subject catches my eye right away: Who shot Terrance Myers? Exclusive Tip.
I recently covered the Myers story for The Spall Monthly. I’d attended the press conference in LA after the billionaire asshole who’d captured and tortured almost two dozen children was assassinated following an appellate court decision to overthrow his conviction.
My article had talked about Myers’ history as well as some of the horror experienced by his victims. And, of course, I reported on the assassination following his release from prison—and that the police had no leads on the shooter who had fired from about a mile away from the roof of a bank building.
As far as I know, the LAPD is no closer to making an arrest. And while I expect that this email is going to be nothing more than spam or clickbait, it’s my job to look. And who am I kidding? I’m crazy with curiosity. So I open the email, only to find that there’s just two lines of text followed by those funky URLs with no words. Just letters and numbers.
I have an exclusive for you and
The Spall, Ellie Holmes.
Follow the link to find the shooter.
I hover the mouse over the link, tempted to go for it and click. But that would be beyond stupid. The odds that there’s really information behind that link are slim. And the odds that there’s a virus or some sort of worm that will let some asshole hack my computer are high.
But I really want to see...
I grab my phone and dial Roger in New York, then tap my finger on my desk until he gets on the line.
“Hey, kid. Are you calling to update me on the article about your uncle?”
“No. I’ve got some interesting leads, but I’m not ready to fill you in yet. I’ll write up some notes soon and shoot them to you.” That’s been our process since I was interning for him while in grad school, and with this article especially, I think it will help to have someone without my emotional attachment reviewing the facts as I learn them.
“So what’s up?”
“I
may have a follow-up on the Myers article.” I explain about the email, then add, “I’m not interested in fucking up my computer. Will The Spall pay for a cheap computer so I can follow this link?”
I’m thinking I can forward the email to a newly created Gmail account so that it’s not tied to any of my other email addresses. Then I’ll open the forwarded email on the cheap computer. That way, anything that might be spyware gets nothing except the information on an essentially empty computer.
“Can you manage with a three-hundred dollar budget?”
“I bet I can find something.”
“Then you got it. Fingers crossed it’s something interesting and not someone trying to hack your bank accounts.”
“No kidding.”
“Also, Corbin was going to call you today. Apparently he’s got questions about the New York Transit Authority article. Mind if I put him on now?”
I hesitate, because in my book it’s never fine to talk to Corbin Dailey. But I can hardly tell Roger that. “Fine.”
Roger chuckles. “Don’t sound so enthusiastic.”
I roll my eyes. Of course, Roger already knows how I feel about Corbin.
I’m on hold for less than a minute, and then I hear Corbin’s voice. “I hear you’re writing a profile on your uncle. You should be writing yourself into an article about Saint. I covered the son-of-a-bitch once when he was giving a speech in New York right after he founded the DSF.”
“I remember.”
“Yeah, well, rumors are the guy fucks around. Never figured you to be that type.”
“Corbin, honey, you don’t know anything about what type I am. Other than the fact that I’m not a woman who goes for a guy like you, of course.”
I hear the front door open then shut, and Brandy comes in grinning, then frowns as she mouths, Who is that?
I mouth back that it’s Corbin, and then ask him to repeat the questions he had about my notes on the transit authority article, since I’d totally tuned him out.
Once I’m finished with the joy of talking with him, I hang up and hurry to Brandy for a hug. “All right,” I say. “Spill. Now.”
“Nothing happened. We just wanted to give you guys space.”
“Nothing?”
“Nope,” she says. “He even slept on the couch.”
I tilt my head from side to side. “And was that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“Probably good,” she says with a mischievous little grin. “The truth is, that we were both on the couch before he sent me to bed.”
“Oh?” My voice rises with interest. “And was this a fully clothed couch experience?”
Her cheeks turn crimson. “Not fully.”
“Brandy Bradshaw! Look at you. Tell me everything.”
“I might have misplaced my shirt,” she admits.
“And that was okay? You weren’t feeling uncomfortable or—”
“Ellie, it was awesome.” She squeezes my hand, then whispers, “I’m the one who pulled my top off. We didn’t do anything—and honestly, he’s the one who put on the brakes.”
“Yeah?”
She nods. “He said that he knew I wanted to take it slow and that we should stop. And that’s when he offered me the bedroom.”
“Wow. Points for Christopher.”
“Definitely,” she says. “Except…”
I frown. “What? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing with him,” she says. “Only that I laid awake for awhile after. I kept thinking he might come in.”
“But he never did.”
“No,” she says, then sighs. “But Ellie? I really kind of wanted him to.”
“Sounds like he does, too,” I say.
“I know. And now I’m nervous.”
“I know,” I say, squeezing her hand. “And it sounds like Christopher understands that, too.” What I don’t say is that I’m nervous on her behalf, as well. Christopher seems like a great guy, but what you see isn’t always what’s under the surface.
Still, sometimes all you can do is take a leap of faith.
“What were you talking to Corbin about?” Brandy asks, moving to sit on the edge of my bed.
