Page 67 of Sins and Secrets

Soon, I’ve got my stuff, but I’m not in a hurry to leave. I have to clear my head first.

I walk outside. Fortunately, it's one of those cold days where it doesn’t feel as cold as the weather app says it is. There’s no wind, and that makes everything more tolerable.

The lake has a path and a smattering of evergreen bushes. I start walking toward a boathouse at the other end of the trail. It’s in need of attention. Fresh paint, and a stone front to match the path would be nice. Christmas lights around the trees and shrubs are still on, but it’s hard to see them in the afternoon light. The whole thing is really lovely. A deck wraps around that hotel steps down to a patio. It has a long forgotten Great Gatsby vibe to it.

Hmm, it wouldn’t take much to fix. Even the boat house could be restored and would make a perfect backdrop for wedding pictures.

On the other end of the lake, there’s a light through the woods. What’s back there? The woods are thick enough it’s hard to tell, but once I make it to the other side, I notice another path. It’s not overgrown and is clearly used. Old branches pull at my coat, trying to keep me out, but it only spurs me forward.

There, in the clearing, sits a stone cottage right out of a Thomas Kincade painting. It’s a cottagecore fangirl’s dream come true. The door is a thick, aged wood. The windows have been retrofitted but have a custom overlay to blend into the house’s design as much as possible. The hotel owner’s house.

One word screams in my brain.

Home.

This is where I’m meant to be.

And whatever fog I’ve been living in lifts.

I rush back to the hotel where my purse and a slice of cake wait for me at the front desk. The brunch is still happening and I kinda don’t care. I settle in the café, order tea to warm my hands, and get to work.

It would be easier with my laptop instead of my phone, but I don’t really want to leave, not while I can answer the questions I need right here. I take pictures of everything and furiously write ideas and concepts. It’s like every idea I’ve ever had opened up and dumped on the paper. After my brainstorm-turned-hurricane, the clouds part and I see the full scope of my plan… and it could work.

Lukas sends me a checking in text and I reply,“I have an idea I’d like to run past you.”

He video chats as soon as he can find a quiet place,and I give him my sales pitch. He’s quiet for a moment, his brows furrowed as he taps his finger to his lips before he says, “I think it’s perfect.” He dips his head. “I’m not sure how I can help you, but I will.”

A sense of warmth and happiness that has been absent from my life for years encompasses me. It’s the way only he can make me feel. Maybe it’s because I finally see a path forward.

ChapterTwenty-Eight

Lukas

My back hurtsfrom all the flash tats I did in a few hours and my shoulders are tighter than a teacher’s last nerve on the Friday before break. Waverly and I talked mostly while I was supposed to be eating lunch. She was so excited about her new life plan.

I wish I was there in person to see the excitement on her face. The phone isn’t enough. I want her in my arms. Only a few more days, and then I’m home with her.

The ugly flower design on the hallway carpet makes me dizzy as I trudge toward my room. My bag slides down my arm as I fight with my hotel key—yellow light, yellow light, finally green. I push the door with my shoulder, and my bag drops to the floor with an echoing thud in the quiet space. Two more steps in, and I flick on the lights.

To find that I am not alone.

Four middle-aged men sit around my hotel room, looking like they’ve been plucked straight out of a mob movie, but if it was set entirely during a backyard barbecue. There’s a Latino man, his white shirt rolled up to his elbows revealing faded black tattoos snaking up his forearms. He glares at me from the armchair next to the air conditioner, which is noisily clunking away. A light-haired Eastern European man is sitting across from him, not bothering to pry his attention from his phone, leaning against the desk. I recognize the music and sound effects coming from it. He’s on level seventy-nine of Ice Cream Bubble Pop Princess—I beat that level three weeks ago. A smaller man in a black suit, no less intimidating despite his size, leans against the window, casting a long shadow across the room. The final man—the one commanding the most attention— stands in the center of the room in gray pants and a navy-blue button-down shirt. His hair is graying at the roots, and instead of giving him a frail effect, it actually intensifies the ominous glower on his face.

“Who are you?” I bellow. When I receive no response, I follow up with the ever-popular, “How did you get in here?”

The Eastern European man huffs a little, but the others give no verbal answer. The men communicate through a series of eye glances and subtle hand gestures before the man on my bed finally speaks. “I’d like to know what your intentions are with my daughter?”

My stomach drops. “Mr. McCleod?” Then it clicks. These men are the leaders of the Four Families. The heads of four major crime families are crammed into my hotel room, and all I can think is, did I remember to pick up my underwear off the bathroom floor. I left the do not disturb sign up for a reason.

“Do you do this to everyone who’s interested in Waverly?” I ask.

Mr. Mcleod stands and squares off with me. “None of the others broke my little girl’s heart like you did.” He rolls his shoulders back and steps into my space, his cologne overpowering the faint scent of old men in the room. “No one else thought it would be a good idea to have a secret relationship with her since she was a teenager, either.”

“H-how did you know?” Did Waverly tell him? That Uri guy? Was I being followed?

Mr. Mcleod narrows his eyes. “I noticed it back when Wave was seventeen. Every summer in the beginning of June, she would break up with whoever she was talking to and spend every weekend at Angie’s house. At first, I didn’t think much of it, until I sawyouwere doing the same thing.”

I repeat the only relevant question: “How?”

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