Chapter 11
GRIFFIN
When I open my eyes, dawn slants bright and yellow through the open door of the bedroom.
I feel good. Too good, considering yesterday. I should be exhausted, headachy from the tension. Instead, I feel a warmth, not just in my chest but against my back. Sasha’s there. Not the way she was last night, but with her back to me, her butt pressed up against the small of my back.
It feels cozy and close and so fucking good I can hardly take it.
But it feels wrong, too. Especially because my morning wood is raging.
I slip out of bed, adjusting myself in my shorts before looking back at her.
She’s so fucking beautiful my heart catches in my throat. Her hand is curled on the pillow next to her face, her lips parted in sleep, her hair spread in soft waves.
I have to look away fast. Everything bumping around in my heart and chest is too confusing for the logical part of my brain.
I need to burn it off.
I pull out my workout clothes as quietly as I can, then scrawl out a quick note for Sasha in case she wakes up.
I’m not going far—just the drive and the road it leads to.
The backside of the property slopes steeply down all the way to the Quince River—it’s almost impossible for anything but a mountain goat to venture up over there.
I take off at a clip up the long drive that grades toward the road.
I sprint to my only neighbor’s drive a half mile east of my property.
Chester Brown’s a seventy-nine-year-old off-grid enthusiast who brings me eggs from his hens when I’m in town and fresh trout during fishing season.
When I reach the sign on his gate warning trespassers about his nonexistent guard dogs, I turn around and run in the opposite direction, toward Quince Valley.
The closest neighbor on that side is miles away, down at the edge of town.
Running is some of my best thinking time, and right now, I find myself inevitably thinking back to yesterday and how I could have prevented what happened to Sasha.
The only way would be if we’d had eyes on Creelman’s goon.
Or Sasha. But we still had our client to look after, and with Lionel removing the ground surveillance, it was impossible for Ford and me to be in multiple places at once.
I try my best not to beat myself up about what happened, focusing instead on the fact that Sasha’s safe.
And that there’s no way I’m letting anything happen to her again, especially now that I know Creelman hasn’t moved on from her since that night at the restaurant.
As I sprint back toward Chester’s place, I wrestle with the most important question of all.
How the fuck do I keep Sasha safe with the limited resources I have?
You can’t keep everyone safe.
My mind goes back to the nightmare I woke Sasha up with last night. It wasn’t an unfamiliar one. I had it on repeat for a full year.
It’s me, arriving a moment too late. Running through the warehouse door to the sound of shots fired.
Laura, on the ground, blood trailing from her open mouth, her eyes fixed on me, filled with that knowledge that she should have listened. The sorrow that it’s too late to change anything now.
Fuck. I pump my legs harder.
I can’t change the past. But maybe I can change the future. As I pass my own drive, I eye my house, which I can barely make out down the hill and through the trees. Of course it’s just as I left it. Door securely shut. Bike next to the garage.
I run hard, but I’m unable to escape the memory of Sasha, clinging to my waist on the bike.
Sasha, wrapped around me in my bed, her sweet floral scent swirling around me like she went to bed wearing a wreath of flowers.
Sasha, worried about me in the middle of the night, when it needs to be the other way around.
I thought I could keep my feelings out of this, but the very fact that I’ve created this job for myself makes it clear I’m failing hard at it.
I concentrate on running so hard my mind clears of any thoughts at all.
I repeat my loop several times, pushing myself harder and faster each round.
By the time I finally feel like I’ve had enough, I slow to a walk down my drive, pulling my phone out of my arm holder to glance at the stats.
I don’t know if I should be surprised to see I beat my personal speed record.
I see there’s a message from Ford, too.
He saw Creelman and the goon at their usual breakfast place in Queens just now, and Creelman’s texted Sam Macklin about business in a way Ford feels confident indicates neither knows where she is.
Relief washes over me. I knew the goon hadn’t tailed us. I suspected Sasha might have lost him before I even got there, though I knew it was too much to hope he didn’t know Sasha had run from him at all. But knowing they’re completely in the dark, I finally allow myself to fully relax.
For now.
He’s not giving up. I know that much. And he’ll know something’s up when she doesn’t come home. I still don’t know what the fuck comes next, but for now, we’re good.
And I know I can’t go back to work for a bit.
I pause halfway down the drive, tapping out a call.
“Griffin. Where are you?” Lionel’s voice is groggy.
I’ve woken him up. I don’t care. I never tell him what I’m doing. It’s never been a problem, keeping my own hours, especially since I give all my hours to McCrae & Associates.
But Lionel’s been watching us more closely.
“I’m taking some time off,” I say, in a way that’s clear I’m not asking for permission.
There’s a long pause. “What are you doing?”
I need to keep things high level, at least until I have a plan. “I need time to think over a few things.”
“Everything okay?”
He thinks it’s about him, that awkward as fuck meeting.
“Not really. But it will be. I always figure it out.”
Pause. “That you do, son.”
My stomach lurches. It’s been a minute since he’s called me that.
I shake my head of the latent feelings that brings up. “Lionel, I need to tell you one more time how important it is that we continue to monitor Vincent Creelman. Especially while I’m away.”
I practically hear what little warmth that’s gathered up between us frost over. “I thought I made myself clear on that matter.”
“There’ve been new developments.”
“What new developments? Related to Smith?” Smith is our client—the construction exec who’s going to make quite a few heavy hitters very upset once we help him go public.
“Maybe. I don’t know yet. But someone tried to go after Sasha Macklin last night.”
Silence on the other end of the line. Then, “What happened?”
“One of Creelman’s men came by her apartment.”
“Fuck.” I’m relieved to hear some of the old McCrae anger come out.
I’m more relieved that the worst of my theories—that Lionel’s somehow in bed with Creelman, which is ridiculous considering how much Lionel’s previously expressed his disdain for the man—doesn’t appear to hold water.
