He glanced away, but he talked. “Your father doesn’t even know all of it. Like I said, it’s bigger than just me. The recent arson attacks. The fires at the school carnival—”

“That long?” She wanted to hit him again. “And you didn’t think maybe I should know?”

“I’m trying to keep you out of it, Hannah!” He shoved away from the couch and stood over her. “You don’t think it kills me to get text messages like that? To know that the more we’re together, the more of a target you are? Do you have any idea what it was like to get those messages when you were in the woods, just trying to do your job?”

She punched him in the chest with his phone. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to know that you kept this from me?”

He drew back. His expression looked bleak. “I didn’t want to tell you like this.”

Hannah looked from him to Hunter and Tyler and back. So much secrecy. She wanted to storm out of there right now.

She didn’t. She needed to piece it together, but she didn’t have enough clues yet. There’d been so much violence and destruction that she probably should be afraid of whatever Michael was involved in, but she’d known him too long and she wasn’t the type to back away from a threat. What could he and his brothers be into? Were they arms dealers? Drug smugglers? That didn’t seem to fit. Michael always seemed so concerned with doing what was right. He was a solid role model for his brothers.

She almost couldn’t believe they were having this conversation. “What are you involved in?”

“Nothing like you’re thinking. My parents struck a deal five years ago, and it didn’t work. Now I’m just trying to keep my family safe.” He paused, and his expression turned desperate. “Not just my family. Everyone. You and James. Hunter and his mom. Becca and Quinn. Adam. Layne and Simon and—”

“They’re all involved?” Hannah stared at him. “All those people?”

He nodded. “Like I said, it’s bigger than just me.”

“But they know. They know the risks?”

Michael hesitated, then nodded.

It had been months since the carnival fire and the arson attacks in town. He’d been keeping this secret—whatever it was—for months. Years, if she believed what he’d said about his parents. She gritted her teeth. “And now I’m a part of it.”

His voice was very soft. Almost ashamed. “I’m sorry, Hannah. I didn’t want—”

She didn’t care what he didn’t want. “But it’s over, right? The man is dead?”

“The guy who sent those texts is dead.” Michael paused. “But I don’t think he was working alone.”

“What else do you know?”

“Nothing!” he cried. “I don’t know anything else! Don’t you understand? I’m not in control here.” He swallowed hard, and she could swear the tension in the apartment was going to rip him apart. “Jesus, there’s a part of me that’s relieved my brothers aren’t here. If no one I know has any idea where they are, they’re safe.”

He looked so distraught that part of her wanted to hug him, to tell him they’d figure it out, if only he’d tell her everything.

Another part of her thought it was way too late for all that.

“All right,” she said. “You think I’m safer if we stay apart?”

He winced. “Hannah. Please—I don’t—”

“Good call,” she said. She opened the door and walked out, easing it closed behind her.

He didn’t follow. Of course.

In the parking lot, she thought of her father, coming after her at the last minute. She waited, wondering if Michael would make an appearance.

He didn’t.

She told herself not to cry. She’d never needed a man before, and she sure as hell didn’t need one now. Especially not one with a box of secrets that would rival Pandora’s.

She didn’t want to go home. It was after nine, and her father would be there for sure. She didn’t want to see him. She didn’t want to see her mother, either, because Hannah was worried she’d demand truths she just wasn’t ready to hear. James would already be in bed, dreaming of SpongeBob and Legos by the time she walked through the door.

She had no girlfriends she could call. Anyone she knew was more of an acquaintance than someone she could dump all of this on. The guys from the firehouse weren’t much better.

Except one.

She pulled out her cell and typed out a text.

What are you up to?

Irish responded immediately.

Going to bed. On at 0500. :-/

She frowned.

Sorry. Talk to you tomorrow.

She locked her phone and shoved it in her bag, not wanting to see if he responded. She shifted into reverse and began to ease out of the parking place.

Her cell phone rang. Hannah sighed and put the car back in park.

The display was lit up with Irish across the screen in black letters. She slid her finger across the bottom to accept the call.

“Hey,” she said.

“What’s wrong?”

She swallowed. Her throat felt tight. “Nothing’s wrong.” Silence hung on the line for a beat or two. “You’ve never texted me before.”

“Well, we can text more tomorrow. I didn’t realize you had an early tour.”

“It’s all right.”

A long pause, during which neither of them said anything. Hannah knew she should talk or hang up, but she didn’t like either of those options. The words were all jumbled in her throat and couldn’t make it out. But hanging up meant she was really alone for the evening.

So the silence dragged on.

Her throat tightened further. God, she’d never hear the end of it if she started crying.

“You know,” said Irish, “I really can’t sleep. I was going to make a pot of coffee. Want to join me?”

