One Good Reason (A Boston Love Story Book 3) (11 page)

“You know, it’s funny…” His arms cross over his chest. “I don’t hear you explaining.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.” My voice is soft. “He’s more like… my brother.”

Parker shakes his head, as if he doesn’t believe me. “Sure. Whatever you say.”

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“Zoe, that man is in love with you.” Parker runs a hand through his hair. “He may not like it, hell, he may not even know it — but he’s in love with you.”

“That’s not true.”

“Fine. Whatever.” He shakes his head. “But the other shit? You care to share how you know me? Because I’m pretty sure I asked you, point blank, if we’d ever met before, and you lied to my face.”

“I didn’t lie.” My chest feels tight. “I just… left some things out.”

“Such as?”

I
could
tell him — about Phoebe, about the mob, about the dank basement I found her in and how she sprinted beside me in her damn stilettos as we fled under the cover of darkness. How she’d called me her fairy godmother, nicknamed me
Tinkerbell
, and thanked me for saving her life when I left her alone on a strange street corner, with nothing but a burner phone.

Heroic? Not exactly.

I’m no hero.

At my core, I’m just a shitty person with some computer skills.

Sure, Phoebe thanked me in the moment… but she probably hates me, now that she’s had a few months to reflect on what happened. I may’ve gotten her out of that basement, but then I abandoned her. Walked away. I might as well have left her for dead on that corner.

I don’t want Parker to look at me like I’m a monster. I don’t want him to see that I’m not the girl he thinks I am. And even if by some chance he doesn’t think I’m terrible, telling him about my connection to Phoebe will just make this thing between us — whatever it is — even more complicated.

And then,
a small voice whispers.
When he sails his giant yacht off into the sunset in a few days or weeks or months… you’ll still be here. Alone. Empty. And, quite possibly, brokenhearted.

No. I can’t tell him. Can’t let him in any more than I’ve already done. Look what’s happened in the span of a single afternoon — he’s gotten me to strip out of more than just my clothes. He’s stripped away my defenses. Obliterated every barrier I’ve built around my heart.

So… a week with him? A month? A year?

He’ll take everything.

And I’ve spent far too long building myself up from nothing to let a guy walk into my life and reduce me back to rubble.

“Zoe?” Parker prompts, a pleading note in his voice.

I stay silent.

It’s for the best,
I assure myself.
This pain, right now, is nothing compared to what you’ll feel if you let yourself fall in love with this man.

Parker scoffs. “Know what, Zoe? Keep your secrets. Keep your walls up.” He shoots me a look that’s so disappointed, it breaks my heart. “I just hope you know, this life you’re living — it’s not worth shit if you live it alone. You call me a playboy, a man-child… maybe that’s true. But at least I
live
. At least I grab life by the throat and take it for all it’s worth. Can you say the same?”

He doesn’t wait for me to answer; he just turns and walks toward his bedroom.

“You got what you wanted,” he calls over one shoulder. “You can see yourself out.”

The sound of his door clicking closed cuts through me like a knife wound to the stomach. Ignoring the tears filling my eyes, I reach out and grab the flash drive off the table. Collecting my bag from the couch, I’m up the ladder and off the boat before I have a chance to do something stupid.

Like follow him into his bedroom and beg him to change his mind about me.

I
spend
a week moping around my apartment, tying up loose ends on a few freelance programming (read:
hacking
) jobs I’ve been working on the side for cash. Luca calls several times; I never answer.

Parker doesn’t call.

He doesn’t have my number, so it’s not like he could even if he wanted to.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

Still, there’s an ache of disappointment as I walk around my loft, staring out the windows at the snowflakes drifting down and feeling even emptier than usual.

When we were teenagers, still living at the group home some nights, sleeping in Luca’s car others, we often spent holidays at a local church. They’d always give out candy on Easter and Halloween and Christmas but I never ate any. At first, Luca just shoved my portion in his mouth without question, happy to have double. Eventually, though, he asked me why never ate my share.