Whatever’s going on with Lionel, he hasn’t suddenly started palling around with scumbags like Creelman.
“I gave her a white card after that incident at the restaurant.” I hold my breath. We rarely give out those cards. Those cards come with McCrae’s full protection.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You weren’t exactly receptive to new information the last time we talked.”
I can practically hear him gritting his teeth.
“That’s not all.”
“The fuck?”
“She’s with me now.”
A pause. Then, “Have you lost your fucking mind?”
Anger heats up in my chest. “She’s a friend, Lionel. And I assumed after our last meeting you wouldn’t want me using company resources by placing her in a McCrae safe house. You know the cost of—”
“I’m perfectly aware.”
There’s silence on the other end of the line, and I can tell he’s twisting this over in his mind.
He may be keeping his cards close to his chest these days, but I still know Lionel McCrae.
I still know he’s smart, and in his heart, even with the money issue, he wouldn’t want harm to come to an innocent person.
Still, he takes longer than I would have thought he needed. I have to prod him. “Lionel?”
“I’m here.” He curses under his breath. “Okay, listen to me. You do what you need to in order to keep her safe for right now. But I do not want you adding back surveillance on Creelman or Macklin. Do you hear me? We can’t afford it.”
I knew he’d say that. Still, my chest burns. It makes me doubly glad we haven’t cut off the electronic surveillance. “I think that’s a bad idea. And I think Smith would think so, too.”
Smith hasn’t actually connected Creelman’s organization to his construction company recently. But he thinks we’re keeping tabs on all the players.
“He doesn’t need to know how we run our business.”
He kind of should. But I don’t say that. I change tack. “Lionel, I’d like to access some resources to keep Sasha safe, at least until we know what’s happening.”
“She’s not our client.”
I grit my teeth. “Nobody’s in the safe house in Brooklyn right now.”
“She’s not our client. And you know as well as anyone it’s not just the house. It’s the costs that come with it. Food. Utilities. You. I can’t spare you right now, Kelly. You know that.”
I hold the phone away from me for a full five seconds, trying to calm the fuck down. Now is not the time for him to be cheap. “If I don’t get her in a safe house, I have to keep her with me. And if I keep her with me, I can’t keep doing my job for you.”
And as long as she’s with me, I can’t keep my goddamned feelings in check.
“You could turn her over to me.”
A chill goes over me. “What?”
“Bring her to me, and I’ll ensure she’s kept safe until we figure out what’s wrong.”
This is wrong. Very wrong. “So you’ll use McCrae resources to keep her safe but I can’t?” That makes no sense at all.
“That’s right. Your personal connection means you’re not thinking clearly about this. And when you get personal, you mess up.”
The chill deepens, because I know he’s not just talking about this case anymore.
“I can’t trust you not to rack up a twenty-thousand-dollar invoice for a single night’s work again. You hear me, Kelly? So yes, I think the best solution is to turn her over to me.”
“Not a fucking chance,” I say, my voice cool. I’ve walked all the way over to the west side of my property—I need to get back before Sasha wakes up. Things aren’t just bad with Lionel. They’re so much worse than I thought.
“In that case, you have until Monday to be back in the office, with either a new plan for this girl or your letter of resignation.”
That gives me only the weekend to come up with a plan.
“And Kelly?”
I don’t answer. I’m still processing this new information. He continues, taking it for understanding.
“We’re canceling protection on Smith. When you come back in, you and Ford are getting reassigned to a new case. This one’s in Houston.”
I want to laugh. He has to be joking.
But the extended silence tells me he isn’t.
“Lionel, what the fuck? We’ve put eight months of our lives into this client. We’re this close to blowing it open.”
But I don’t even care about that right now.
If we’re relocated, it won’t matter if we’re keeping tabs on Creelman.
We’ll be too far away to do anything about it.
I’m so filled with rage I feel like my ribs are melting.
I don’t get pissed like my brother Eli does.
And I don’t make rash decisions like Jude.
I look at the facts and the evidence, and I come up with the best plan for the best possible outcome.
This is all new to me.
Remain fucking calm.
As Lionel gives me some bullshit about why he doesn’t think Smith’s company is a big enough target, I run through my options as fast as I fucking can.
I could go on the run with her. Move to fucking Aruba until shit calms down.
But I can’t just upturn her life and disappear forever on mine.
I need to be able to keep tabs on Creelman, and Sam Macklin, too. And I need McCrae’s resources to do that.
I just need a plan. And I can’t fucking think of one right now.
Lionel’s right—my feelings are clouding my judgment. I press my hand against the tree next to me, glancing back to my house, where Sasha’s sleeping. Except the window in view is the one in my room, and the curtains are open. Shit, she’s up.
“Kelly?”
Forty-eight hours to come up with a plan.
“I’ll need until Tuesday.”
A pause. Then, “If I don’t see you by one o’clock Tuesday afternoon, you’re gone.”
I hang up before he can. Petty, sure, but I can’t let him think he’s got me with his bluff. Because he wouldn’t let me go, would he? He told me himself that Ford and I are the backbone of McCrae, and I know if I left, Ford would, too.
I pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers. I’ll think of something. I’m good at thinking of shit, and I’ve done it more on the fly than I’m doing now.
I just need to figure out how to take my goddamned feelings for Sasha out of the mix. It’s a complication making everything a thousand times worse.
I can do that. I just have to figure out how.
Coffee would help.
I begin crossing the yard to the house, taking my time in case anything brilliant comes to me on the fifty-yard walk.
But I’m not even halfway there before my going-nowhere thoughts are interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a gun firing. Then a flock of birds is fluttering from the trees on the backside of the house.
And Sasha is shrieking.
Then I don’t think. I run.