Page 18 of Crown of Smoke

"Promise me you'll drop it."

I stay silent, unable to make that promise. The truth about the Keans is too important. And if I’m honest with myself, my own ego is at play. This is a story that could make my career.

"I'm okay, really," I tell Kate, keeping my voice steady. "I’m a tough cookie. Remember when I defended myself from Tommy Peterson in eighth grade?"

"This isn't like that, Lucy. You're not twelve anymore, and these aren't playground scrapes."

I sink deeper into my couch, pulling my knees to my chest. "I know what I'm doing. This story could make my career."

"Your career won't matter if you're dead." Kate's voice cracks. "Mom and Dad didn't put you through journalism school so you could get yourself killed chasing dangerous stories."

"They put me through school so I could make a difference." I hate that I have to defend my life, my choices. Kate is normally so supportive. All my family has been. I get that this story is dangerous, but some of the greatest stories have involved risk. "Mom always said the truth matters more than anything."

"Mom was talking about telling her when we broke her favorite vase, not investigating murderers."

"But that's exactly what journalism is supposed to be about, exposing the truth, no matter how ugly. Someone needs to stand up to these people."

Kate sighs, and I can picture her looking up, asking God for strength or to strike sense into me. “You’re willing to risk your life for this? What happens to the story if they succeed in silencing you? Your work will be in vain. Lucy, please. There are other stories. Safer ones."

"But none that matter as much." I glance at my research notes, thinking of all the families destroyed by the Keans.

She’s quiet for a long moment. "At least promise me you'll be more careful?"

"I promise." And I mean it, even if our definitions of careful might differ. "No more dark alleys."

"Lucy?"

"I should go. Love you, Sis."

I hang up before she can protest further. I've never backed down from a story before. I'm not about to start now. It’s not that I’m insensitive to her concerns. My sister means well, but she doesn't understand. This story isn't just about making headlines anymore. It's about justice. Justice for the community, for all the people who suffer at the Keans’ hands. Even justice for the Ifrinns.

Opening my laptop, I pull up the Kean Holdings Company’s website. Ronan Kean's profile stares back at me, his perfect smile and expensive suit screaming old money and privilege, even though Hampton started as a bagman for the Ifrinn family. As Hampton Kean's heir apparent, he's the public face of their legitimate enterprises.

Maybe it’s time to stop lurking in the shadows. Perhaps it’s time to go to the source. I change out of my jeans and old college T-shirt into a simple navy dress. I check that I have my press credentials and head out.

I drive downtown to the Kean Holdings building, practicing the questions I want to ask. Of course, it won’t be “did you kill the Ifrinns?” or “How much do you launder through your clubs?” I can be subtle. My sense of Ronan Kean is that he’s vain and boastful. He’ll want to tell me about all his successes. He’ll lie, of course, but if I can get him talking, I’ll be getting information I can fact check.

As I come up to the building, I see Ronan exit the building. His tailored suit has to be worth more than my monthly rent. He's still relatively young, only twenty-five, but he carries himself with the entitled confidence obscenely wealthy and powerful people do. Two men in dark suits flank him as he strides toward a waiting black SUV.

“Where are you off to?”

I slow down, waiting for his vehicle to pull out. I follow him at a safe distance, glad that Boston traffic forces them to move slowly. We wind through the financial district knowing this is the behavior that both Kate and Flynn have warned me about. I know what I’m doing. Well, sort of.

The SUV turns onto a quieter street lined with high-end boutiques. I hang back, letting two cars slide between us. Ronan's vehicle stops outside an exclusive menswear store. Through my windshield, I watch him step out, waving off his security detail. They remain with the car while he disappears inside.

I park around the corner trying to decide my next move. Trying to talk to him at his tailor may not be the best idea. He’ll be distracted. Unless, of course, I praise his good looks and sense of style.

A moment later, he steps out, so maybe he wasn’t there for a fitting. I make a note to find out who owns the shop to find out whether they’re an associate or a victim of the Keans.

Ronan gets in the SUV, which then veers away from the boutique district, heading toward the industrial outskirts. Red flags wave in my mind as we pass beneath a broken streetlight. The buildings grow more decrepit, graffiti spreading across brick walls.

The sun is dipping lower in the afternoon sky, casting long, eerie shadows between buildings. It makes me think of slasher or horror movies. The kind where you yell at the screen telling the silly woman to turn back. Don’t go in there.

The smart thing would be to turn around, head back to my safe little apartment, write some fluff piece about local business success stories. My fingers flex then regrip the steering wheel as I steel my resolve. I can’t let fear keep me from doing what I think is right.

"Just a little longer," I tell myself, keeping three car lengths between us. "See where he goes, snap a few photos, then leave."

The SUV slows near a loading dock, and I kill my headlights, easing to a stop behind a rusted shipping container. My heart pounds so loudly, I swear it echoes in the empty street. This is exactly the kind of place where people disappear.

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