But more than that, I needed to understand why Killian was lying to us all.
So, I sent a message, grabbed what I needed, and left.
TWENTY-FOUR
Killian
The message was simple:a location and awe need to talkfrom Jamie.
The place he sent me to was an abandoned house, one of many left behind on a road littered with rusting signs for reinvestment opportunities. These had been family homes once—before an extension to the main road had sliced through the neighborhood like a blade. The man behind that decision had been dealt with by the Cave a long time ago, but it didn’t make the sight any less depressing. Mailboxes stood like gravestones. Porches sagged under the weight of years of neglect.
I parked down the block, out of sight, then walked the rest of the way. No sign of a car. No cameras. Just a chain-link fence bent out of shape and weedsreclaiming cracked concrete. I ducked under the broken fence and circled the house slowly. A two-story structure, old clapboard siding faded and peeling. The windows were boarded up in places, but the back door had been broken. I stepped through it into a kitchen that still held the ghost of a home—cabinet doors hanging open, a stove rusted into silence, the stale scent of rot beneath the dust.
“Jamie?” I called.
“In here,” he answered.
Just hearing his voice made my chest ease a little. I followed it, through to a front room that felt strangely intact. The floor groaned under my boots. Dust motes danced in the air, silver in the low light. And then, I saw him.
Jamie stood by the window, flicking his lighter open and closed. My gut clenched at the sight—something about the rhythm of it—too measured, too deliberate—set every nerve on edge. The tension in the room wasn’t only in the air—it was in him, tight and coiled, and now it was winding itself into me, too. The small flame reflected in his eyes and made shadows leap across his face. He looked tired—bone-deep tired—but still sexy as hell. Rumpled hoodie, loose jeans, one boot untied as if he’d thrown himself into this without stopping. His hair curled a little,damp maybe from sweat or mist. I couldn’t see the full blue of his eyes from here—ten feet between us and the only light came from the moon spilling through broken blinds, a flickering streetlamp beyond the cordoned-off road, and that damn lighter. But I could feel them. That bright blue, watching me, challenging me, hurting beneath the surface.
I swallowed hard. My body knew before my brain caught up—something was wrong. The air was too quiet.
“What’s wrong, Jamie?” I asked, voice low, already bracing for whatever storm he’d pulled me into.
Jamie kept flipping the lighter open and closed, the metallicclicka nervous rhythm. Then, without turning, he said, his voice eerily calm, “I should explain first that this entire room is rigged to burn.”
My heart stuttered at the matter-of-fact delivery, and for a second, the air around me felt thinner—too dry, too quiet—as though the house itself was holding its breath.
That stopped me.
“Huh?”
He glanced over his shoulder, eyes sharp now, watching me register the weight of what he’d said. “Not right now. Not by accident. I haven’t armedanything. But if I wanted to, I could turn this whole place into a bonfire in under fifteen seconds.”
I looked around, more carefully this time. Wires snaked up behind the moldy couch and along the baseboards. There was a faint chemical tang in the air, something sharp beneath the dust. I spotted the glint of copper wire coiled near a cracked outlet, a bundle of what looked like tubes behind an overturned chair.
“You’ve been busy,” I murmured.
Jamie shrugged. “If I needed to destroy everything, it’s all here. I rigged it using old ignition relays and a salvaged Arduino module. One push of a button, the spark arcs, magnesium ignites, and boom. All gone.”
His voice was calm. Too calm. That same eerie stillness he got when his emotions ran too deep to show.
“You planning on burning me?” I asked carefully.
The question felt ridiculous the moment it left my mouth—but it wasn’t. Not really. Not here; not with Jamie standing in the center of a fire trap he’d built himself. My throat felt tight. Was it fear? Guilt? Maybe both. “Burning us?”
That got a smile. Brief, brittle.
“Well, that depends on what you know about State of Nevada v. Zachary Hillway-Spencer. You know,the high-profile murder trial dismissed on a technicality involving mishandled evidence and a missing chain of custody report.” His words spilled out, but the name Zachary Hillway-Spencer was enough to send chills down my spine. It was inevitable that he’d find out what we’d done for Lassiter—I just wished he’d found out when I could control the narrative and be honest about my past dealings with him. Long after Lassiter was dealt with when it wouldn’t damn me in Jamie’s eyes.
“Jamie—”
“Stop talking. You need to know what kind of room we’re standing in before you talk to me. Because after you tell me all your truths, you won’t be able to pretend anymore. Not about you and Lassiter. And not about what you did. I trusted you, Killian. I let myself believe in you.”
I took a step closer, the boards groaning beneath me. “It’s not what you think.”
Jamie let out a sharp, humorless laugh, the sound cutting through the heavy air. “How did I know you’d say that?” he said, still not meeting my eyes. “You’d tell me anything right now to make it out of here alive, wouldn’t you? All the pretty lies that mean you can carry on hurting me—like none of this matters. LikeIdon’t matter.”