I don’t want to know what I’m missing,
I always told him.
I don’t want to taste something once, see how good it is, and then spend the rest of my life wishing I could have it again. I’d rather stay in the dark.

That’s how it feels with Parker.

He’s chocolate, the most delectable candy, the most forbidden of desserts. And once I sampled him — not just kissed him, not just felt his hands on my skin… but experienced the way he made me
feel
, the freedom he inspired, the reckless hope he instilled inside my heart in the space of a single afternoon…

I crave more.

And it damn near kills me to know I’ll never get it.

I bury myself in work, praying the Lancaster Consolidated case will distract me from memories of his hot mouth, his big, callused hands, his thick, messy hair. It doesn’t — not remotely. But at least I have something to do instead of mope and eat all the chocolate peanut butter cups in my pantry.

After all the damn work I went through to get it back, it chafes to find there’s almost nothing of value on the flash drive. The only files of potential use are so heavily encrypted, even I can’t decode them. And that’s saying something.

Luca will be pissed — that means we have to get outside help. Probably from Knox Investigations or one of the other private firms in the city with a server big enough to run an algorithm program that can filter through the millions of possible password combinations until it finds the correct one to unlock the documents. My laptop’s small brain isn’t quite up to that challenge.

The only silver lining from my night spent as Cindy the cater-waiter is the fact that I managed to install my virus into the LC network before I got caught. The Clover. With each day that passes, the virus creeps a little further into their network, embeds itself a little deeper in the innermost workings of their computers. Reaching out in four directions, it then cloaks itself to blend in with the rest of their files — one tiny green blade, indiscernible from the zillion others in the field. My little emerald Trojan Horse.

It’s slow — painstakingly so — but I designed it that way on purpose. Any faster, a breach would be detected and I’d be up shit’s creek without a paddle. So, I sit on my hands and wait. And wait, and wait, until I’m practically pulling my hair out by the roots.

Day by day, my access increases. File by file, folder by folder, terminal by terminal, from the lower-level office where I planted my bug all the way up to Lancaster’s corner office. And the best part? It’s not just the documents saved to their hard drives.

With my virus, I can see emails. Inter-office chat windows.

Live
communications between Lancaster and whoever he’s doing business with.

Almost a week after we went sailing, I’m eating peanut butter cups while I scroll rapid-fire through LC emails so boring they make episodes of
Seventh Heaven
seem dramatic, searching for
anything
that’ll help prove financial misconduct, when my eyes catch on something interesting.

An email from Robert Lancaster to his Head of Security.

Linus,

The workers from the Lynn factory are striking outside the corporate offices tomorrow. Press will be all over it. Make sure there’s adequate coverage for staff to enter and exit, but don’t interfere. They can chant until they lose their voices, wave their little picket signs until their arms fall off; it won’t change my mind. I’m not re-opening.

That said, did you handle the clean-up we discussed at the factory site?

Did the final transfer go smoothly with Birkin?

Let me know. The last thing we need is to give the fuckers grounds for a class action suit.

Bert

Okay, first of all, what self-respecting CEO goes by
Bert
? That’s just wrong. And secondly, besides the fact that he’s a total dick-wad for not giving a crap about his former employees, there’s clearly something else going on with the Lynn factory closing down. Something more than just budget cuts or moving jobs overseas to save some company cash.

“I’m going to find out exactly what,” I mutter, hitting a button to print out a copy of his email. “And use it to pin you to the wall,
Bert
.”

N
ew England is known
for many things — big lobsters, good clam chowder, bad accents, great movies, old Pilgrims, fantastic sports teams, terrible drivers.

It is not, however, known for its predictable weather.

So, when I step off the commuter rail in downtown Lynn the next morning and find it’s nearly sixty-five degrees only a handful of days before Christmas, I’m pleasantly surprised but certainly not shocked.

