17. Talia #2
“They’re gone now,” he continues, already reading the next message.
“School security handled it before dismissal, but they’re not taking chances.
Sloane’s coordinating with the principal, legal is drafting notices, and Graham’s making sure every media outlet understands exactly how far they’ve crossed the line. ”
For the first time since I've known Marcus, I hear genuine anger beneath his usual calm.
"They should've left kids out of it."
I don't know whether he's talking to me or himself. Maybe it doesn't matter.
My phone buzzes with a text from Rebecca.
Thinking of you. Graham called personally. He wanted to make sure Ashcroft had everything it needed to protect you. Don't worry about work. We've got it covered.
I stare at the screen for a long moment.
None of them had to do this.
Crossridge could have issued another statement, tightened security around the office, and let the lawyers handle the rest. Instead, Graham is calling my client personally.
Sloane is protecting Flynn's school. Marcus is standing in an alley behind my home.
Adrian has already found somewhere safe for us to disappear until the storm passes.
No one says it out loud because no one needs to.
Whatever this started as, it stopped being about the merger the moment reporters showed up at Flynn's school. Someone crossed a line, and the people who built Crossridge are no longer responding like executives. They're responding like family.
Declan helps Flynn into the car, buckles him in without asking whether he should, then pauses as if realizing what he’s done. His hand stills on the seat belt.
He looks at me, waiting. That small pause is almost my undoing.
“It’s fine,” I say quietly.
His nod is barely visible, but I see what it costs him not to react.
The drive to the apartment takes twenty-three minutes.
I know because I stare at the clock on the dashboard the entire way while Flynn asks Declan whether safe houses have snacks.
Declan answers every question with a seriousness Flynn seems to appreciate.
Yes, safe houses can have snacks. No, this one probably doesn’t have a runway.
Yes, he agrees that would be an oversight.
By the time we pull into the underground garage, Flynn is quieter than he was when we left.
The apartment is on the twelfth floor of a building I have never noticed, which I suppose is the point.
Adrian chose well. The lobby is private, the elevator requires a code, and the hallway outside the unit is quiet enough that Flynn’s footsteps echo softly beside us as I carry his backpack and Declan carries the airplane kit.
Marcus waits just long enough to confirm the door locks behind us. The security guard lingers a second longer, scanning the hallway before following him out. The click of the door settling into place is quiet, final.
Inside, the apartment is furnished but impersonal. A soft gray couch, clean kitchen, with a city view, and a bedroom already made up with fresh linens and a folded blanket at the foot of the bed. Someone stocked the refrigerator. Someone else placed a small basket of toiletries in the bathroom.
All of it should make me feel trapped. Instead, it makes me feel like I can finally breathe. The quiet doesn't last long.
Flynn drops his backpack beside the dining table before kneeling to unpack the airplane kit as though we've arrived at a vacation rental instead of a place meant to hide us. Within seconds, wooden wings, tiny screws, paint pods, and instruction sheets cover half the table.
"I think this is better," he announces. "There's more room."
Declan sets the box lid against the wall and studies the scattered pieces with exaggerated seriousness. "Better room for engineering?"
"And quality control."
"I should have guessed."
Flynn nods, apparently satisfied that Declan understands the importance of both. I find myself smiling before I realize I've done it.
The kitchen is stocked more thoroughly than my own.
Bread. Soup. Milk. Fresh fruit. Even the peanut butter Flynn insists tastes different from every other peanut butter in the world.
Adrian must have thought of everything before any of us arrived, and somehow that quiet attention to detail feels exactly like him.
Time slips without me noticing. Flynn works steadily through the instruction booklet, asking Declan for help only when something refuses to fit the way it should. By the time I glance toward the windows again, the light has shifted enough to tell me the morning is already gone.
"I'll make lunch," I say, pulling a loaf of bread from the cabinet.
Flynn barely looks up from the instruction booklet. "Can we have grilled cheese?"
"And tomato soup?" Declan asks.
Flynn's head pops up. "How did you know?"
"You strike me as someone with excellent taste."
"I do."
His confidence makes Declan chuckle, and before long the two of them are debating whether airplanes should always have matching wings or whether "creative engineering" deserves an exception.
I let the conversation drift around me while butter melts in the skillet, grateful for the ordinary sounds filling the apartment.
For the first time all day, the silence isn't waiting for bad news.
My phone vibrates against the counter. Sloane. I answer with my shoulder while flipping the sandwiches.
"They cleared the reporters from the school after they showed up a second time," she says without preamble. "The principal wasn't taking any chances."
The knot in my stomach loosens just enough for me to breathe. "Did they bother any of the kids?"
"No. School security intercepted them before they got anywhere near the students. The principal called the district immediately, and everyone's on the same page now."
I close my eyes for a moment.
"Thank God."
"Graham personally spoke with the superintendent," Sloane continues. "We're coordinating with the district before tomorrow morning. No one is going to be caught off guard again."
Behind me, Flynn laughs. Not a polite little laugh. A real one.