Page 136 of Burning Ivy (The KORT)

I might not tell him this right away, but I saw the worry etching his face, the authentic strain and fear. Despite all the fuckery that has ensued the past six weeks, the sight of him hurting is agonizing. He’s already secured my forgiveness—at least in part. Maybe that makes me weak. And if he doesn’t show up for me, I might set his plane on fire. But if he holds out his arms, I can’t imagine not jumping at the chance to be his again.

His good girl.

His slut.

His wife and queen.

It’s nearly midnight. No one, other than Wells and Ryker, was on the jeweler’s security footage tonight. When Wells scurried back out after only three minutes, Ryker flicked those icy eyes up to the camera with a wink. Someday, I’ll find a way to thank him because the information I supplied has been more than paid for. I would have offered it for nothing.

As I’m snuggled up in the dark, munching on a plate of jalapeño Dorito nachos—Gage’s specialty—I decide to review the street surveillance, starting with the present, which is notably active. I haven’t paid much attention to that yet. People roam the streets—some draped in beads and some carrying tall, phallic-shaped cocktails with gigantic, swirling straws. Most seem to be headed in the direction of Bourbon Street. It’s more than a month before Mardi Gras, but the town is buzzing.

In the sea of chaos, it’s the bland and ordinary that beg my investigation. A black sedan with blacked-out windows is idling three blocks from the jeweler. After speaking with some riffraff, smoking a joint on the side of the road, two well-dressed women pile into the vehicle.

Two women I recognize.

Holy shit!

So many dots connect that my stomach creeps into my throat like an immigrant in desperate search of asylum. I have to remind myself that they’re ten hours away, not in front of me, not on the street below my window, as the computer screen makes it seem.

Whipping out a burner phone, I text Ryker the information so he can alert Wells. I wonder if that will keep him from coming for me.God, I hope not.As I’m lamenting over the idea that Wells might abandon his expedition to catch me and instead seek revenge on those who have been viciously hunting me like wild game, a news story scrolling across the home page of one of my laptops stabs me in the chest like a bolt of lightning. Breathless, I hit the play button to hear the familiar Ohio reporter deliver the story.

“We have just received reports that world-renownedneurosurgeon and beloved community icon of Royal Oaks, Ohio, Dr. Thomas Kingston, has died at the age of sixty-eight. Dr. Kingston suffered a stroke in April of last year, a devastation in the healthcare industry, where he set the pace and delivered happy outcomes on cases others wouldn’t even touch. Aside from the reeling in the medical community, the citizens of Royal Oaks have been mourning his suffering these past months, just as we will all be grieving his loss. The family is asking for discretion and privacy while they make arrangements but will be releasing a statement in the coming days.”

Jesus, Dad. Oh my God.

My hands shake so violently that it takes three attempts to dial my mother, who doesn’t answer, even after several tries. It’s a burner, but she knows I left. She’d be glued to her phone, awaiting my call.

That means one of two things.

She’s so distraught that she didn’t hear it ring.

Or this is a fake news story to lure me out of my hole.

It’s so fucked up that I have to think like that, and yet it’s a glimmer of hope that my screwy life may mean my father is still alive.

It could also mean the lunatics trying to kill me have my mom.

Fuck.

It takes me all of four minutes to pack my shit and get on the road.

WELLS

“Your girl sent a text,” Ryker says after I swipe the Answer button.

With my heart thrashing in my chest, I wipe the sweat from my brow bone, certain she’d only contact him if she was in trouble. “Go ahead.”

After a beat, he clears his throat.“Tell Wells Mordred is Deidre and Aunt Maureen.”

Another detail I didn’t realize Ivy knew—that her hits were ordered by someone who goes by the name of Mordred. I mull over the idea that it could be O’Reilly’s wife and half-sister conspiring together. They both have motive—kids who could’ve been considered for the seat. Although Deidre’s son isn’t blood relation so that would’ve been a stretch, and Maureen’s kids aren’t old enough. Plus, she’s born from O’Reilly’s mother with another man, not part of the O’Reilly bloodline, so again, a stretch. Still, we’ve considered this angle before, but with so many people in opposition to Ivy rising out of the shadows to seize the power, the list was long, and neither woman pulled ahead in suspicion. They’d be the closest to tasting the power and swallowing the bitterness of its loss though. It fits, and Ivy wouldn’t flippantly suggest it without a valid lead.

“That’s all?” I ask.

“Yep.” Ryker’s tone is curt, coated in a tension I find surprising. I’d say he’ssecond-guessing his decision to let her go, but that may be my own coloring of the situation.

“Got her number for me?”

“Texting it now,” he says.

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