I strip off my bulky sweater and tuck it into my bag as I make my way across a busy four-lane highway toward the waterfront. This area could be —
should be
— beautiful. A long stretch of coastline just north of Boston, Lynn abuts some of the wealthiest towns in the entire state. And yet, corporate greed and shortsighted planning turned paradise into parking lots and factories. There are no boardwalks or beaches, here. Instead, the waterfront is jammed with row after row of industrial warehouses, used car lots, tattoo parlors, fast food joints, and bowling alleys.

Lynn, Lynn, city of sin, you’ll never get out the way you came in.

Everyone raised around here knows the anthem. And it’s true — not just when it comes to driving routes, either. Living here changes people. Makes them a little more bleary-eyed when they look at the world and its possibilities. I don’t know if it’s the gangs or the drugs or the total lack of aesthetics, but the entire town is corroding like a metal lawn chair left out in the rain.

It doesn’t surprise me in the least to know one of the factories here belongs to Richard Lancaster. He’s exactly the type to take something beautiful and turn it to trash, just for the sake of lining his own pockets.

I cut down a side street, leaving behind the steady rush of commuters, and find myself abruptly alone. One block from the highway, there are no signs of life at all besides the occasional seagull waddling on webbed feet across the cracked asphalt. I’ve never been here before, so I’m not sure exactly where I’m headed, but I walk steadily toward the water, knowing I’ll bump into the factory eventually.

Out of nowhere, I feel a chill go up my spine — a razor-edged awareness that makes all the hairs on the back of my neck stand erect as soldiers preparing for battle. There’s no sound, no movement, nothing to indicate I’m being followed… but I can’t help myself from turning around to check anyway. My breathing resumes when I see there’s nothing trailing me except my shadow, elongated in the afternoon light.

You’re being ridiculous, Zoe. Who would bother to follow you all the way out here?

I shake off the strange sensation and keep going. A few minutes later, when I pass a sleeping homeless man curled on a concrete bench, I reach silently into my bag, so as not to disturb him, pull out all the bills in my wallet and shove them into his cup. I don’t bother to count them. He needs groceries more than I do this week.

I know from experience.

I’m breathing a bit heavier by the time I reach the water, warm from my quick-paced walk and the unusual weather. Craning my neck, I take in the sight of the closed LC factory, sitting like an aging beauty queen on the edge of the sound, her paint chipping in the elements, her front walkway riddled with trash. Most of the windows are boarded up. The parking lot is empty. It looks like it’s been closed far longer than three weeks.

I turn in a circle, surveying the entire property. There’s just…
nothing
here. The only movement is a plastic bag blowing in the wind, the only sound the faint whisper of waves crashing against nearby rocks. It looks desolate. Almost post-apocalyptic.

If the zombie apocalypse breaks out tomorrow, this will be ground fucking zero.

I try the front door and find — surprise, surprise — it’s bolted firmly. And it’s solid metal; there’s no way I’m getting in. A quick walk around the perimeter leads me past the rocky water’s edge, where garbage floats next to dead birds in the polluted water. All the windows I pass by are either too high to climb through or so thoroughly boarded up, I’d need a crow-bar to gain access.

I’ve almost given up hope of getting inside when I reach the litter-filled alley that runs along the back of the factory. I step around a discarded air conditioning unit, squeeze by a dumpster, and finally find a small back entrance, probably an emergency exit of some kind. It’s still half-boarded over, but some of the plywood panels have been yanked off. Even from ten feet away, I can see the metal lock was wrenched open with brute force, probably by squatters or graffiti artists looking for a few blank walls to vandalize.

Before I can talk myself out of it — or pay attention to the small voice in the back of my mind whispering,
“Um, maybe you should’ve forgiven Luca in time to bring him on this exploration, you idiot”
— I steady my shoulders, push the groaning metal door wide enough to pass through, and slip inside the building.

It’s dark.

Not just dark — pitch black.

