“Rook, no. Dammit.” He’s already walking away. “It’s dangerous,” I whisper.

“Meet you at the company HQ,” he throws over his shoulder.

Of course he doesn’t believe me. He’s just playing along, like the good friend he is, just short of patting me on the head and giving me a candy to keep me quiet.

“You think he might get attacked?” Raylin’s eyes are wide, flicking between me and Rook.

“I hope to hell not.” I struggle to unclench my jaw. I scowl at him as he climbs into the limo. “But I can’t fucking force him to be careful. Shit. Let’s get this show on the road.”

Go with the flow or sink. Because the only other option is going underground once more. Taking this car and driving into the Mexican desert for a couple decades.

Yeah, right.

Too bad I decided to stay and fight. I remind myself of my decision back at the beach house. At least one of us—at least Raylin should be able to walk away from this alive and free. I’ll do all it takes to see it done.

***

The drive to the law office goes fast with Raylin’s hand in mine. Smooth and without complication. My bodyguards in their silver Volvo follow us discreetly all the way.

See? I tell myself as we pull up outside the building. Rook was right. Nothing happened. Jesus.

Raylin pulls her hand from mine and presses her nose to the window to stare at the tall, old buildings lining the street of the business district. My eyes are glued to her shiny hair, the slender curve of her shoulders under the thin tunic, the pale arch of her neck.

Doubt is eating at me. I really thought someone who’d be trying to kill me would give it a try on my way to this meeting.

Not that any of this makes any damn sense.

Our driver steps out and opens Raylin’s door, then mine. We climb outside, into the cool Baltimore afternoon and enter the offices. Blood rushes in my ears, the thump thump thump of my pulse deafening.

This is it. This is fucking it. As we’re ushered past the front desk and into another set of elevators, a roaring darkness fills my mind. A moment I both longed for and dreaded since I was too young to understand what it entailed, what it meant.

I’m about to take control. Have access to all files. Piece everything together, if I can. About the company, about the deals. About the night my parents died.

The night I survived against all odds.

My bodyguards follow us as we are shown into a cluttered office and seated in old leather armchairs. They stand guard at the door as we are offered coffee, juice, water and a constipated-looking woman pushes a bunch of papers in front of me and a pen under my nose.

“Mr. Jordan,” she says, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s talking to me. The Mr. Jordans of my life were my dad first, my uncle afterward. “A pleasure to finally meet you. I’m Ms. April.”

“A pleasure,” I mutter, though I don’t feel it.

“It’s a simple process,” she goes on in the same monotonous voice. “We went through the bulk of the paperwork while you were away. I assure you everything is in order.”

While you were away. The rushing in my ears gets louder. While I vanished and nobody knew where I was.

Raylin reaches over and touches my knee, bringing me back to the now.

“I have collaborated with Jordan Enterprises for decades,” the woman goes on, obviously interpreting my silence as hesitation. “My colleague, Mr. Shin, and myself,” she nods at an elderly man in a brown suit who has just appeared through a door at the back of the room, “head this office, and it is in our interest to have you as our client, as I’m sure you understand.”

“Mr. Jordan,” the old man says and his almond-shaped eyes drill into me until I look away. “Welcome back.”

Wouldn’t it be nice if I had someone I could trust with me right now, someone knowledgeable about such things as fucking wills and goddamn legal documents?

But there isn’t.

Just sign the fucking papers, goddammit.

Grabbing the pen, I sign everywhere where a little red cross indicates a need of my name. Page after page I scrawl my name—Troy Jordan, the ghost of the boy who should’ve died fifteen years ago in a horrific accident—until I reach the end of the third package, and I stop.

I glance up. “What now?”

“Now,” Ms. April says, coming around her desk and picking up the papers, “you are the owner of Jordan Enterprises and of all their assets. You have the majority of shares, and you’re head of the board. The directors are, in fact, waiting for you right now.”

“Yeah,” I mutter. “I know.”

“There is also,” she says, going back around the desk and pulling a drawer open, “a copy of your uncle’s will. He wanted you to receive it the moment you come into your inheritance.”

Right. Like I haven’t read it. He left me the house in Boca Raton. I know.

She puts it on the desk, right in front of me and I sigh. Whatever. I grab the envelope and shove it into the pocket of my jacket.

“Anything else?” I clear my throat, my hands shaking on my knees. “I mean, is this all?”

“That’s all.” She smiles a bright, brittle smile at me, and I don’t know. I should be glad, but man, this is fucked up.

How can this be all?

Raylin gets up, and I follow her example. Moving in a daze, I walk back to the elevator, back out of the building, back into the green car.

Everything’s okay. No bombs going off, no bullets smashing through the windows. Another quiet, smooth ride. I’m frowning at my reflection in the darkened glass, wondering why I feel slightly let down.

Then I glance at Raylin, and the world rocks back into balance. Everything will be fine. For the first time since I can remember, I may actually start to believe it.

That’s when my cell phone rings, and it all goes to hell once more.

Of course it does. What did I expect? Only get this: now I’ve managed to drag into it my friends, too.

Fucking A.

RAYLIN

We come to a halt in front of a shiny skyscraper, its top lost in the clouds. Jordan Enterprises, proclaims the huge silver sign spanning a good chunk of the façade.

Storm is on the phone, and I try not to eavesdrop, but something in his clipped answers makes me turn back toward him.

His face is pale. Sweat is beading on his brow and his eyes are wide and unseeing. His fingers are clenched so hard around the cell the plastic case is creaking.

“Storm.” I tug at the cell but can’t free it from his grip. “What happened?”

“Rook,” he breathes. “The limo lost control. The fucking brakes didn’t work.”

Oh my God. “And? Tell me.” My hand curls around his. “They can’t have been going fast. They were only crossing the town. Storm—”

“They hit a light post. The driver died on impact. They’ve taken Rook to the hospital.” He finally stirs, his gaze focusing. He turns to the driver, a burly, bearded guy in a suit. “Need to get there right the fuck now. Johns Hopkins Hospital. Drive.”

The guy doesn’t even blink. He turns back into the traffic and does as he’s told.

I stare at Storm—no, at Troy Jordan. He may say Troy is a ghost, but he’s right there, below the bad boy layer, a core of steel, a man who was born and raised to lead and do things his way.

Okay, maybe he isn’t so different from Storm after all. Just more used to getting what he sets out to get.

His big hand opens, engulfing mine, and he holds on to me as we drive through the busy streets. His face is still too pale, and I lean into him.

He lets go only to wrap his arm around me. He likes holding me, and when he looks down at me and I cup his jaw, he makes a strangled sound and scoops me up in his lap.

“I did this to him,” he rasps in my hair, both arms around me, crushing me to him. “I should have insisted. It was me they wanted.”

Oh God, he’s right. Has to be. Too many coincidences. “Not your fault,” I whisper. “He’s a grown man. He made his own decision.”