Damn.

***

We’re finally back in the plane, and despite my protests when Hawk drags a blanket over me, I fall into deep sleep as we take off, Raylin’s hand in mine.

Maybe that’s why I managed to relax enough to let go of consciousness. Her touch.

Or maybe it was blood loss. Guess my body’s running on fumes and has sort of given up on trying to keep up with everything I want it to do.

When Hawk shakes me awake, we’re flying over turquoise sea and flat green land, and Raylin is asleep by my side, her head rolling on my shoulder.

Hawk is sitting across from us, a strange expression on his face. Almost like… longing, but that can’t be right. I blink, and he grins lazily, straightening from his slouch.

“Almost there.” He nods his head at Raylin. “This girl. You just found her on the beach?”

“She found me.” And keeps finding me.

“Normal people collect shells. Not girls.”

“Shut up, Hawk.” Shit, I’m tired. I lick my dry lips. My mouth tastes like something died in it. “I don’t care if you don’t approve, got it? You’re an old man, but not my old man. And even if he were alive…” I scowl at the view below. “I wouldn’t give a fuck.”

And Hawk just grins like he’s the fucking Cheshire Cat. “Didn’t I tell you she’s perfect for you?”

“No, you damn well didn’t.”

“A girl who can shoot to kill is a girl after my own heart.”

“Make all the fun you want.”

“I’m serious.” He leans forward, hands clasped between his knees. His dark suit is dusty and streaked with white, his hair sticking up in weird angles as if he fell asleep on it. “Sorry I made fun, man. I like her. She has spunk. And she cares for you. Hell, instead of running, she had your back and shot that motherfucker. Respect.”

I’m openly staring at him, but I can’t find the words right now. He does sound serious, not an everyday occurrence. He really means it.

Then the moment is gone, and he grins again. “We’re almost there. Let’s solve this mystery once and for all.”

***

We land at the private airstrip and climb into a rental car, so as not to attract attention. We stop in front of the mansion and find out we failed.

Detachedly I watch as two guys start running toward us, cameras in hand. Paparazzi camped on the front lawn, waiting for any other juice bit they can use for their articles? Check. Their tenacity can’t shock me anymore. It’s all about money.

Yeah, I got that memo. My whole life is based on that principle, and in all probability, my planned death, too.

At least we’re all wearing dark hoods, hiding as much of our faces as possible. Hawk’s idea.

Hawk’s bodyguard jumps out first to fend the reporters off. I cover my face in the crook of my arm, keeping Raylin behind me, and wonder how much time we have before a horde descends on us to take photos and shoot questions.

I can almost hear them in my head.

Mr. Jordan, did you set up the shooting to get insurance money? Did you have your uncle killed? Are you gay and involved with your friends Jamie ‘Hawk’ Fleming and Roderick ‘Rook’ Carter?

Yeah, they did ask that one a year ago. At my uncle’s funeral, no less. But I’ve heard it all before. Like I said, nothing shocks me anymore.

Except maybe Hawk believing me.

The bodyguard is pushing the men back, and then Hawk climbs out of the car and jumps right into the fray, because that’s what Hawk does. Hands-on management.

“Go in,” he yells over his shoulder, and I don’t need to be told twice.

The sooner we find what we’re looking for, the sooner we can leave, and fuck, maybe my arm is broken after all. Moving it hurts so bad it makes my eyes water. I let it hang by my side, keeping the other around Raylin, and limp toward the house.

There’s bright yellow police tape on the windows and the door, which is half-smashed from gun rounds. Christ. Was it only—what? Two days ago, that we were almost shot to death here? She shivers, pressing her face to my shoulder, and I drop a kiss on her head, glad to pretend she’s the only one having trouble dealing with all this.

Taking a bracing breath, I release Raylin long enough to fish the keys out of my pant pocket, and she takes it and unlocks.

This is it. This is where we see if my theory, conceived in a moment of shock, might be valid. See whether my uncle left me something here, a clue, or not. Whether there’s a fucking end to the madness, or if I’ll have to keep on running and dodging until the next bullet ends me.

Raylin has her arm around my hips, and I lean on her rather heavily, so I try to pull back. She won’t let me and I give me. Damn leg hurts, and it’s only a graze. My arm is the one killing me, but I keep that little fact to myself.

She leads the way, and I force down the memories of me and her in these rooms—not the shooting, this time, but the good ones where I kissed her, where I moved inside of her, where we existed inside a bubble and things were simple.

But simple doesn’t last, and I should know. Maybe nothing does.

The office is dusty and littered with old papers, yellowed and half-eaten by termites. I should bring a specialist to make sure the wood isn’t eaten away, and a cleaning crew, and…

And then we could stay here. At the beach. Just me and her. Except now the paparazzi know where to find me, where to find us. Shit…

We walk around the huge mahogany desk with its carved legs and details, and I pull the small key from my pocket. I spent a month here, and I never imagined an answer might be waiting for me in my uncle’s office. I’d been inside, of course. I’d browsed the papers and folders left. There was nothing of interest. Everything important was at the company, or in the hands of his lawyers.

Or so I thought.

“It’s this one.” Raylin jiggles one of the drawers. Locked. “Wanna do it?”

I drop with relief into the chair, stretching my aching leg, and try the key. It fits into the lock perfectly. It turns. The drawer slides open.

Nothing. The drawer is empty.

“Fuck.” I slam my fist on the desk and my hurt arm gives a sympathetic twinge. “Nothing here.”

And here I was thinking I’d finally know. Understand. Put a stop to it. That it would all finally make sense.

I curl my fist on the warm wood. It’s so stuffy in here. Not enough air. I lean back, fighting with despair.

“Let me see,” Raylin says, bending over me, reaching into the drawer. “Maybe he hid it. Like in the movies, you know?”

“Seriously? I doubt uncle Tony ever watched movies. He was far too busy and uptight for that.”

She draws her hand out. “Can’t reach far inside.”

Her pretty mouth turns down in disappointment, so against all logic, I put my hand back inside the drawer, searching for God knows what…

… and it brushes against something stuck to the top. Paper. I turn my hand, tug at it, and pull it out.

Another envelope.

There’s a rushing in my ears. The envelope is sealed—in wax, like we’re in the Middle Ages or something—and the seal is what stops my breath.

It’s a phoenix, rising from the flames.

RAYLIN

I lean against the massive desk, my lungs locking. No frigging way. I know I insisted he’d find something, but I didn’t really believe it, and his reaction…

His forefinger strokes over the red seal. It looks like… a bird.

A phoenix. Damn. I guess we really did find something that could be important. This isn’t some scrap paper left there by mistake.

Storm’s hands shake as he searches through the other drawers for something and comes up with a letter opener, an ornate, gilt affair. Before I warn him not to break the seal, he cuts the envelope open from the side. The opener lands on the desk with a clank, and he pulls out a bunch of folder sheets of paper. He almost drops them, his face twisting. The bandage around his arm is spotted with blood.