I do likewise, then fill her in on the fact that he’s covering my New York articles now that I’m based in Laguna Cortez. Then I catch her up on everything else, though it turns out that she already knows about what happened in Los Angeles yesterday, including the revelation about Peter, The Wolf, and my mother’s death.
“Lamar filled me in,” she says, as if in apology. “Sorry if we were gossiping behind your back.”
“Are you kidding? You know I would have told you myself if I hadn’t been such a mess.”
“You’re doing better? It was good that Devlin was here.”
“It was, and I am. Right now, I’m focusing on work other than the Uncle Peter story.”
“What’s up?”
“I might have a lead on that Myers assassination.”
“Myers. He’s that pedophile who killed all those children?”
“Right.” I fill her in about the strange URL. “Actually, I should call Lamar right now. He might be able to hook me up with a cheap computer.”
Lamar answers on the first ring, and I give him the rundown of what I’m doing. “Does the city still sell refurbished computers?”
“I think so. Desktop or laptop?”
“Laptop if it’s cheap, but I’ll take whatever I can get.”
I tell him The Spall budget then add that I’d be willing to kick in a few hundred on top of that if I have to.
“Sounds good. Let me get back to you.”
“Thanks. By the way, I got another creepy text.” I hear him make a little noise in his throat, and I’m glad I can’t see his face. As far as being indignant on my behalf, he and Devlin are definitely in the same camp.
“What was it?”
“A picture of Devlin and Reggie coming out of a hotel room in Vegas. The text suggested it was from last night, but it wasn’t. It’s a couple of years old.”
“And you know this because Devlin told you so?”
“Do not even. I know you like him now.”
He chuckles. “Let’s go with accept, okay? I’m not sure I know the guy well enough yet to truly like him. But seriously, how do you know when the picture was taken?”
I tell him that also, and he laughs at my shoe analysis, but he can’t fault my logic.
“I’m worried about you,” he adds. “First, I was worried that Devlin was going to break your heart. I’m mostly over that. Now I’m worried about the bigger picture.”
“I know. I get it.”
“Do you? Because Saint has secrets. He must.”
I don’t answer. Mostly because Devlin himself told me as much. But that’s not something I feel inclined to share with Lamar, who’s only recently come around to Team Devlin.
“Someone is obsessed with exposing whatever is going on with that man,” he continues. “You’re a reporter. They know he has a secret. And it sounds like they’re starting to get dangerous.”
“Yeah, but who?”
“I don’t have a single idea, and that’s what scares me the most.”
“Me too,” I admit.
“Shoot me the text,” he says. “I’ll poke around.”
“Devlin’s already poking around.”
“Yeah, I figured he would be. But we have different resources. Let me do this.”
I forward the text with the picture of Devlin and Reggie, but I don’t have high hopes. As soon as he acknowledges that he got the text on his end, he tells me that he’ll call later about the computer. We hang up, and I turn back to Brandy, who looks as concerned as Lamar sounded a moment ago.
“Were you planning to tell me any of that?”
“I wasn’t keeping it—”
“Somebody has got it in for you. What does Devlin say about all this?”
“He’s worried too.” I shrug. “But what can I do? It’s not like I’m going to hide under a log.”<
br />
She grimaces but says nothing. After a minute, she gets up, telling me she’s hungry. I follow her to the kitchen, where she grabs one of her disgusting green smoothies as I climb onto a stool at the bar. She starts to sip it, then leans against the counter, her eyes on me. “I need to check in at a few of the shops on Pacific that stock my bags. Then I thought I’d surprise Christopher. He’s doing research today at the DSF.”
“He’ll like that.”
“Yeah, I thought I’d hit Brewski and get him a coffee. Want to come with? You could surprise Devlin.”
“Not a bad idea,” I say. “You can tell me the rest of the dirty details of you and Christopher as we walk.”
“Yeah, if we’d actually worked up to dirty, I could. That’s your department, remember?” She bats her eyes as she grins. “But you could maybe give me some tips?”
I snort with laughter. “Brandy, my naive friend, you have so got a deal.”
For the next couple of hours, Brandy and I gossip our way from store to store as she checks stock, picks up order forms, and discusses pricing. I mostly window shop, though I do buy two silly T-shirts, and it’s not until the last stop before we hit Brewski that someone finally recognizes me.
Or, at least, that someone tells me they do.
“You’re the one who’s dating Devlin Saint,” a customer in The Escape says, hurrying up to me and then rummaging through her bag. “He is so hot. Is he as hot in person as he is from far away?” She’s talking so fast I couldn’t answer even if I wanted to. “I saw him once down the block, but he was gone by the time I got there. Is it cool having your picture everywhere? I bet you print out all the social media pictures. I’d have them taped to my mirror if it were me.”
“Um,” I say, as she finally pulls a pen from her bag and thrusts it to me. “This,” she adds, “would you sign this?”
This is an envelope from a dentist’s office with Past Due stamped on it.
“Um,” I repeat, thinking how grateful I am that I never got hooked on social media. I know there are posts about Devlin and me, but I’m mostly oblivious, figuring that someone will give one of us a heads-up if the posts turn creepy.