Page 7

7

LUCY

I scroll through another archived news article, determined to get my story even as I’ve taken the last few days off from the field and instead have been researching in the quiet of my home. The cut on my arm throbs, a reminder of how close I came to something much worse in that alley. But I can't stop. Not when I'm this close.

Hampton Kean Donates Million Dollar Wing to Children's Hospital , the headline reads. I purse my lips in indignation. Such a perfect public image for a man whose thugs tried to kill me for asking questions.

The afternoon sun streams through my apartment windows as I dig deeper into old records. Every article paints the Keans as Boston's golden family, philanthropists, business moguls, pillars of the community even as it's an open secret that their gains are ill-gotten.

I open a new document, typing out my findings. The timeline is clear. The Keans' meteoric rise happened right after the Ifrinn family's downfall. Most of the people in law enforcement shrug their shoulders at this. “One less dirty family,” one told me. When I suggested the Keans weren’t so clean, he didn’t seem concerned. Or perhaps he was just resolved that there would always be organized crime in Boston.

I wonder what Flynn and his associates think of all this? They’re a group that seems to care and want to do something about it.

"You're going to get yourself killed." Flynn’s warning echoes in my mind. My cheeks heat remembering him, remembering my fantasy of him, but I push those thoughts aside. This story matters more than some mysterious maybe-cop with striking eyes and protective instincts.

I pull up property records, tax documents, anything public I can find. The Keans acquired most of the Ifrinn holdings within months of that devastating fire. The connection seems clear. What’s less unclear is why? Well, money and power, yes, but there’d been a time that Hampton Kean and Joseph Ifrinn were friends, or at least friendly. What went wrong that had Hampton Kean murdering his friend and his friend’s family? What happened to the Ifrinn children?

My phone buzzes with another blocked number. I let it go to voicemail, like the others. The Kean men might not have my last name and know who I am, but I'm not taking chances.

Still, I can't walk away from this story. Not when I'm finding breadcrumbs that point to something massive. Something that could finally expose the truth about one of Boston's most powerful families. Bring their secrets to the open in a way that law enforcement can’t ignore or shrug off. Maybe bring justice to four boys who lost their parents. I can’t imagine what it was like for them to lose their parents. That’s assuming they’re still alive. I can’t help but think they are. I haven’t found anything to suggest they’re dead. Are they waiting for a time to return? Plotting revenge? Or have they simply built new lives somewhere else?

I grab my phone, needing to hear a familiar voice. Kate, my sister, picks up on the second ring.

"You're calling early. Everything okay?"

“I’m alive, that’s something.” I move away from my work table and sink into my couch cushions.

“Oh, my God, what happened?”

"Remember that story I was working on?"

"The one about the Irish Mob? Please tell me you dropped it."

I glance at the bandage on my arm. "Not exactly. I got myself in a little situation the other night."

"Lucy!" Kate's voice rises. "What happened?"

"Some guys cornered me in an alley. But before you freak out, I'm fine. This guy stepped in and helped me. He even stitched up my arm."

"Wait, what? Some random dude gave you stitches? Are you insane?"

Yes, I just might be. “Not stitches like sewing. He bandaged me. He knew what he was doing. He's an undercover cop." I pause, remembering how efficiently Flynn had handled those men. "I think."

"You think?" Kate's exasperation crackles through the phone. "Lucy, this is exactly why I worry about you. First, you're poking around a dangerous crime family, then you're letting strangers play doctor?"

"Kate—”

"No, listen to me. These people, the Keans? They're not some story you can chase for a promotion. They hurt people. They make people disappear."

“What do you know about it?”

“I know what everyone else does. You don’t have to be named Gotti to know you should stay away. Sure, the Keans appear like benevolent people, but there’s a lot of death and destruction around them.”

“You sound like Flynn. He told me to stay away.”

“Who’s Flynn?”

“The guy who helped me.”

“Right, the guy you don’t know who bandaged you. Good God, Lucy…”

I press my fingers to my temples. "I know, but?—”

"But nothing. If this mysterious cop told you to back off, maybe you should.”

“The story?—"

"Then listen to him! Please, Lucy. I can't lose you over a newspaper article." There’s genuine fear in her voice.

"I hear you. I do."

"Promise me you'll drop it."

I stay silent, unable to make that promise. The truth about the Keans is too important. And if I’m honest with myself, my own ego is at play. This is a story that could make my career.

"I'm okay, really," I tell Kate, keeping my voice steady. "I’m a tough cookie. Remember when I defended myself from Tommy Peterson in eighth grade?"

"This isn't like that, Lucy. You're not twelve anymore, and these aren't playground scrapes."

I sink deeper into my couch, pulling my knees to my chest. "I know what I'm doing. This story could make my career."

"Your career won't matter if you're dead." Kate's voice cracks. "Mom and Dad didn't put you through journalism school so you could get yourself killed chasing dangerous stories."

"They put me through school so I could make a difference." I hate that I have to defend my life, my choices. Kate is normally so supportive. All my family has been. I get that this story is dangerous, but some of the greatest stories have involved risk. "Mom always said the truth matters more than anything."

"Mom was talking about telling her when we broke her favorite vase, not investigating murderers."

"But that's exactly what journalism is supposed to be about, exposing the truth, no matter how ugly. Someone needs to stand up to these people."

