Chapter 5
Skye
The stranger crossed the room before I had time to decide whether I was more irritated by the fact that he had been watching me or by the calm authority in his voice when he told me to move.
His hand closed around my forearm just above the wrist, firm enough to redirect me without hurting, and he guided me toward the narrow recess beneath the staircase as another floorboard groaned overhead.
Instinct told me to yank free. Common sense told me that whoever was walking through the upper level of Alderwick House probably concerned me more than the infuriating Irishman who had somehow slipped into the building without making a sound.
I chose common sense, though I resented every second of it.
The space beneath the stairs was barely deep enough for two people, forcing me against the old plaster while he positioned himself between me and the corridor.
Rainwater still clung to the shoulders of his jacket.
Beneath it, I could see the edge of black leather and part of a patch I did not recognize, while the scent of damp wool, cold air, and something faintly smoky followed him into the cramped space.
He raised one finger in warning before I could speak, and I gave him a look that promised I would have several things to say when silence was no longer required.
A door opened somewhere above us, followed by the voices of two men.
“I thought the building was empty.”
“It was supposed to be.”
The stranger's posture changed almost imperceptibly.
He did not reach dramatically for a weapon or push me farther behind him.
He simply became still in a way that made every part of him appear prepared.
The difference unsettled me more than aggression would have.
Men who wanted to frighten people usually made sure everyone saw the threat coming.
This man seemed perfectly content to let danger remain unaware of him until he decided otherwise.
Footsteps descended the staircase.
I held my breath.
“Check the back,” one of the men said.
The stranger looked at me and then toward the rear corridor, his expression making it clear that we had only seconds to move.
He leaned close enough that his mouth nearly brushed my ear. “When I move, stay behind me.”
I turned my head the fraction necessary to whisper back, “You don't get to give me orders.”
His eyes met mine in the shadows.
“Then consider it excellent advice.”
Before I could respond, he stepped out.
Everything happened quickly after that. He moved toward the rear passage rather than away from it, caught the service door before it closed completely, and glanced into the lane.
I followed because remaining beneath the stairs while two unknown men searched for whoever had entered the house seemed considerably stupider than accepting temporary help from an overconfident stranger.
We slipped outside just as a voice called from the corridor behind us.
The Irishman closed the door without allowing it to latch and guided me left through the narrow lane, keeping our pace fast but not panicked.
I heard the service door open again before we reached the corner.
“Keep walking,” he said.
“I am walking.”
“Faster.”
“I have shorter legs.”
That earned the briefest sideways glance, something close enough to amusement that I knew he had understood exactly what I meant.
We emerged onto a busier street where pedestrians moved beneath umbrellas and cars crawled through the rain. He immediately slowed, and I nearly walked into him.
“What are you doing?”
“Not looking like we're running.”
I understood the logic even if I disliked needing it explained.
I adjusted my pace and forced myself not to glance behind us while he crossed the road at the next intersection, cut through a narrow passage between two buildings, then changed direction again.
He used shop windows instead of turning around, watching reflections in glass and polished car panels as naturally as I read floor plans.
Twice he stopped without warning, once to examine a newspaper display and once outside a bakery where he apparently developed an intense interest in a tray of pastries he never intended to buy.
Each pause gave him another angle on the street behind us.
After nearly ten minutes, he led me beneath the covered entrance of an old stone arcade and finally stopped.
I folded my arms.
“Well?”
“We're clear.”
“You know that?”
“For now.”
The answer should not have reassured me, but somehow it did, which annoyed me almost as much as the man himself.
I looked properly at him for the first time.
He was taller than I had realized inside the townhouse, broad through the shoulders without looking bulky, with dark auburn hair cut short enough that the rain had barely disturbed it and a trimmed beard shading a face that would have been too handsome if not for the guarded expression making it difficult to read.
His eyes were green, though gray threaded through them depending on the light, and they moved constantly even while appearing focused on me.
He was checking the street behind my shoulder.