She started to decline. She actually opened her mouth to say no.

Instead, she found herself saying, “Sure. Text me your address.”

CHAPTER 26

Irish lived in a tiny two-story duplex right on the water, down at the end of a quiet street. His front yard was barely bigger than a postage stamp, and parking was along the road, but the lawn and a few bushes were kept neatly trimmed. She pulled her cap down to keep the rain out of her eyes and stepped out of her car.

He opened the door before she knocked. “Come on in,” he said. “I hope you’re not expecting much.”

“Four walls and a roof, mostly,” she said. But when she walked inside, she realized there really wasn’t much more than that.

No, that wasn’t true. He had a sofa and a television and a small two-seater kitchen table, but that was pretty much it. The television was tuned to the local news, though it was muted, with closed captioning scrolling across the bottom of the screen. A heavily made-up anchorwoman spoke animatedly into the camera about a crime in a neighboring community. A fluorescent bulb hung over the kitchen sink, casting the rest of the space into a maze of shadows. No pictures hung on the walls, no books anywhere, no knickknacks.

Irish noticed her looking around. “I told you there wasn’t much. I haven’t lived here long, so . . ”

She smiled. “It smells nice, though. Like apples and cinnamon. Baking?”

“Yeah, right.” He pulled mugs out of a cabinet and gave her a wry glance. “I literally plugged in an air freshener the minute I hung up the phone. How do you take your coffee? And keep in mind that I only have milk and maybe a few Splenda packets if you’re lucky.”

“Just milk is fine.” She eased into one of the chairs at the table. Almost immediately, something alive wound around her ankles, and she gasped.

A small, orange tabby cat looked up at her and meowed.

Irish looked over. “Snap your fingers at him if he’s bothering you. The cat’s on a hair trigger.”

“He’s not a bother.” She trailed her fingers along the back of the animal’s head and got a prrrrow in response. “What’s his name?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. Cat.”

“Original.”

“I picked him up as a stray when I lived in Chicago.” Irish picked up the mugs and joined her at the table. “Never got around to naming him. He’s never seemed to mind.”

“You don’t strike me as a cat person.”

“I’m not. But sometimes life sends things our way for a reason.”

She mock gasped. “Did you get that off a fortune cookie?”

He smiled. “Funny.” He paused and wrapped his hands around his own mug. His expression went serious. “What’s up, Blondie?”

A hundred things. A thousand. But now that she was sitting here with a—with a what? A friend? It felt like such a foreign concept. But now that she was sitting here with an audience, she couldn’t find the words. “Nothing.”

“I don’t think you’d be here for nothing.” He paused and turned his mug in circles. Waiting.

Hannah stared into her coffee, inhaling the familiar scent.

She had no idea what she was doing here.

After a moment, she pushed the mug away. “I’m sorry, Irish. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

He put a hand over hers before she could stand up. “Hannah. Stop. You’re not a bother.”

She stared at his hand where it rested over hers. He had strong hands, warm yet rough from work. It didn’t feel like he was hitting on her. It felt . . . supportive.

Her eyes lifted to meet his. “It’s been a long day.”

“Tell me about it.”

So she did. All of it. Everything her father had said, even the bits about her mother leaving. Everything Michael had said, including the parts that didn’t make sense. Irish was a good listener, and he kept quiet while she talked. He stared at his coffee as if he was taking it all in.

By the time she finished, the cat was in his lap, and her coffee had gone cold.

“Wow,” he said. “It has been a long day.”

“I still can’t believe I woke up in the hospital with Michael this morning. That feels like it happened weeks ago.”

Irish didn’t say anything, but he was studying her.

“What?” she said. “If you have any thoughts, feel free to share them, because I’m not sure what to think anymore.”

He winced. “I don’t want to throw my hat in the ring with the rest of the men trying to control you, but it sounds like both your father and this Michael guy agree on one thing, and maybe you shouldn’t ignore it.”

“You mean staying away from him?”

Irish raised his eyebrows and nodded.

“Don’t worry,” she said, scowling. “I’m pretty sure we’re going to be avoiding each other regardless.”

Irish tapped his fingers on the table and didn’t say anything.

“I can feel you thinking,” she said. “Come on, out with it.”

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “It sounds like you’re determined to show them you don’t need them. I don’t know about Michael, but I’m sure your dad knows what you’re capable of.”

She frowned. “I have a pretty good idea what he thinks I’m capable of.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

This felt painfully personal, but it was easier to share secrets in the shadowed darkness of Irish’s quiet apartment. Her voice dropped. “He’s never forgiven me for having James.”

“Do you really think that’s true?”

“I know it’s true. He practically didn’t speak to me for the entire time I was pregnant.” But now that she was saying that, she thought back to the exchange with her father at the police station.

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