There’s a bed, not unlike the one in his room, and a full bathroom. A sitting area has a sofa and, surprisingly, a television. A long L-shaped countertop, a hot plate, and a microwave make up the kitchen space. At the back are windows that look out onto the river, and they are tinted so dark, you can’t see through them from the outside. Guns hang in a perfect display on the east wall—handguns, rifles, shotguns.
And parked right in front of the garage bay door we entered through is a vintage Harley. It’s maybe 1960s or ’70s, and impeccably restored. It’s a beautiful robin’s-egg blue with black detailing, and it has eagle’s wings painted on the gas tank. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a more stunning bike.
I run my hand over the soft leather.
“Was this your dad’s?”
“My grandfather’s, actually.” I can hear the pride in his voice, and I wonder if he ever rides it.
The lighting in this space is soft, and the wall that houses the windows has a sleek black computer desk against it with three identical large monitors, a keyboard, and black mouse. The desk chair is leather and high backed, and is comfortably worn in. I can tell he’s spent many hours here. Beside the computer, the wall is covered in newspaper clippings about the war in Afghanistan.
A bookshelf holds plenty of books and photos of Aiden, his hair cut so short he’s barely recognizable. In one photo, he’s in gray and beige camouflage fatigues, holding a gun as big as thespan of his arms. Medals grace another wall, as well as more clippings and trinkets.
This place ishisspace. That’s why I never found anything personal in the house. This is a completely safe space where he can keep belongings that matter to him.
I turn to face him and narrow my eyes, unsure why he’s brought me here.
As if reading my mind, he grabs my hand and says, “This is a place where you will always be safe, and where the cell service is solid. If something isn’t right and I’m not around, you leave and come here. It’s your space now, just like it’s mine.”
As he walks me through adding my fingerprint to the security pad, I reach out and touch his arm. “Thank you for trusting me with this.”
“It’s not just for you, Mia. Knowing this space is here for you givesmepeace. It’s my job to protect you now.”
My chest tightens. For the first time, I feel like someone is taking care of me. It’s such a gift.
“This place is bulletproof, and despite its outward appearance, even a hurricane couldn’t take it down.”
I move slowly, touching things as I go. Looking at the pieces of him that I searched for in his house the first few days I was here. A photo of a woman holding him in her lap catches my eye. He looks to be maybe ten.
“Is this your mother?” I ask, already knowing the answer. They have the same hair color, the same steely blue eyes. My heart aches for the boy in the photo as I trace his smile with my finger.
He nods solemnly. “Yes.”
“How old were you when she died?” Something tells me he was young.
“Eleven.” Aiden sighs deeply.
“I’m so sorry, Aiden.” My heart aches with his grief.
“Wrong place, wrong time, and it was twenty years ago.” Aiden’s tone is gruff now, and I know that’s all he’s going to say on the subject.
“I know the risks of this life,” I assure him. “After my dad died, my mom just checked out. She met Craig and started traveling with him. He’s a long-haul trucker. But Nic and I needed her. Hell, even Mason needed her. Instead, Mason just took over for my dad, patching into the club. He never looked back.”
I move across to the food shelves as we talk, checking out the selection. Freeze-dried fruit and veggies, potato slices, emergency ration bars, coffee, sugar, wheat berries and a grinder. Peanut butter powder, rice, and it just goes on and on.
My eyes land on a collection of knives, and I look them over. Some are antique looking, some are hunting knives, and—I freeze dead in my tracks the moment I see it, and my stomach drops.
It can’t be.
I scramble past Aiden, all logic leaving my head. Forcing my eyes to refocus, I look more closely to prove I’m wrong, but by the time I reach the end of the shelf, it’s clear—the tungsten blade, the intricate black handle that looks exactly like mine…except for the tiny bumblebee on the handle.
The room sways. Questions and confusion punch me in the chest as I remember Dagger’s words:You really don’t know Aiden Foxx…
My head is swirling with what’s right in front of me.
My sister’s knife is in Aiden’s house?
I pull it down and flick it open faster than Aiden can react.Then I’m lunging at him, an animalistic growl leaving my throat.