“When are you going to turn that shit off?”

Paris plops down beside me on the couch, tossing her fuzzy-socked feet on the cluttered coffee table. Under her left heel is a copy of Mindful Masturbation, the spine creased, a rainbow of colorful Post-its flaring from the top.

My gaze drags back to the television, where talking heads are chewing on the most sensational news story of the month. Beneath them, the bar of texts runs with highlights.

Paris lays her head on my shoulder. “I’m so glad it’s finally over.”

I nod, staring at the screen but not really hearing or seeing the news anymore. I’ve watched nothing else for the past weeks. Watched as Rudy’s homes in New York and D.C. were raided, learned with the rest of the nation when the FBI uncovered an encrypted computer in a safe.

Were he alive, Rudy would surely die in prison from the evidence stored on that computer. Offshore bank accounts. Dark Web sites and logins for black-market slave auctions. And audio transcriptions of every conversation he ever had with Ivan Reznikov, probably kept in case he needed leverage over the mobster. Now, there’s more than enough to put Reznikov away for a long, long time—if he isn’t assassinated by his own organization first.

But the most important find on Rudy’s computer—at least to me—was a digital rolodex of his clients. Names. Photographs. Sexual preferences. Transactions. Everything necessary for Rudy to maintain power in DC and New York and more than enough to implode the house of cards.

When the arrests started, Paris insisted on a party. We invited the neighbors and all our parents’ wacky friends. Ordered pizza, microwaved popcorn, swigged beer like we were teenagers. Cheered like we were watching the Super Bowl as CNN recapped the upset to the power grid with clips of angry, entitled men being dragged from their homes and businesses.

That was the first night I broke down, sobbing for hours on end. Not because I was sad, or heartbroken, or hopeless about the future. The opposite, really. Because after years of wearing those goddamn cement boots of guilt and shame, they’re gone.

I’m free.

Paris held me through that storm of relief and rebirth, and when I was calm she tugged me down the hall to our parents’ room. We crawled into their bed like we were four again and afraid of the dark.

I slept for eighteen hours straight and haven’t had a nightmare since.

“Don’t you think it’s weird, though?” I murmur now. “How Rudy died?”

Thanks to my actual police detective of a brother-in-law, we learned the details of Rudy’s death. One bullet, fired point-blank into his forehead. His last sight would have been his executioner’s face.

I know exactly who killed Rudy. What I don’t understand is why he hasn’t come for me.

Liam had no answers for me on the private flight from New Mexico to New York. For all his Irish charm, the man is a cypher. An expert at manipulation and misdirection. His favorite answer to my questions? I can neither confirm nor deny.

I couldn’t be mad at him. Not for long, anyway. He played a large role in saving my life—not only tracking me down, but delivering the FBI to my doorstep in the nick of time. He also leased a private plane, brought me clothes, food, water, vitamins… Let me sleep on his shoulder for most of the flight home, then walked me off the plane and straight into my parents’ waiting arms.

God bless that Irish prick.

“All that matters is Rudy is dead,” Paris says firmly. “He’s never going to hurt you or anyone else again.”

I nod, thinking of Steph, her sobbing confession and apology over the phone last week. Her reckless gambler of a father owed Reznikov money—a lot of money—and she’d been blackmailed into helping pay back the debt.

“You need to focus on healing,” continues Paris. “Are you hungry? You’re still skin and bones. Let’s make brownies.”

I roll my eyes. “Just admit you’re the one who wants brownies.”

She pats her still-flat belly. “I think this one’s a boy. He’s hungry all the time.”

My dark thoughts evaporate. Grinning, I throw my arms around my sister. “Thank you for being here, taking the time off—”

“Bah, I just needed a vacation.”

We laugh, cry a little, then make brownies.

“Come join me, kiddo. I see you lurking.”

Pulling my sweater tight around me, I venture onto the covered porch where my dad sits smoking his after-dinner joint. His wild hair is more white than blond these days, his face wrinkled from sun and a lifetime of laughter and more recently, worry for me.

He lifts the corner of the heavy blanket on his lap. I slip beneath the warmth, tucking my feet under me on the bench, and curl into his side. Patchouli and marijuana wrap around me—the scents so familiar. Infinitely calming and safe.

“Daddy.” I sigh, dropping my head against his wool-clad shoulder. “What am I going to do?”

“What do you want to do? You want to wait around here for some knight in shining armor to rescue you from yourself?” He snorts. “That doesn’t sound like the London I know.”

“But—”

“No buts,” he says with gruff affection. “God only knows how it happened, but our kids are go-getters. Go on and get, would you?”

The screen door creaks; my mom steps onto the porch. “You have a phone call, London. Christ, it’s cold out here. Jimmy, you want your hot toddy out here or inside?”

Leaving my parents to their negotiations, I head to the kitchen. The ancient, wall-mounted phone waits, receiver dangling from its curly cord and swaying against the wall. Rolling my eyes at my mom’s refusal to step into the twenty-first century, I grab the phone.

“Hello?”

“I swore I wouldn’t interfere, but I can’t take it anymore.”

I blink. “Liam?”

“Your lovesick idiot is sitting in a hotel room in Syracuse trying to convince himself he doesn’t deserve you.”

My vision sparkles; my shoulder thuds against the wall. Hand to my chest, I press against the pressure and pain there. “W-what?”

“It’s ridiculous. He’s also drinking himself half-to-death. I’ve told him a thousand times what a selfish asshole he is, but he’s stuck on the idea he failed you.”

“He didn’t,” I whisper.

“I know. But if our Dominic has an Achilles’ heel, it’s his savior complex.” He pauses. “Got a question?”

“For fuck’s sake, Liam! What hotel?”

Liam chuckles and tells me the name, then sobers. “There’s something else, too. Another reason for my call. My contact at the FBI says they’ve ID’d a body found in the woods by that motel. As insane as it sounds, it’s, um—I’m not sure how to say this…”

“It’s okay. I know who it is. Paul Kirkland.”

Thankfully, the words emerge with minimal pain. The sad fact is, I grieved my husband—and everything that wasn’t or might have been—two years ago. The Paul I met recently was a stranger with a familiar face. More than that, we were strangers to each other.

“So, erm…” He clears his throat. “I’ve got nothing to add.”

I laugh shortly. “Liam? Thank you. For finding me, alerting the authorities. For being a good friend to Dominic—”

“All right, that’s enough, yeah yeah, you’re welcome. And I had help with the heavy lifting. Just go save our boy from himself, okay?”

“Okay.”

Smiling, I replace the receiver.

“Was that the Irishman?” asks Paris.

I turn, finding her leaning against the fridge with a pint of ice cream and a spoon. “Yes. Liam.”

“Next time you talk to him, tell him Josh wants a word.”

My smile stretches. “Will do. He told me where Dominic is.”

“Good.” She pauses, eyes narrowed and thoughtful. “Are you ever gonna tell Mom and Dad about what happened with Paul? Or contact Paul’s parents?”

I shake my head. “There’s been enough pain, don’t you think?”

She pops the spoon in her mouth and speaks around it, “Amen to that. Go get some sleep so you can go get your man.”

“So bossy.”

She grins. “What are big sisters for?”