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My hand drifts to the newspaper clipping about the Ifrinn house fire. The faces stare back at me. The parents, staff, Ash’s girlfriend. All dead. Four sons presumed dead. Except they weren't dead, were they? They were hiding. Plotting.

And I slept with one of them.

The nausea hits again, same as it has every morning this week. I barely make it to the bathroom in time. When I'm done retching, I press my forehead against the cool tile and try to blame it on stress. On being trapped here. On anything but the growing fear in the pit of my stomach about what that night in the bathroom at the fight club might mean.

I need my computer. I need my phone, not this one limited to calling two people. I need to be working on this story instead of sitting here useless while my whole life spirals out of control.

Ash drops by each afternoon with groceries and essentials. Two days ago, he brought tampons without my asking, saying, “I know sometimes women need these…” It only served to remind me that I'm late. Like the nausea, I stuffed that thought deep down.

Today, I’m thinking about reorganizing the groceries when the door bangs open without warning. I jump, panic surging through me as Ash strides in.

"Pack your things. You can go home."

"What?" Is this a trick? Is he going to take me away and kill me?

"There doesn’t seem to be any link to you and the pub or Marshall. The report is a mugging, but rumors hint at the Keans. Either way, no one's connected you or Flint. You’re in the clear.”

My legs feel weak. I sink into the nearest chair. "So I can just… leave? Go back to my life?"

"Yes, but Lucy…” His blue eyes lock onto mine, reminding me so much of Flint, it hurts. "You need to drop this story.”

I rise and gather my scattered research papers, eager to go home. "And if I don't?"

"Then everything Flint did to protect you was for nothing." Ash's voice hardens. "Because next time, you’ll end up dead.”

“So you keep telling me.”

He stares at me like I’m an idiot. Maybe I am. I just don’t like being threatened and intimidated.

“Well, I’m done telling you and Flint… well, he knows how you really feel about him, so he’s staying away. You can do what you want. But I swear to God, Lucy, I’ll throttle you myself if you break my brother by getting yourself killed because you’re too stupid to understand how close you’ve come to dying already.”

If I’m killed, Ash can’t throttle me, but I get the gist of what he’s saying. I’m aware I’ve dodged a bullet or two. The memory of Flint bursting into that alley, taking down those men who meant to hurt me, flashes through my mind. Even then, before I knew who he really was…

"He won't be able to protect you again," Ash says quietly. "You’re on your own."

The weight of his words begins to sink in. No more Flint appearing out of nowhere to save me. No more backup when I get in over my head. Just me against a crime family that kills without remorse.

“This story isn’t worth your life," Ash adds. "Remember that."

We don’t talk as he drives me home and walks me up to my apartment. I go to open the door, but it looks different. There’s now a deadbolt.

“Here’s new keys to your new locks. Flint insisted that I get them installed.” He drops keys into the palm of my hand. He then turns and leaves. I get the feeling he’s glad to be rid of me. The feeling is mutual. Mostly. I can’t deny that I feel some fear knowing neither Ash nor Flint will be around. I think about all the time I've spent chasing this story, convinced it would make my career. And it would if I lived to write it. Even publishing it would put a target on my back. And this time, there would be no tattooed fighter stepping out of the shadows to rescue me.

Inside my home, I do my best to push everything over the last few weeks away. I lock my door with both new locks. I put my clothes away and my research back on the table. Then I draw a bath and do my best to escape.

The next morning, I head to work, my eyes darting everywhere from the moment I leave my apartment, looking for suspicious men out to get me. I don’t see anything out of the ordinary.

When I get to my workplace, I savor the familiar buzz of the newsroom. My desk sits exactly as I left it the last time I came in. Jeez, how long has it been? Do I even still have a job since I haven’t called in for several days?

"Ketchum!" My editor's voice booms across the office. "In my office. Now."

I draw in a steadying breath and weave between the cubicles, avoiding the curious stares of my colleagues. No doubt they've been wondering, like I am, if I’m about to be fired.

My editor, Bud Graves, waves me into his office, gesturing to the chair across from his desk. "Nice of you to finally grace us with your presence."

"I'm sorry, I was?—”

"Chasing a lead?" He arches an eyebrow. "Must have been one hell of a story to go dark. What is it?"