Page 85 of The Truths that Deceive

“Dakota was saved by my friend, Orion, and we destroyed as much of the group as possible, but I have a vested interest in taking down whoever is left. I want to fucking bring down every last motherfucker. Did… did they…” Shit. I push the words out, even though they taste like shit on my tongue. “Touch you? Hurt you? Is that why you’re so interested in finding them?”

She shakes her head. “My mother.”

The words punch hard because so much makes sense to me now.

“I want…” She pauses, her fingers clenched into tight balls. “My brother and I don’t know who our father is, but I’ve got suspicions. Henry doesn’t care, but I do. Mom was groomed at fifteen, then got knocked up, had us, and…”

“Calista.”

Her eyes cloud over. “After my mom had us,hegot her back in with him, then in with others in his group. I think they were the Collectors. I don’t know that much about them; there isn’t much in the CIA databases. I found more on the dark web about them, and… and the trafficking.” She nods at me. “Way worse than that, too. But this man… he… he dabbled with people marked as members of the Collectors. And I want him dead.”

Things fall into place with alarming speed.

“According to my research, he’s dead, but…”

Fuck. I try and tell myself not to get involved. But the words come before I can bite them back.

“Who is he, this supposedly dead, but maybe not dead guy? I have contacts.”

“Jon Trenton.”

Something in my chest tightens. I know the name but I stay silent.

“I… I saw an article about his wife opening a center in Manhattan. And I looked him up, dug into things. He’s supposedly dead but he has accounts, secret accounts that only have his name as the owner. Trenton is the only person who can access them. His wife can’t claim them, not without some kind of a legal blowup.”

I shrug and keep my face neutral because the name, there’s something about it that’s familiar. Maybe because I read about the disgraced businessman’s death. How he was broke at the time of his death, his business had crumbled around him. “I read that he was dead.”

“People fake shit, you know that.”

“I do.”

“If he’s linked to the Collectors, then…” She breathes in. “We’re looking for the same thing. Th-that’s what the Estonian thing was, a contact/hacker who supposedly had information. But I don’t know what. I never got that far.”

This is a way in. So I leave it where it is and don’t push. Not because I care, but because too much can break someone. So instead, I let it lie.

For now.

We listen to the music, and out of the corner of my eye, as I gather her closer, I can see a man come in and stand near the bar.

He’s generic.

And he’s not looking in our direction. He’s also not paying attention to the music, either.

He’s here for us.

I lean down into her and kiss her ear. She makes things in my chest sing as she raises her head, lips on offer.

The dynamic between us is as thrilling as the chase. It’s softness and submission, sharp bites and soothing purrs, innocence and carefully crafted moves.

“Someone’s watching.”

I order another round of drinks. More people will be in soon as the music changes for the late-night coked and boozed-up crowd.

“We wait?”

“Until the scene changes.”

“Seems like,” she says, “that’s happening now.”

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