Page 26 of Twins for the Enemy

I pause, but I can’t start lying now when her freedom is on the line. “Yes.”

“If I go… if I turn myself in, you’ll watch out for her.”

“I won’t let anything bad happen to her.”

I stand up. He watches me carefully, but he’s no longer getting ready to rear back to strike.

“Okay,” he allows. He offers me his hand. I shake it .

It’s surprisingly warm for a snake.

“I also need you to call Robert Dunn about the Amygdalai deal—make sure the acquisition’s still on track.

And reach out to James Paisley about Quadrant Cloud.

He hasn’t responded to the updated terms, and I need to know if I should start applying pressure,” I tell my assistant, Sophie Tomlinson.

She’s already skimming her phone, typing each instruction as I speak.

“Confirm that Calamandrei’s is still handling the lunches here, and check that Stephen’s fully prepared for the presentation.

If he’s not completely confident, have Alison go over it with him.

Also, send flowers to Paul for the birth of his child.

Something cheerful but not loud. Include one of those luxury plush toys and a soft blanket. ”

“Of course,” she says, glancing up briefly. “I didn’t realize you were close with Paul.”

“I’m not. ”

“Oh.” She pauses, fingers hovering. “You’ve only ever sent flowers for first babies. This is… a very generous gesture.”

I stop in front of my desk, where my laptop pings with incoming emails.

The idea of my employees having children feels different now that I’m going to be a father.

The only difference is that the police—and the top four private investigators in Chicago—aren’t searching for the mothers of their children.

Farah’s gotten good at disappearing. All that’s left of her is how vividly she still lives in my mind.

It’s only been two days, but I’ve barely slept.

I’ve been glued to the search, and it already feels like weeks.

I’d still be at it, but I needed to reset my brain.

Lately, every neuron is screaming worst-case scenarios instead of offering strategies for finding her.

I needed to shift out of panic mode and back into execution.

The most effective solution was to return to work—where logic is my weapon, and my mind is what’s made me impossible to beat in this industry.

It’s helping. But now I need to contact Bandit .

Bandit’s a black hat hacker who once breached several major corporations—and came dangerously close to slipping into ours.

He got cocky. That mistake let me trace him.

In exchange for not turning him over to law enforcement, he offered me access to a few of his programs—one of which can scrape every photo and video uploaded to social media and identify people caught in the background.

If it ever got out that I’d used it, my reputation would take a major hit. I’d be labeled a stalker, dragged through a PR nightmare, and slapped with lawsuits that could cost millions.

But if it helps me find her?

It would be worth it.

I need to be certain that she’s safe.

“I just got a notification from Peter,” Sophie says. “A woman is here trying to drop off your credit card. She’s claiming she found it, but he’s detained her. Do you want him to call the police?”

I guess I won’t have to use Bandit after all .

“Tell him to bring her up,” I say. “She’s not a thief, but don’t let her leave.”

“Got it.” Sophie types in her phone, heading out of the office and to her desk without looking up.

I look around my office. It’s too late to make it look less cold and uninviting. It is what it is.

As I wait, I can already imagine all of the strategies Farah could come up with to avoid Peter bringing her up to me. Dodging under his arms to run for the door. Stomping on his black Oxfords. Trying to convince him that someone more dangerous is trying to break into the building.

She’s a gust of wind that I’m trying to capture in my hands. I’m just as irrational as any other storm chaser.

Peter’s telltale knock raps against the door.

“It’s open,” I answer, standing up.

The door opens slowly. Half of Peter appears first, indicating for his apparent thief to step inside with a stiff arm .

Farah steps inside, her lips pressed together tightly and her shoulders hunched.

She still looks like the morning light when it filters through the trees.

It’s more than the honey-blonde hair and the green eyes.

It’s a softness that’s all-consuming. A presence can be gentle as it touches you—and blind you if you take it for granted.

“Hey,” I say.

She nods back at me. “Hey.”

Peter closes the door. Silence rises around us like smoke.

“You don’t need to leave,” I start.

“I’m just here to drop off your card. I’ll pay you back for the cab rides when I can.

” She glances around the office. She’s unimpressed by the leather armchairs and the bookshelf filled with old leather-bound books.

The view of the city catches her interest for two or three seconds, but when she looks back at me, the view may as well have been a field of dead cows.

“Farah—”

“Here,” she says, stepping forward and holding out the card. I don’t reach for it.

“I meant you don’t need to leave the city,” I say.

“I’m not staying with you. And the police are still looking for me.”

“They’re not,” I tell her. “Neal turned himself in.”

She stops. Her eyes search my eyes as anxiety tightens her face. “What? Why?”

I step closer to her. “Because he needed to take responsibility for his actions.”

Her eyes narrow.

“What did you do?” she demands. “Did you threaten him again?”

“No. He opened his eyes and realized what you deserve.”

She moves closer to me, still dissecting me as she approaches .

“He wouldn’t make that choice,” she says firmly. “I may have been blind to it before, but I know it now. He wouldn’t do that for me. What did you do? He can’t survive in prison.”

She stops a few inches away from me. Her hands are trembling. I reach down to take them, but she jerks them away.

“I would’ve turned myself in before I let him go to jail,” she says. “When did this happen? Who do I need to call? I’ll take his place.”

“It’s too late, Farah,” I say, reaching toward her again. She steps back. “He showed them the burn scars. He told them details only he would know.”

“I’ll tell them those same details.”

“Do you know which accelerant he used? Where he started the fire?” I ask. “I don’t imagine your brother was very talkative about those details. This was for you, Farah. For your freedom.”

“Fuck you,” she says, quiet but biting. “You get to kidnap me to avenge your sister, but I don’t get to lie to protect my brother? How does that make sense? You act like you care about me, but this is the worst betrayal you could’ve done to me. This is my family, Kieran. You couldn’t even tell me—”

She throws my credit card at me. I grab her arm before she can pull it back. I pull her close enough that her chest is pressed against my chest. Her eyes are burning green flames.

“You can question my motives for many things,” I say, the words coming out like they were scraped out of my throat.

“But I’m not acting like I care about you.

I care about you more than I’ve ever cared about anybody.

That’s why I talked to your brother. I can help him through the legal process.

You can still talk to him. This doesn’t need to be the end of anything. ”

Her face reflects a kaleidoscope of emotions, her mouth stiffening and quivering, and her eyes tensing then getting damp in a way that makes my chest clench.

“You have to believe me,” I say .

“I can’t.”

She jerks out of my grasp, moving toward the door.

“Stay away from my brother,” she says. “And stay away from me.”

She grabs the door handle, swinging it open and leaving so quickly that I can still feel her body heat as the door closes. I look out at the view of the city, trying to think of nothing. The sky is getting dark, despite the morning hour.

The problem with chasing after a storm isn’t the threat of a tornado picking up your car and hurling you into another county.

It’s that you’ll always be chasing it.

It’s outstretching your hand to touch wild winds—and feeling them dissipate until the only thing left in the eye of the storm is a credit card.