Page 17 of The Secrets We Share

He spent years keeping tabs on her without her knowledge. All that time she spent on the streets, couch hopping, and working dead-end jobs just to afford a shitty apartment. And yet he did nothing but sit back in his little fortress, ruling his criminal empire. It was only when she disappeared from under his nose and his other daughter ran out of options that he came knocking.

There’s more to it than just Keira’s niece being sick—if that were the case, there’d be no need for all the theatrics. The real issue is something Keira won’t agree to. Over time, he’s learned enough about her and how she thinks, having watched from the shadows, to know that he’ll have to force it on her.

My fear… that key is me.

I pull my wandering thoughts back to the video when the man speaks again. “Mr. Greyson, it seems some of our contracts aren’t being fulfilled to the specifications you and our boss agreed on. Mr. Morelli isn’t feelin’ too confident in your services any longer.”

Well, that answers that.

“Lo”—a wet, hacking cough cuts my father’s rebuttal in half—“okay, I didn’t tell him anything. I haven’t spoken to Harkin in months. I don’t know where he is!”

The muted light in the room glints off a small object in the stranger’s hand. He brings it up to the hook holding my father’s hands above his head and slides it over a finger. Within seconds, a blood-curdling scream rips through the computer as I watch my father’s finger drop on to his chest and roll off to the floor, disappearing somewhere out of frame. Blood streams down his arm from what’s left of the nub on his finger. His screams turn into groans of pain as he fights to maintain consciousness.

“Let’s me rephrase my question. Maybe that’ll help jog your memory. I mean, I could do this all night. We still have nineteen more tries,” he says with the most nonchalance I’ve ever heard come out of a person. “Where’s Domenico’s daughter and that boy of yours?”

The man looks down and notices my father’s head lolling forward. I doubt he even heard his question. My father’s a businessman. I’m sure he got into his fair share of fist fights in his younger years, but I doubt he’s throwing punches down at the golf course. Which is his idea of a workout these days.This amount of pain is on a level my father would never fathom having to deal with outside of a freak accident. It’s no wonder he’s given in to his body’s coping mechanisms.

Mr. Snippy pulls the handkerchief from his pocket, then takes his sweet time folding it in half, just to shove it forcefully onto wound. The contact brings my father back to, his body jolting at the new stream of pain.

“And he’s back with us.”

“Please… stop. I don’t know anything.”

“You see, that’s just not something I can go back and tell my boss. I need information and you’re going to give me something one way or another, Mr. Greyson.”

The cutter comes down on the next finger and off pops another digit, joining its friend on the floor. My experience in torture is limited, but his plan seems flawed if information is the end goal. How is someone supposed to answer your incessant questions if they’re constantly passing out from the pain you're doling. It’s like he hears my thoughts, because he reties the handkerchief around both and steps away.

My father is out cold now, his body hanging limp. I fast forward through the rest of the thirty-minute video, but the shot doesn’t change, and it eventually clicks off.

“Fuck,” I draw out, wiping my hand down my face over the trimmed stubble Keira wouldn’t let me get rid of.

Exiting from the video, I’m surprised to see the encrypted email made it into the secure system I built for his company. Then again, they’ve probably always had access to him this way. If anything, it’s protected their conversations from being leaked to his higher ups and the press.

Random coordinates 40.816951, -73.9177496 are all that’s in the email message. I pop them into the search engine in two clicks I have the location. Back to New York I go.

NINE

KEIRA

Trouble - Valerie Broussard

Harkin left for California twenty-four hours ago, and I’m already scratching at the walls to get out of the house. It’s one thing to be locked away in a cabin in the middle of nowhere, but being tucked away in suburbia makes my skin crawl. Something about the constant noise of cars speeding by, kids screaming in their backyards, and lawn equipment going at all hours of the day sets me on edge. It’s far from the sounds of the city my brain is accustomed to sleep through.

Stacey and James invited me to stay with them while Harkin is away, but they’re right down the street if I need them. At least, that’s the excuse I gave Harkin when he demanded I stay with them until he was back. I love my best friend, but her situationship isn’t something I want to butt in on.

“Cinder,” I call through the house. “Let’s go for a run, my sweet girl,” I tell her when she pads down the hall, stopping before me.

She hates clipping into her harness and lead after months of being off-leash in the woods. Her breed likes to wander, but her recall is astounding. That doesn’t matter here when the town has leash laws. She hates to be chained, and I know the feeling all too well.

The lead clicks around my waist, and I pop my headphone in, syncing it to my phone in case Harkin calls, and open my music app. Spotify’s Daylist refreshes and pops up with the titleEuphoric Art Deco Early Morning.I go with it and start at a slow warm-up pace.

The quaint houses pass by as we make our way toward the center of the small town about two and a half miles away. There’s a dog-friendly coffee shop I pinpointed during our first couple of days here. Harkin didn’t seem to think there’d be an issue with us going out, but he reminded me to keep my name to myself and our reason for being here ambiguous.

I slow our speed as we approach the shop and wipe the sweat from my face with my sweatshirt before peeling it over my head and tying it around my waist. Instead of a drive-thru, which doesn’t seem necessary in this place, they have an outside walk-up window surrounded by outdoor furniture to enjoy your coffee.

“Hi, what can I get for you?” the barista asks, too cheerful for seven a.m. in my opinion.

“Iced vanilla Americano with a splash of cream. Thanks.” I pay and usher Cinder over to the dog water fountain.

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