“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?”