Logan (The Kings of Brighton Book 2) Read online

  Great. Congratulations. Now re-lock the door, go home and leave him alone like he asked you too.

  Nope.

  Not gonna happen.

  Turning the knob, I push the door open just enough to see inside. Past the small entryway I can see the living room with its large, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the bay and posh mini bar, tucked into the corner.

  It looks exactly how it looked the last time I was in here. Tobias’s sleek leather couch still faces the windows. Matching chairs still sit in front of them, facing the couch and the kitchen behind it. Between them is the same coffee table. Directly in front of me, the same built in entertainment center with the same monster-sized flatscreen.

  Nothing’s changed.

  No sign of Logan anywhere.

  Confusion pulls me through the door and has me shutting it with a quiet click. “Logan?” I call out, forcing myself to raise my voice above a whisper. “Logan, are you here?”

  Silence takes over for confusion, pulling me through the entryway and into the living room. Even though I know what I’ll find, I look to my left, at the large gourmet kitchen tucked under the upper-level loft space.

  It’s tidy.

  Not so much as a spoon out of place.

  Between the kitchen and the living room is a short hallway leading toward the guest bath were Noah and I changed into the swimsuits we kept hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Beyond that, the door to the master bedroom stands at half-mast, showing me the king-sized bed, its sheets rumpled and pillows mashed from use.

  So far, the only sign of life.

  “Logan…” I try again, pushing myself past the guest bath, toward the bedroom, because maybe he’s in the shower. It’s almost noon. I know he doesn’t have to be to work until later this evening but maybe he just woke up. Maybe… careful not to touch the door, I lean in and listen.

  No shower.

  Like the living room and kitchen, the bedroom is empty and, except for the unmade bed, looks exactly how it did when Tobias lived here. Scanning the room, I realize what I’m doing. I’m looking for something, anything that belongs to Logan. A secret. Something private. Something that will give me some sort of insight into who he’s become. Opening the drawer on his nightstand, I find it.

  Condoms.

  Hundreds of them. On top of them is a note. Heart pounding in my chest, I pull it out and flip it open.

  Cap’n—

  Every Boy Scout should be prepared -

  Congrats on the new place.

  Con

  Cap’n is what his family calls Patrick—I never really figured out why. He lived here briefly, before Tobias moved in. Con must be Conner. I don’t know him that well but a drawerful of condoms seems like something he’d find to be a perfectly acceptable housewarming gift.

  Feeling like I’ve learned entirely too much about my boss and wondering how I’m going to manage to look him in the eye at work tomorrow, I shut the drawer and look around.

  There’s a photograph tucked into the framed mirror that hangs above the dresser. It’s of four teenage boys—Logan and his brothers—standing in front of a tall, dingy white building that looks like a hospital.

  Brighton.

  They have their arms slung around each other’s shoulders, linked together and grinning at the camera, happy despite their circumstances.

  Calling myself an obsessive, invasive asshole, I back away from the dresser before spinning around to force myself back the way I’d come. Through the living room and past the kitchen, I’m determined to leave. To respect Logan’s privacy and to stop being an asshole, but I don’t make it past the staircase that leads to the loft above the kitchen. Mounting the stairs, I already know Logan isn’t up here, he would’ve caught me snooping and called the cops by now, but I make the climb anyway, because there’s obsessive and invasive and then there’s what I’ve become when it comes to Logan Bright.

  A full-blown stalker.

  Perched on the landing, I look around the room and see Logan everywhere. A long, heavy table that looks like it was hijacked from one of Tobias’s conference rooms, buried under computers. Laptops and monitors. Hard drives in wire cages. Wires and cables linking them all together. Above the table, the wall is covered in papers. Maps with colored pushpins stuck in them. String wound around their heads and strung between them. Photographs with faces circled in fat, red marker.

  All of them are of women.

  On the chair pulled away from the desk is a single manilla folder.

  Because I don’t seem to know how to learn a lesson, I’m in the chair with the file, open, in my lap before I can say really bad idea. Flipping the folder open, I feel the first squeeze of apprehension in my gut.

  It’s full of papers. There’s an old rental agreement for a rent-by-the-week in Illinois. What looks like arrest records. Rehab admission notes. A job application for a Wawa in Philadelphia dated 2015. Another application—this one dated last year for tuition assistance for a trade school offering a dental assistant program. And there’re photos.

  A lot of photos.

  Screen grabs from what looks like surveillance and traffic cams. DMV photos. Mugshots.

  Flipping through them, I feel the apprehension in my gut cinch tighter and tighter.

  They’re all of the same woman.

  Abagail Reid.

  “Seriously?”

