Page 70 of The Golden Hour
His lips meet mine only briefly, but the moment itself expands like a ripple in water. Endlessness wrapped in our shared breath. And when he draws away, I’m left with the same feeling of having hiked through the forest outside Solstice Bay.
Rooted.
Strong.
Calm.
The door closes softly behind Finn, and Detective Wilson asks, “Are you ready, Callisto?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s start with events leading up to you staging your own death.”
37
After close to eight hours of interviewing, with only minimal breaks for food, I’m the kind of tired that runs into walls and misses steps.
When Finn suggests we spend the night above a sex club in the owner’s private loft, my eyes almost fall out of my head. But after he tells Detective Wilson the owner’s name—Dominic Cross—to my surprise, she agrees it’s a good idea.
“He’s ex-military special forces,” she says, then adds with a dry tilt, “I’m sure his place will be more accommodating than where we’d put you up tonight.”
Finn tells me a bit more on the drive over—how Dominic and his wife, London, were attacked at the loft some years ago, and despite the threat being laid to rest, he had a state-of-the-art security system installed.
“No one’s getting in there but us.”
Despite my fatigue, a thrill dances up my spine. No one but us. Given I spent the day offering the police not only the means to ruin my family, but also the ability to bring me up on charges for faking my own abduction, it feels blasphemous to look forward to a night alone with Finn. But with Molly in a hotel downtown under an alias, I can’t help my relief. We’ll be safe. At least tonight. I don’t think about tomorrow—it’s too painful.
“Here we are.”
After parking in a small back lot off Wilshire, Finn leads me through the deepening dusk to a nondescript back door. The building is square, two stories, and though I know the ground floor is some infamous club, I don’t hear any music.
“The club’s not open yet,” says Finn, reading my mind.
“Ah, okay,” I answer, shifting from foot to foot as he punches in numbers on a keypad I hadn’t noticed.
There’s a soft beep and a click. The door swings open. Finn leads me through a dim hallway to another door. Equally nondescript. Another keypad, this time requiring a thumbprint. It takes seconds, then there’s a series of thunks as bolts snap away from their sockets. Finn pushes the heavy door open, revealing a narrow staircase framed by pristine white walls.
“This is…” I trail off, biting my lip on the words over the top. Because it isn’t. It’s exactly what we need.
Finn slants me a humored glance before he steps inside. “Members are fingerprinted these days. A few clicks on his keyboard, and Dominic can give limited access to the loft.”
I consider the implication, not sure how to feel about it. “You, uh, come here a lot?”
He chuckles, planting a kiss on my forehead. “Not in the way you’re thinking. I’ve been for drinks a few times. It’s actually my best friend, Gideon, who’s friends with the owners. I called him yesterday, and he called in a favor.”
I nod like that makes sense, while a funny tingle in my stomach reminds me how little I actually know about Finn. His likes and dislikes. Habits and aversions—aversions besides my family, that is. Does he like oysters? I hate them. Does he play sports—I’m not coordinated enough.
Are we even compatible? Do we have anything in common besides my family?
Finn, oblivious to my mental spiral, waves me inside. I wait as he closes the door and resets the keypad. Thunk thunk thunk. Immediately my anxious thoughts fade away, security melting the edges of the bone-deep stress I’ve carried since stepping foot inside my childhood home.
I’m safe here. No pretending. No overthinking. I can be myself for the first time in what feels like forever. And when we reach the top of the stairs and Finn flips on a light switch, my gratitude doubles.
“Wow,” I whisper.
“Right?” Finn agrees, tossing his wallet and keys on a sleek side table and heading for the open-concept kitchen. “Something to drink?”
“Yes, please.”
