Page 82 of Cross My Heart

“It’s a little late for loyalty, don’t you think?” I exclaim, frustrated. I’m so close to a breakthrough here, and if I could talk to a real-life member… “Your source didn’t protect you from losing everything, having your name dragged through the mud. Everyone called you a liar. Why didn’t you say who was feeding you information?”

“Because I don’t know who it was!” Jamie finally admits. “They were anonymous. I got a note in my mailbox one day, saying they had information about the society. They would leave messages for me, behind the counter at this greasy café in the market that nobody ever went to,” he continues. “Harry’s, it was called. They sent all the information, about the initiation rituals, members… Even that photo, the one of Cyrus and all his powerful pals.”

“And you never knew who it was?” I ask, my hopes sinking. “Not a name, or a clue?”

He shakes his head. “I tried staking out the place, fancied myself a real detective,” he says wryly. “But I never figured it out. If it was one of the members themselves, who wanted to expose the group for some reason. Or someone who got close, who didn’t think anyone would believe them. Either way, it didn’t work. My story didn’t make one jot of difference, to any of them. They’re too powerful already,” he says grimly. “Above scandal, above suspicion. Even above the law.”

I feel a shiver again. Because Jamie’s story hadn’t contained anything really shocking—just the confirmation that the society existed. And still, they destroyed his life, as punishment for that one tiny truth.

And as a warning to anyone else who might be tempted to go public.

“Now it’s my turn to ask you a question,” Jamie says, sizing me up. “Why are you digging around in all of this? What’s Blackthorn to you?”

I pause. “I think my sister may have been caught up in it, somehow.” I say carefully. “She studied here, a year ago, and… Something happened to her. I found out she was looking into secret societies at Oxford, and all the signs point to the Blackthorn Society being involved.”

“What does she say?” Jamie asks, finishing his lunch.

“She died,” I reply quietly. “That’s why I came here, to find out more. I’ve been asking a lot of questions and last night…” I pause and swallow hard around the lump in my throat. “Last night, I was attacked. A guy in a mask, he warned me to stop digging around into Blackthorn.”

Jamie looks concerned. “Maybe you should. There’s no guessing how far these people will go.”

I shake my head stubbornly. “I can’t stop. I won’t.”

My determination must show, because he balls up his trash, and tosses it in the dumpster. “I could ask around…” He says, getting a new spark in his eyes. “Go over some of my old notes, see if anything jumps out.”

“Would you?” I ask, hopeful. “That would be great.”

“Send me the information about your sister,” he adds, and I can already see the journalistic wheels spinning in his mind. “Where she studied, what dates… But be careful,” he warns me, serious. “Unravelling these people’s secrets is a dangerous thing. You should know, you’re asking for trouble.”

“I know,” I reply grimly. “But I’ve come this far. There’s no turning back.”

* * *

By the timeI make it back to my apartment, I’m feeling exhausted and drained. The stakes of this investigation were always high, but things just escalated to a whole new level.

‘There’s no guessing how far these people will go…’ Jamie’s words echo as I unlock the door, and head straight for my bedroom, flopping down on my quilt with a sigh.

Except it’s not there.

I sit up, confused, to find my room has been stripped bare. No clothes tossed over the back of the chair, or hanging in the wardrobe, no study books piled on the desk. My laptop is gone, and all my makeup and toiletries, too.

Have we been robbed?

I rush into the living room, but it looks normal. Nothing out of place. I check my roommates’ bedrooms, too, but there’s nothing missing.

Only my things are gone.

Saint.

I realize in an instant what’s happened here. He took my stuff. The bastard just packed up all my things and moved them out, without a single word.

Motherfucker.

I grab my jacket, and storm out, heading straight over to his townhouse to hammer on the door.

Saint opens it immediately, barefoot and shirtless, wearing just a pair of washed-out jeans. Lust rolls through me at the sight of him—but my anger burns even hotter.

“Asshole,” I scowl, jabbing my finger at his chest.

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