The reflection in the arcade glass. The entrance at the opposite end. Me. Everything.
“You've been watching Alderwick House,” I said.
“Yes.”
“And me.”
“Yes.”
I waited.
Apparently that was all he intended to offer.
“Most people would explain why.”
“Most people would've called the police instead of breaking into a property connected to a missing woman.”
“I didn't break in.”
He lifted an eyebrow.
“The gate was open.”
“That defense tends to work brilliantly in court.”
I stared at him as the corner of his mouth twitched, realizing with some irritation that the man possessed a sense of humor and that somehow made him even more difficult to deal with.
“You know who I am,” I said.
“I do.”
“And Isla?”
“I know who she is.”
The humor disappeared immediately.
My heartbeat changed.
“Then start talking.”
He looked past me toward the street before answering. “Your business partner disappeared while working on Blackridge Hall.”
“That information has been in the newspapers.”
“You found a link between Calder Heritage Developments, Alderwick Residential Holdings, and Covenant Renewal.”
That was not in the newspapers.
I felt my shoulders stiffen.
“How do you know that?”
“Because I found the same link.”
“Who are you?”
He hesitated, not because he didn't know what to say but because he was clearly deciding how much information I deserved, and I hated that immediately.
“Callum O'Brien.”
His accent strengthened slightly around the surname.
Irish, unquestionably.
“Callum O'Brien what?”
Another faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Usually just Callum O'Brien.”
“You know exactly what I'm asking.”
“Aye.”
“And?”
“And I'm deciding whether answering helps either of us.”
I stepped closer before I could stop myself.
“My closest friend has been missing for twenty-three days.
Someone searched her flat. Her passport was anonymously delivered to the police with a message hidden inside it.
I found a company trail connecting the English estate where she vanished to the building you just dragged me out of, and now a complete stranger somehow knows what I've been investigating.
So unless you're planning to make me disappear too, I suggest you stop deciding what I need to know.”
Something changed in his expression, not offense but recognition, as though he understood exactly what kind of loyalty could make someone reckless enough to stand in the rain arguing with a dangerous stranger.
“I didn't take Isla.”
“I didn't say you did.”
“You wondered.”
“I still am.”
“Good.”
That was not the answer I expected.
He folded his arms across his chest. “Wondering keeps you alive.”
“So does knowing who the hell I'm standing beside.”
For a moment, only the muted traffic beyond the arcade filled the silence.
Then he pulled open his jacket enough for me to see the leather beneath it.
A motorcycle club cut.
Flaming Skulls MC.
I stared at the patch, then at him.
“You're a biker.”
“Observant.”
“Oh, don't start.”
That almost earned another smile.
Almost.
“My road name's Irish.”
I looked deliberately from the patch to his face.
“I assume your club didn't exhaust itself coming up with that one.”
This time he actually smiled.
It transformed him enough that I briefly forgot how irritating he was.
The expression disappeared almost immediately, but not before I noticed.
That reaction was dangerous enough that I forced myself to refocus on why we were standing there.
“What does a motorcycle club in America have to do with Blackridge Hall?”
His gaze sharpened at the question.
“More than I can explain standing here.”
“Convenient.”
“Accurate.”
“And I'm supposed to trust that?”
“No.”
His answer came so quickly that I stopped.
He continued before I could speak. “You shouldn't trust me because I pulled you out of a building. You shouldn't trust anybody because they tell you they're trying to help. You verify what they say. Watch what they do. Decide for yourself.”
It was an unexpectedly reasonable answer from a man who had spent the last twenty minutes ordering me around.
“Then give me something I can verify.”
He considered that.
“The Covenant Renewal Foundation is connected to more than Blackridge Hall. They move money through charities, restoration companies, private residences, and medical facilities across Britain and Europe.”
I held his gaze.
“Why?”
“Control.”
“That isn't an answer.”
“It is. Just not the complete one.”
My patience thinned. “Are they trafficking people?”
His expression darkened.
“Not the way you're thinking.”
I waited.