Page 4 of Ugly Truths (The Veiled Truths Trilogy #2)

Silas

T he gym doesn’t look like much from the outside; just one of many brick-front businesses in a long strip on a main road in South Side.

The only discernible difference between the other businesses that surround it, apart from the faded Ironworks Training Center sign above the door, is that it occupies significantly more street-front real estate.

For a moment, I wonder if I’m wasting my time and if this is just another dead end.

I step inside anyway.

The gym door swings shut behind me with a faint clang , the sound swallowed by the low hum of activity. By some miracle, no one looks in my direction.

I’ve spent years cultivating a certain level of anonymity, but even so, I’m not exactly invisible, especially in this city. If someone recognizes me before I can get a read on things, this whole idea could blow up before it even starts.

The air carries that unmistakable mix of sweat and disinfectant.

Matted, open floors stretch before me, only broken up by black grappling mats, scuffed and worn but meticulously clean.

Heavy bags dangle from chains bolted to exposed beams, kettlebells and dumbbells are scattered along the edges, and a row of dented lockers lines the far wall next to a rack holding gloves and headgear .

It feels familiar in a way that reminds me of Scarlett. Or, I guess, Elena. She always spoke highly of this place and how much she learned here. We spent hours discussing her training after the alley attack and all the ways it had paid off, even with a bruised eye and a split forehead.

She was so convincing.

I wonder how smug she felt when I stepped into the role of protector without hesitation. She didn’t even have to try; that’s how far gone I already was. Still, credit where it’s due. She figured me out fast and used the soft spot for my sister like a goddamn weapon.

My jaw tightens, like it always does when I think about her. I push the thought aside and step farther into the room.

There are a few people training. A guy works the heavy bag, his punches landing in a steady rhythm. A woman curls free weights in front of a mirror, her movements slow and controlled. Two others grapple on the mats, their bodies locked in a quiet struggle. No one lingers or chats idly.

“Hey, man. Can I help you?”

A deep voice cuts through the music playing through the speakers, pulling my attention to a man walking toward me.

Jeff.

I’ve seen him in photos. Cillian mentioned him two days ago, almost in passing, while talking about Elena.

He’d brought up the last time she trained here, saying he wished he hadn’t brushed off her odd behavior that day.

She was acting skittish and distant the whole prior week—not just with him, but with everyone—so he thought little of it.

The conversation made me realize she visited this gym the morning before she left. Something compelled me to look at the surveillance footage of my home from her last day here. She went to her training session with an unassuming black duffle bag and didn’t return with it several hours later.

It could’ve been nothing, but it felt like something .

Now I’m here, clinging to the theory that she trusted this man enough to ask him to help her disappear. Until she accesses that goddamn bank account, he might be the only lead I have.

Jeff’s shorter than I expected, maybe just a couple of inches taller than Elena, but solid. His arms are covered in tattoos—a snake curling up one forearm, constellations sprawling across the other—and his shaved head glows faintly under the fluorescent lights.

“I’m here for a kickboxing one-on-one. John,” I say the fake name with ease as I point to myself. “Heard you’re the guy to see.”

His sharp blue eyes take me in. My pulse kicks up, but there’s no flicker of recognition in his gaze.

“You train before?” he asks.

“I’ve taken a few classes,” I reply, adjusting the strap of the duffle bag hanging from my arm. “Wanted to give this place a try.”

A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Alright, let’s see what you’ve got. We’ll start with an assessment. You fill out the forms online?”

“Yup.”

Without another word, he turns on his heel and strides toward a small plastic bin with several pieces of equipment.

The faint hum of the gym’s lights buzzes in my ears.

I drop my bag just as Jeff is reaching for a jump rope.

He tosses it to me, chin jutting toward the rubber flooring next to the mat.

“Warm up,” he says simply.

For the next fifteen minutes, he puts me through a series of stretches, activations, and cardio drills. Sweat beads at my hairline, but he seems pleased enough with what I’m doing before strapping on some focus mitts and moving us onto the mat.

He raises his hands before speaking. “We’ll assess where you are and then create a schedule if you want to keep coming back. Sound good?”

As I dip my head in acknowledgment, Jeff taps the mitts together once before holding them steady. “Jab, cross,” he says .

I step in, keeping my stance loose, and fire off the two punches—snapping the jab out clean before driving a sharp cross into the pad. Jeff doesn’t react much, but there’s a small shift in his stance.

“Hook, cross.”

Rolling my shoulders, I throw the hook, smooth and controlled, before following with a crisp right cross.

“Not bad,” he mutters.

I exhale slowly, flexing my fingers.

Throwing another jab, I keep my movements fluid. “I had a friend who used to train here,” I say casually. “She only ever had good things to say.”

Jeff raises an eyebrow but doesn’t lower the mitts. “That so?”

He absorbs my next jab smoothly. “Said you were tough, no-nonsense. She was impressive, honestly,” I continue, my tone conversational. “I had to see for myself if the trainer she talked about was as good as she made him sound.”

Jeff shifts his weight, keeping his hands up. “Who exactly are we talking about?” he asks with a sharpness that wasn’t there before.

“Scarlett Page.”

There’s something in his eyes that he buries as quickly as it surfaces. He lowers the mitts slightly. “Ah,” he responds with a shrug. “I trained her for a while.”

I nod once. “She took off a few months ago.” I hold his gaze. “Something about her seemed… off. Any idea where she went?”

Jeff doesn't flinch.

“No.”

Liar.

Though I’m poised to call him out, I don’t. People hate silence and rush to fill it.

Jeff’s eyes narrow, just slightly. “I don’t get into personal stuff with the people I train. ”

I throw another combination, harder this time. Jeff adjusts, catching the impact without effort. For a moment, the only sound is the dull thud of my gloves against the mitts.

“She left without saying anything,” I explain between combinations, my breath hitching with each point of contact. “None of her friends have heard from her. We’re all worried.”

The mitts snap back under my force, and Jeff moves with me, shifting defensively as he keeps up with my increased pace, absorbing my next punch and blocking the next instead of letting me land it. He looks between me and my glove with an expression unreadable before his eyes flick up to hold mine.

“You ever stop to think,” he starts, “that maybe sometimes people don’t say goodbye because they don’t want to be followed?”

My jaw clenches, and the next hit lands harder than necessary. Jeff doesn’t call me out for it.

“I want to know if she’s okay.” The lie doesn’t come out as concerned as I want it to. “If you helped her, that’s fine. I just need to know.”

Jeff drops his hands, stepping back slightly. “Look, if you came here to interrogate me about something I don’t know, you’re out of luck. If she needed to start over somewhere, I’m happy she was able to do that, but that’s all I’ve got for you.”

My restraint frays. The fury I’ve been forcing down, the frustration of chasing ghosts, of running in circles with half-truths and dead ends, threatens to rip free.

Was he part of her plan, or just more collateral damage? Used and discarded like the rest of us?

I inhale slowly, recognizing the line I’m about to cross. I'm not sure if the jaws of life will be able to retract my arm from his neck if I give myself the opportunity.

“I think we’re done here,” I say, voice devoid of all emotion.

After a moment, Jeff nods and slips off the mitts, though he doesn’t take his eyes off of me. “Good luck finding whatever you're looking for. ”

The words I want to say won’t help me any, so I don’t respond. Turning on my heel, I rip my bag off the floor and head for the exit.

I’ll find another way to get the answers I need.

I have to.