I blink my eyes for at least thirty seconds, hoping like hell they’ll adjust. They don’t. Frustrated, I finally just yank out my phone and turn on the flashlight app. The first thing the beam of light catches is a huge rat, scurrying across the floor about ten feet away. It takes all my self-control not to curse at the top of my voice, but I’m not stupid enough to draw that much attention to myself. Not when I don’t know what else is lurking in the dark.

I don’t scare easily. With a past like mine, I suppose that’s a given. But being in places with no visibility, no way of knowing who else is breathing your air, watching you move… that’s one of the most terrifying things imaginable.

You never know who you’ll meet inside buildings like this. I learned early, in my time on the streets, abandoned places don’t stay that way for long. All manner of people find their way in — and they aren’t always friendly.

Rubbing the goose bumps from my arms, I force myself to walk further into the factory. Honestly, I don’t even know what I’m looking for. The deeper I get into the space, the more empty rooms I pass through, the more I begin to feel like I’m running a fool’s errand.

They made jet engines, here. Perfected aircraft systems for military and private use. Most of the equipment is gone, of course, sold at auction to other companies or shipped to another of Lancaster’s workshops in some distant part of the country. All that remains is the faint scent of oil, hanging in the air like a mechanic’s perfume.

There’s a fine layer of dust along the concrete floors — if I shine my narrow beam of light behind me, I can see my footprints like tracks through snow. No one else has been here in a while.

The thought bolsters me enough to keep going.

I pass through a room scattered with empty spray paint cans, the white walls tagged with various gang signs and puffy-lettered slogans whose meanings I can never seem to discern. The teens left their mark and vanished, nothing but cigarette butts and empty beer cans as evidence of their presence.

I’m about ready to give up this crazy crusade and turn back when I cross through a wide archway and find the main assembly line. It’s a cavernous room with staggeringly high ceilings — probably where they built the engines — and my pathetic little light barely illuminates the space around me. The dark seems to encroach from all sides. Shadows slither along the walls, the silence pushes back at me like a weight against my eardrums.

I’ve only made it a few steps inside when I spot them. Footprints, disturbing the dust coating the floor. I stifle a gasp as I make out the distinct shape of a man’s boots, their treads perfectly in tact. They look crisp, fresh — no dust dulling their edges or filling in their borders. It’s clear they’re recent.

Someone’s in here.

The panicked thought bursts into my mind without warning. I bite my lip and hold my breath, trying to regulate my racing heart. It’s no use panicking. If someone really
is
in here with me, they’ve already seen my flashlight. The damage is done.

You used to be a badass, Zoe Bloom. What happened?

Swallowing hard, I grip the phone tighter in my suddenly clammy fist and start to follow the boot prints across the room. They’re concentrated almost entirely in one area, around a wall of pipes on the far side of the room.

If I had to wager a guess — which I wouldn’t because I’m not a gambler — I’d say it’s some kind of cooling unit. Dealing with superheated steel, molding engine parts, they’d sure as hell need one in here, somewhere.

The room doesn’t look vandalized, like the graffitied space I was in earlier. In fact, the pipes are shiny silver steel, so bright they reflect my flashlight beams back at me when I approach. It’s the oddest thing… they look almost
new
compared to everything else in the crumbling factory.

In the email Lancaster sent to Linus, his Head of Security, he talked about
clean up
. I don’t know why but I get the unshakeable feeling that this, right here, is exactly what he was talking about.

I just don’t know what any of it
means
. Which really pisses me off.

Following the footprints, I see they lead from the pipes to a window. I peer through the foggy glass and make out the shape of a fire escape in the alley outside, its metal corroded with rust, its ladder crumbling from disuse. Just looking at it inspires the need for a tetanus shot.

With a careful sweep of my flashlight, I turn back to glare at the gleaming pipes, willing the answers I’m seeking to materialize like a genie from a bottle.

Think, Zoe. What the hell is so special about these fucking pipes?

I’m staring at a puzzle, holding the final piece in my hand, but no matter how long I look I can’t quite seem to figure out where the hell it goes.