  Startled, I let out a yelp and bobble the file, letting it tumble out of my lap, its contents fluttering every which way before scattering across the floor.

  Logan is standing at the top of the stairs, not more than ten feet from me.

  He does not look happy.

  Twenty-Six

  Logan

  The plan was to grab a quick shower before heading to my appointment. I have a little more than an hour before I needed to be there, and even though the conversation with Silver took a little longer than I anticipated, I still have time.

  The plan changed the second I reached for my doorknob and realized the door was already open, cracked just enough for me to catch the sliver of light that’s pouring through the living room windows because I haven’t quite masters the automatic blinds.

  Standing on my own doorstep, I peer through the crack, looking for movement. Listening for sounds from inside the apartment.

  Because whoever opened this door is still inside.

  They have to be.

  I’ve been gone less than fifteen minutes and if someone had just left, I would’ve run into them in the halls.

  Using my shoulder to ease the door open, I keep watching and listening. Crossing the threshold, I push the door closed, and cross the entryway to stand at the foot of the stairs, leading to the loft.

  That’s when I hear it.

  Papers rustling upstairs.

  Climbing the stairs slowly, I expected to find a stranger. One of my father’s minions who, deciding that simply sliding a letter under my door wasn’t harassment enough, hatched the bright idea to break in, in hopes of finding some juicy tidbit of information about my life that they could take back to him.

  Mounting the last step, I’m prepared for that. I’m prepared to confront a total stranger.

  Stopping short on the landing, I find myself face-to-face with the last person I’m prepared to find snooping around my apartment.

  Jane.

  Perched on the end of my computer chair, bare knees pressed together and peeking out from under the hem of a pale blue summer dress that skims the rounded bend of them. She’s looking at something, head bent over her lap. Her loose, golden-brown hair creating a curtain that hides her face from view, but it’s her. I know it’s her because as soon as I see her, my body responds to the sight of her almost instantly. Tenses and relaxes, all at once, like it can’t decide what it wants to do with her.

  Or to her.

  “Seriously?”

  As soon as I say it, her head snaps up, soft green eyes wide and she yelps like I just popped her on the nose with a rolled-up newspap
er. Still staring at her, I watch as the file she’s reading slips out of her hands and the information I spent more hours than I’d like to think about digging up, spill and scatter across the floor.

  “I—” She tears her gaze away from mine, shaking her head to watch photographs and applications, bits and pieces of Abigail Reid’s life, swirl and scatter around the room. “I just—”

  “Decided to stop by and welcome me to the building?” Even though I know that it’s better to keep my distance, something I’ve asked her to do about a dozen times, I step off the landing and into the loft. Keep coming until I’m standing over her, not more than a few feet away. “And then commit a little B&E when you realize I’m not home? Snoop through my stuff.”

  “What?” Even though it’s exactly what she did, Jane looks up at me like I’m completely crazy. “No.” She shakes her head again, face pale. Slipping from her seat, Jane kneels in front of me, head bent while she frantically reaches and scrapes at the floor, trying to collect the papers scattered there between us. “I have a key. I just—”

  This time I don’t finish her sentence for her because her hands are shaking and there’s a tremble in her voice I’ve never heard before. Because she’s on her knees in front of me and she’s afraid and even though I’ve done my level best to scare the shit out of her since the moment I met her, I don’t like the way knowing that makes me feel.

  “Stop.”

  When she doesn’t, when she just keeps rambling about keys and swimming suits and for some reason, Noah, I reach down and lock a hand around her upper arm and haul her off the floor as gently as I can. “I said stop,” I tell her, depositing her in the chair she just vacated.

  Kneeling in her place, I make short work of the mess, picking up the empty file so I can gather the scatter of papers into it. I expect her to bolt while I’m occupied. While my hands are busy and can’t make a grab for her. While I’m distracted and can’t stop her. I expect her to run, down the stairs and out the door, because she’s finally terrified. Has finally come to her senses where I’m concerned. Did I say I don’t like the way it feels? Well, scratch that.

  I hate it.

  I fucking hate it.

  “How’s your finger?” I ask quietly, trying to find something normal and non-threatening to talk about.

  “My finger?” She says it like she has no idea what I’m talking about. Like she doesn’t even know what fingers are, let alone whether or not she actually has any. Lifting a hand off her lap, she holds it up to show me the Hello Kitty! bandage wrapped around her pointer. “Still attached.”

  Because I don’t know what else to say, I make a sound in the back of my throat and nod while I hold the folder out between us and jiggle it a little, signaling her to drop the handful of papers she’s clutching into it. When she does, I close it and slap it onto the table. Looking at it, the computers with their flashing screens, running the multitude of illegal search programs I have installed on them, I let my gaze drifts upward to settle on the wall above them. Let myself see what she sees. Maps and color-coded pushpins. Pictures of women, their faces circled in angry, red ink.

