Chapter 30 Genevieve
Genevieve
“Art says the threat is over.”
Lance is leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. I’m curled up on the couch with Cavall’s head in my lap, pretending to read a magazine I haven’t absorbed a single word of because I’ve just tried my father for the third time in two days and he still hasn’t answered.
I set the magazine down. “What?”
“The guy following you. Art says his name is Bors. Sent by Myrddin to keep tabs on your dad while he defended a case in Boston. Case is done, charges dropped, no reason for anyone to be watching you anymore.”
“So my dad was the reason.”
“That’s what Art says.”
“Then why isn’t my dad answering my calls?”
“That I can’t tell you.”
“And Art found all this out how, exactly?”
“Million-dollar question.” He shifts his weight. “He told me yesterday at the tavern. Didn’t tell you, obviously.”
“Of course he didn’t. I’m just the girl who gets moved around like furniture. Stay here, Ginny. Don’t leave the cabin, Ginny. The threat is over but I’m going to tell your bodyguard instead of you, Ginny.”
“Genevieve.”
“I’m not mad at you.” I press my lips together. “I’m mad at the fact that the only way I get information about my own life is secondhand from you.”
Cavall whines, sensing my agitation, and I drop my hand to rub between his eyes.
“There’s something else,” Lance says.
He’s staring at the floor, jaw working, that muscle jumping beneath his skin. “Rosalie told me something yesterday. At the tavern, after Art left. She said Benny’s working for Art.”
I blink. “Benjamin Voltaire.”
“Yeah.”
The words rearrange themselves in my head like square pegs in round holes. Art coordinating fights through Benny. Art calling Percy “bait.” Art having “contacts” in Boston. Art knowing exactly who Bors is and what Myrddin sent him to do.
Art isn’t caught in this web.
He’s spinning it.
“Lance.” My voice sounds far away. “If Benny works for Art, and Benny’s been running the fights at the Lye since Freddy…”
“I know.”
“Then Art’s not just connected from owning the tavern.”
“I know.” His voice cracks on the second word, just barely, and the sound of it splits something open in my chest.
God, how selfish am I? I’m sitting here worrying that my boyfriend’s not telling me everything, and my dad isn’t picking up the phone, and Lance is admitting that the boy he’s loved his entire life—the person he’s spent six years in a cage protecting—might be the one holding his leash.
I set the magazine aside and stand. Cavall huffs at the disruption but resettles on the couch.
“When did you start suspecting?” I ask quietly, moving to the kitchen island.
“I don’t know.” He drags a hand through his hair. “Maybe when he stopped talking to me, or maybe when he told me about Bors like he was reading from a briefing sheet. Maybe I’ve known for a while and just didn’t want—” He stops, pursing his lips.
“Didn’t want to see it.”
“Yeah.”
The last thin thread of benefit of the doubt frays under the weight of too many unanswered questions and too many convenient explanations.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“For what?”
That his best friend might be the villain of this story.
That loving Art might have been the most dangerous thing either of us ever did.
His eyes meet mine, and there’s something raw and unguarded there that he usually keeps locked behind that stonewall expression. And before I can second-guess myself, I’m moving toward him, rising on my tiptoes, and wrapping my arms around his neck.
He hesitates, his hands hanging at his sides.
“Lance. Hug me back.”
And that’s all it takes—he gives in, his arms coiling around my middle and crushing me to him, his face resting in the crook of my neck.
I hold him and he holds me, and his breath coasts across my skin, followed by something wet, and I could swear he’s crying, and that makes my eyes burn, so I just wrap around him harder, like maybe if I hold on tight enough, neither of us will break.
Cavall whines and circles our legs, and eventually, we come apart.
“Thank you,” I say. “For telling me.”
“We said no more secondhand information.” He sniffs and wipes under his eyes.
The moment passes, but something between us has shifted. Not the dangerous thing that crackles when we’re too close, but something deeper.
Trust laid down like a foundation, brick by brick.
“I want to look into something,” I say, pulling my laptop from the side table and opening it on the island. “My dad’s firm.”
Lance moves beside me, my skin prickling when our arms brush. “What are you looking for?”
“Art said some of the people my dad represents have ‘ties’ in Boston. He said that Bors guy was sent to make sure my dad defended a case properly.” I pull up the website for DeGrance & Associates.
“If my dad’s firm is connected to Myrddin’s operations, there should be a trail.
Practice areas. Notable cases. Client names. ”
The website loads and my father’s face stares back at me from the About page, serious in his navy suit, and my breath whooshes from my lungs like a fist squeezed them.
“Criminal defense,” I murmur, scanning the practice areas. “White-collar crime. Corporate litigation.”
I click through to the notable cases section, but there’s nothing.
Of course.
“I don’t think these guys would allow anything to be on a website, Half-Pint.”
“And so what, we just trust Art? We trust that he handled everything?”
“No. We definitely do not trust Art.”
“Right.” I pull out my phone and call my father. It rings four times and goes to voicemail.
Irritation coats my throat because I know he’s avoiding me. And if he wasn’t in danger anymore, he wouldn’t be.
“Hey, Dad.” I keep my voice light and easy, just the way he taught me. Never let opposing counsel hear you sweat. “Just checking in. Haven’t heard from you in a while. Give me a call when you get a chance, okay? Love you to the moon.”
I hang up and set the phone face down on the counter.
Lance is watching me with an expression I can’t quite read.
“He won’t call back tonight,” I say. “What if they’ve hurt him?”
Lance sighs. “Then we’ll figure out how to get you to Boston to make sure.”
“You will?”
He nods.
“And when I see him, I’ll know what questions to ask. The best cross-examination isn’t about what the witness admits.”
“It’s about what they won’t,” he finishes.
Warmth flickers in my chest despite everything. He remembered.
“We should eat,” he says, pushing off the counter. “I’ll make something.”
“You’ll make something.” I raise an eyebrow. “The man who’s afraid of mushrooms.”
“I’m not afraid of mushrooms. I just don’t see the point of them.”
“There is so much wrong with that sentence.”
He almost smiles. And the fact that he can, right now, after everything we just said feels like the bravest thing either of us has done today. He opens the fridge and stares into it like it holds the secrets of the universe. “I can offer you peanut butter and jelly.”
Cavall trots in, Virgil in his mouth, and drops the duck at my feet like an offering before settling against Lance’s legs.
The three of us in this kitchen. PB&J at ten p.m. because the world is falling apart and we don’t know what else to do.
“Genevieve.”
“Hmm?”
“We’ll figure this out.”
He moves toward me and reaches out, his hand cupping my cheek so firmly, his fingers touch the back of my neck.
My heart dives deep into my rib cage.
“I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Before I can think twice, I lean up and press my lips to the corner of his.
He sucks in a breath, and my stomach somersaults.
“I know you won’t.”