Page 45

45

SAWYER

F rom the moment I get in the car, Ash can tell something’s very wrong. Her easy smile disappears, and we drive in silence for several moments.

“Did you and Jamie have another fight?”

“Kind of. Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Does Jamie work for your brother?”

Ash’s brows rise, and she glances over at me. “I can’t answer that.” She licks her lips. “But here are some things anyone with an internet connection could learn. In Ireland, Jamie’s family is working class—which is like blue collar. Jamie’s got an athletic scholarship to attend GU, but it covers stuff like meals, dorm housing, and books, right?”

I stare at her profile.

“His beautiful new car, the Porsche 718 Cayman? It retails for about a hundred thousand dollars.” Ash shrugs. “His work—whatever it is—must pay well.”

Leaning forward, I put my face in my hands.

“Fuck. I’m sorry,” she whispers, putting her hand on the back of my head for a moment before returning it to the gearshift. “But if certain occupations are a dealbreaker, it’s better to know, right? Tough, though, I know.” Her voice is so gentle. “You guys have really great chemistry. He’s crazy about you.”

My words are mumbled into my hands. “It’s complicated.”

“The best things are.” Ash’s bubbly personality has shifted, becoming serious. “I hope you and I can still be friends?”

“Yes.” I lift my head to look at her. “Of course.”

She smiles. “Good.”

We finish the ride back to campus in silence. By some mutual unspoken agreement, we stop in the dining hall to get hot cocoas in to-go cups to take to our room. Once there, I settle into my bed with my laptop.

My dad tries to call for his weekly chat, but I let it go to voicemail. There is so much I want to ask, but I need to be careful. If Jamie’s wrong about him, the last thing I want is for my dad to feel I’m falsely accusing him of something hideous.

And Jamie must be wrong. My dad isn’t like Brad. My dad is kind. He’s thoughtful.

With clenching muscles, I think about the way Brad could punch me and then walk out of the room with a smile and chat respectfully with our grandmother a minute later like nothing had happened. My brother was world-class at compartmentalizing. And at fooling the people he wanted to fool.

A slither of doubt creeps through me. Could Brad have inherited that ability?

No. Not from his dad. My dad. The only parent I’ve got left. The only person in the world who gives a shit about what happens to me.

My stomach knots, and I literally feel sick.

After climbing from the bed, I walk out of the room and down to the bathroom. The cool air in the hall helps. I lean against the wall until the sweats and nausea pass.

Jamie seems very, very sure.

What I really want is to crawl under my covers and pretend Jamie never uttered my dad’s name.

But there is no way to unring the bell. I need to learn whether he’s right or not.

Because if it is true, there might be another Jude O’Rourke standing too close to a road as my father drives by. I shudder, the sick feeling returning.

“Please don’t let it be true,” I whisper as I enter the bathroom stall to throw up.

No matter what the truth is, so many people have already lost.

* * *

JAMIE

As I pace my bedroom floor, the clock is ticking. The minute Sawyer asks the wrong question, Robert Allendale will know someone is investigating him. From then on, he’ll be covering his tracks, potentially getting rid of trophies and destroying evidence.

That shouldn’t matter to me since I know what he is, but Sawyer’s skepticism nags at me. I rub my eyes. I’m angry she didn’t take me at my word. And that she left, rather than staying to work things out.

I need to prove I’m right.

Going after evidence now, though, while the police are investigating the son’s death— while Robert Allendale’s probably still on edge and looking over his shoulder—makes the risk extremely high. All my training and common sense scream at me to stand down. To wait and be patient and follow through on my plans to be methodical and systematic as I crush him.

Waiting, though, would mean remaining in limbo with Sawyer, which I can’t seem to accept.

For several long moments, I stand at the foot of my bed. Maybe if I was less Irish—or less myself—I could take the path dictated by pragmatism. But in this moment, I’m the same as I ever was. I’m the man who asked for a wet suit at age seven so he could surf winter waves taller than him.

The way I feel when I’m with Sawyer is the new winter storm off Mullaghmore Head. A force so phenomenal she makes me forget everything outside of the current moment. I’m not losing her to him.

And standing still is not an option.

When I emerge from my room with a pair of duffel bags, War gives me a hard look from his position on the couch.

“What’s the plan, J?”

There’s no point trying to explain what I’m about to do. I already know it’s reckless. Shaking my head, I walk to the locked closet where the weapons are stored.

War rises, folding his arms across his chest as he watches me put an unmarked pistol into the bottom of one of the bags.

“What the fuck?” War scoffs.

I stop in front of him and extend a hand. He knocks it away, and I extend it again. Finally, reluctantly, he shakes it.

“You’re gonna get yourself caught over a girl who doesn’t even give a shit.”

“Mate, don’t.” We lock eyes a moment.

“Fuck’s sake.” War shoves me away from him with a bitter scowl.

“Listen, whatever happens, you’re in the clear. Everything I did, or will do, I did alone.”

“I’m not worried about myself. I trust you’ve got my back. Yours is the one that’s in jeopardy.”

“I’m grand. Back before anyone knows I’m gone.”

We both know it’s an empty promise.