My nonexistent knowledge of industrial factory equipment is exceedingly useless. So, eventually, I do the only thing I
can
do — snap a few pictures with my phone and high-tail it out of there before whoever was messing with the pipes comes back.

My pace is faster on my way out. I keep my legs moving and my eyes forward, suddenly desperate to be out of this place, out of this town, back in my safe, comfortable bed. I haven’t felt like this for years — this nervous, haunting nausea swirling in the pit of my stomach. Some innate instinct is telling me
run, go, quick! Get out of sight.

As though everything I’ve worked for could be snatched from my grip with a rogue gust of wind.

Feeling like that made sense when I was living on street corners. It makes almost no sense, now.

Still, I’m relieved when I burst through the back door into the light of day, blinking at the sudden brightness. I practically run through the alley and across the parking lot. I don’t look back until I hit the street, nearly out of sight – just a quick glance over my shoulder at the factory, silhouetted by the sun sinking over the water.

Every muscle in my body goes tense.

Someone is standing in the shadows at the mouth of the alley, watching me leave. I can’t see his face, but I know it’s a man from his clothing, his build, his height. I’d bet my ass he’s wearing size-nine boots with deep, dust-covered treads on his feet.

Maybe you’re wrong,
I tell myself.
Maybe he’s just a homeless guy. Maybe he’s a teenage graffiti artist. Maybe he’s doing something totally innocent in that alley, like conducting a drug deal or soliciting a prostitute. Just because he’s watching you
now
doesn’t mean he’s been watching you since you got here.

My reassurances fall flat. This guy isn’t some teenage derelict. He isn’t a dealer or a creepy cheating husband.

He works for Lancaster.

As I watch, he takes a few steps into the abandoned stretch of parking lot, closing a tiny bit of the distance between us.

It’s close enough.

I don’t stick around another second to see what he plans to do about my trespassing. I turn on one heel and bolt toward civilization, never stopping until my ass is planted firmly in a plastic train seat and I’m barreling back toward Boston.

T
he next night
, I’m sitting at my computer pouring over architectural plans of the LC factory I found on the flash drive, trying to figure out what those shiny pipes are — just like I’ve been doing since the moment I got back to my apartment — when the doorbell intercom buzzes.

I glance at my watch. It’s nearly midnight on a Thursday.

Who the fuck is at my door, at this hour?

Luca and I still aren’t speaking, so it can’t be him. Plus, he has his own key; he wouldn’t buzz up. And… I don’t have any other friends.

The buzzer goes again, more insistently.

Grumbling under my breath, I rise to my feet and cross to the intercom panel by my door. The small screen shows a blurry, black and white video feed of a man wearing some kind of uniform, holding a box.

“Who is it?”

“Delivery for Zoe Bloom.”

“I didn’t order anything.”

“The guy said to tell you it’s from
Blaze
.” The male voice sounds tired and somewhat nervous. “Listen, lady, he paid me double to deliver it tonight. And, to be totally honest, he’s not the kind of guy I want to have to disappoint with news I couldn’t make it happen.”

I snort, but I’m not exactly surprised. Luca has that effect on people.

“Fine,” I agree. “I’ll buzz you in. You can put the package in the elevator. I’ll call it up after you leave.”

I wasn’t born yesterday. I’m not about to let some random dude into my apartment in the middle of the night. In this old building, the elevator doors open straight into my living room. Yes, the keyed-panel system offers a layer of protection, but it’s not exactly the same as having a concierge guarding the door at all hours. And my neighbors aren’t the type to call the police if they hear a scream, what with the illegal pot farm the guys in the unit below mine are cultivating and the fake ID operation the lady on the first floor runs out of her living room.

By the time the elevator clangs to a stop on my floor, the delivery boy is long gone. When the doors slide open, I find a small, hot pink box labeled
Crumble
in curvy white letters sitting inside. I stare at it ominously.