Kate sighs, and I can picture her looking up, asking God for strength or to strike sense into me. “You’re willing to risk your life for this? What happens to the story if they succeed in silencing you? Your work will be in vain. Lucy, please. There are other stories. Safer ones."

"But none that matter as much." I glance at my research notes, thinking of all the families destroyed by the Keans.

She’s quiet for a long moment. "At least promise me you'll be more careful?"

"I promise." And I mean it, even if our definitions of careful might differ. "No more dark alleys."

"Lucy?"

"I should go. Love you, Sis."

I hang up before she can protest further. I've never backed down from a story before. I'm not about to start now. It’s not that I’m insensitive to her concerns. My sister means well, but she doesn't understand. This story isn't just about making headlines anymore. It's about justice. Justice for the community, for all the people who suffer at the Keans’ hands. Even justice for the Ifrinns.

Opening my laptop, I pull up the Kean Holdings Company’s website. Ronan Kean's profile stares back at me, his perfect smile and expensive suit screaming old money and privilege, even though Hampton started as a bagman for the Ifrinn family. As Hampton Kean's heir apparent, he's the public face of their legitimate enterprises.

Maybe it’s time to stop lurking in the shadows. Perhaps it’s time to go to the source. I change out of my jeans and old college T-shirt into a simple navy dress. I check that I have my press credentials and head out.

I drive downtown to the Kean Holdings building, practicing the questions I want to ask. Of course, it won’t be “did you kill the Ifrinns?” or “How much do you launder through your clubs?” I can be subtle. My sense of Ronan Kean is that he’s vain and boastful. He’ll want to tell me about all his successes. He’ll lie, of course, but if I can get him talking, I’ll be getting information I can fact check.

As I come up to the building, I see Ronan exit the building. His tailored suit has to be worth more than my monthly rent. He's still relatively young, only twenty-five, but he carries himself with the entitled confidence obscenely wealthy and powerful people do. Two men in dark suits flank him as he strides toward a waiting black SUV.

“Where are you off to?”

I slow down, waiting for his vehicle to pull out. I follow him at a safe distance, glad that Boston traffic forces them to move slowly. We wind through the financial district knowing this is the behavior that both Kate and Flynn have warned me about. I know what I’m doing. Well, sort of.

The SUV turns onto a quieter street lined with high-end boutiques. I hang back, letting two cars slide between us. Ronan's vehicle stops outside an exclusive menswear store. Through my windshield, I watch him step out, waving off his security detail. They remain with the car while he disappears inside.

I park around the corner trying to decide my next move. Trying to talk to him at his tailor may not be the best idea. He’ll be distracted. Unless, of course, I praise his good looks and sense of style.

A moment later, he steps out, so maybe he wasn’t there for a fitting. I make a note to find out who owns the shop to find out whether they’re an associate or a victim of the Keans.

Ronan gets in the SUV, which then veers away from the boutique district, heading toward the industrial outskirts. Red flags wave in my mind as we pass beneath a broken streetlight. The buildings grow more decrepit, graffiti spreading across brick walls.

The sun is dipping lower in the afternoon sky, casting long, eerie shadows between buildings. It makes me think of slasher or horror movies. The kind where you yell at the screen telling the silly woman to turn back. Don’t go in there.

The smart thing would be to turn around, head back to my safe little apartment, write some fluff piece about local business success stories. My fingers flex then regrip the steering wheel as I steel my resolve. I can’t let fear keep me from doing what I think is right.

"Just a little longer," I tell myself, keeping three car lengths between us. "See where he goes, snap a few photos, then leave."

The SUV slows near a loading dock, and I kill my headlights, easing to a stop behind a rusted shipping container. My heart pounds so loudly, I swear it echoes in the empty street. This is exactly the kind of place where people disappear.

But this is also exactly the kind of place where secrets hide.

I grab my phone as I watch Ronan step out of the SUV. He straightens his tie, gestures to his men, then disappears through a side door.

The thrill of the chase floods my veins with adrenaline. This is what I live for, that moment when a story breaks open. Whatever's happening in that warehouse isn't the polished business dealings Ronan presents to the public.

I slip out of my car, staying in the shadows as I ignore the memory of what happened last time I followed Kean men into a dark place. But this is different. This time, I'm prepared. This time, I'm going to expose whatever the Keans are hiding.

I ease the warehouse door open, cringing at the slight creak. My heart beats a million miles a minute as I slip inside, pressing close to the wall. The space is dimly lit by flickering fluorescents, casting strange shadows across stacked crates and machinery.

Voices echo from deeper in the building. I strain to make out words, but they're too muffled. Following the sound, I creep between towers of wooden pallets. Every step feels like tempting fate, but I can't turn back. Not when I'm this close to uncovering something real about the Keans.

A loud clang makes me jump. I duck behind a forklift, holding my breath. Footsteps approach, then fade again. Sweat trickles down my spine and all of a sudden, I’m rethinking this crazy plan. Kate’s right. If I’m killed, the story dies with me.

The voices grow clearer. I recognize Ronan's cultured tone, though I can't make out what he's saying. Another voice responds, deeper, angrier.

I edge closer, staying low. Just a few more feet and I might be able to see them. I start to peek around the forklift when strong arms wrap around me from behind, one hand clamping over my mouth before I can scream. I thrash, but my attacker's grip is like iron as he hauls me off.