Page 85 of Guarded Knight

By sunset, everything changes.

The truth is cruel, unlike any mission I’ve ever known, because once I get rid of Cameron, Lara won’t need me anymore and the countdown to her leaving will start all over again.

Protecting her is the easy part. Surviving her is what will destroy me.

22

I wonderif Gabriel and Anton told this Arthur guy what’s happening in his cabin tonight.

It’s a quaint artist’s retreat in the middle of the woods behind my apartment, not too far down the trail where Gabriel and I had our first talk in Echo Valley. Hell, our first chat in years.

When I walked up into the wooden hut, it was almost something out of a fairy tale better suited to a forest in England than California. It has a small porch, and windows all around, which I suppose normally offers natural light for his projects.

But there’s no light now, not outside anyway. I’ve lit the woodstove and poured myself some tea from a Thermos Gabriel made me, helping myself to one of the several funky mugs that sit upside down on a shelf. Who still uses a Thermos? Old men and ex-military, that’s who.

It should feel cozy. Charming, even.

But tonight, it’s a hunting blind. And I’m the lure.

I sit on an old leather armchair. It squeaks when I shift, as if even the furniture is holding its breath. I can’t imagine Arthur painting here, not with this weight in the air. Not with this kind of silence. One of the three easels has an unfinished painting on it, and I can’t tell if it’s meant to be a lit candle or a vagina.

I probably just have a dirty mind.

Maybe this Arthur does, too.

I like him already, and a wave of guilt goes through me yet again. I bet this is a sanctuary to this Arthur. I feel guilty inviting a demon into this man’s heaven.

With my knees drawn to my chest, blanket tucked around me like armor, the fire in the stove stutters and is on its way to dying out. I attempt to focus on my work again, diving into this conundrum that is Belinda Doyle.

I hope to hell it’s all wrong, the part about Kevin anyway, though I know it’s not. He’s way too smart not to do due diligence. I can’t see a man like him neglecting the most basic thing. Hell, evenIinvestigate the big donations I win to make sure the money trail is legit.

And it’s more than the money.

The Range Rover? Do Belinda and Kevin know each other personally? Are they even… romantically connected? Now my work takes me into the seedier realm. Socials, searching for old images of them together online. Maybe I should mention this to Rio and he could use their software that can nab crooks. At least that’s what I think he does.

I tap again and go farther down the pecking order in socials from current platforms right back to OneSpace, the grandfather of social media. And there, on my search, is the name Belinda Doyle. I click. And gasp. Right there, in her profile photo from 2007, is a young Belinda with a beaming smile and a man’s arm draped around her.

Kevin.

My God. These two go way back? I squint, examining the image closely, trying to assess if the arm drape is romantic and sexual or platonic. The hell? Are these two involved? They’ve known each other for years, so at the very least, there is no way Kevin wouldn’t understand what Belinda is doing. Right?

I swear, if Kevin is messing with Freya just to have a poster child for his fraudulent charity, I will have his ass. She’s been so loyal. So devoted to this cause. The thought of her being used, of her romantically involved with a man who sees her as a prop, makes me physically ill.

I glance back at the screen. Belinda and Kevin are awfully comfy together.

Maybe this is why he barely spends any time with Freya apart from on the phone and at functions? If I really think about their timeline, Kevin started flirting with Freya at work, and then he took her on a couple of dates. They kissed, but after that? The last few weeks have been pretty barren for those two.

Is he keeping her sweet?

I will bury this man if he has done that to my friend.

I press my palms into my eyes. I have to be wrong. But the dread in my stomach suddenly grows and shifts shape. It creeps into my chest and lingers behind my ribs like smoke.

Thinking about death, even as a metaphor, has me uneasy again. Since the last bit of sun left the sky, I haven’t been comfortable. There are a lot of windows. No curtains. Nothing but pitch-black outside. And not even enough light to see the shadows move.

The wood cracks in the fireplace, and I jump.

Just air.