  A crazy serial killer wall.

  Shit.

  Still hunkered in front of it, I shift my gaze back to the chair, half-expecting it to be empty. I expect Jane to be gone and I expect to never see her again.

  She’s still here.

  Still sitting in the chair I put her in.

  Wide eyes still staring at me.

  Still scared, but still here.

  And I can’t decide if I’m angry or relieved about that.

  Probably a bit of both.

  “You can leave, Jane,” I say, even though I’m pretty sure I might stop her if she tried. “I’m not keeping you here. I’m not—”

  My father.

  Shit.

  Lifting a hand to my face, I raise my glasses to give it a rough swipe. “You should go.” Settling my glasses back into place, I sigh. “It’s okay,” I tell her, even though it’s not. None of this is even remotely okay. “Just leave. I won’t stop you.”

  “I can’t.” She gnaws on her bottom lip for a second, brow furrowed like she’s trying to figure out what she means by that, same as I am. “I mean… I came here to talk to you about my mom—I needed to talk to you and I thought you were in here and avoiding me so I used the key Tobias gave me when he lived here, so I could take Noah swimming last summer but you weren’t downstairs so I came up here and—” She takes a deep breath, before running out of steam, her gaze shifting from my face to the insanity I have tacked to the wall above the table.

  “Found my crazy serial killer wall.” I force myself to say it out loud, to acknowledge what it looks like.

  Instead of rambling on again about not knowing what I’m talking about, Jane simply nods.

  At least she’s honest.

  Her gaze shifts away from mine again, this time aimed at the jumbled mess of papers stuck in the folder before finding mine again. “Who is she?” she asks because she can’t seem to stop herself. “Abigail Reid—who is she?”

  Telling myself I don’t have time to explain, that I’m already going to be late, I make a rash decision—the only kind I seem capable of making when it comes to Jane Halstead. “If you want to know, you’ll have to come with me to find out.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Jane

  I’m curious.

  That’s why I’m here. Why I followed him out the door and got into Tobias’s Land Rover with him when he told me that if I wanted to know who Abigail Reid was that I’d have to come with him.

  I’m curious.

  And stupid.

  And probably a little crazy.

  When it comes to Logan Bright, it’s probably not a probably. It’s a definitely.

  I’m definitely a little crazy when it comes to him.

  “What about your mom?” He says without looking at me, ice-blue gaze aimed at the road and the lunch hour traffic that clogs it.

  “What?” I’m lost in thought. Wondering where we’re going. What’s going to happen when we get there. We’ve been driving for about twenty minutes now and he still hasn’t told me. Hasn’t offered any kind of explanation about either and I haven’t asked.

  Okay, so probably more than a little crazy.

  “You said you needed to talk to me about your mom,” he reminds me, jaw set at a tense angle. “That that’s why you broke into my apartment.”

  “I didn’t break in,” I fire back defensively. “I have a key.”

  “Which you used to enter into my apartment without my consent.” He aims that ice-blue glare in my direction for a moment, daring me to argue with him. “Your mom—is she okay?” he asks, before looking away again, the look on his face softening with genuine concern.

  “Yeah—yes, she’s fine.” I nod quickly, watching him closely. “Just wondering if she’s going to be disbarred now that you know what I did.”

  “Why would she be worried about that,” he asks, confusion replacing concern.

  “Because she broke client/attorney privilege when she discussed your case with me and now that you know…” I give him a helpless shrug and fall on my sword. “It wasn’t her fault. I was the one who messed up. I’m the one you should blame, not her, so if you want to punish someone, it should be me.”

  His brow furrows and his mouth flattens into a frown as comprehension dawns. “She’s worried that I’m going to get her in trouble for something you did when we were kids?” he asks, trying to make sense out of what I’m saying. When all I do is nod like an idiot, he sighs. “She doesn’t have to be. I would never do that to your mom. She’s the only person who believed in me. The reason I got a chance outside the system—I’d never do that to her. She has my word.”

  I believed in you.

  Instead of saying it out loud and making a complete ass of myself, I just nod again. “Okay,” I say to the passenger side window. I recognize the neighborhood. We’re near Gilroy’s and I hope that’s whe
re we’re going because it’s a familiar and public place. “I’ll let her know.”

  “Is that it?” he asks, his tone laced with something that sounds a lot like apprehension. “Is that all that’s going on with her? I mean—” His face folds into another frown. “No one else has tried to contact her about me or shown up at her house or work?”

  He dashes my hopes that we’re headed to Gilroy’s by cruising past it and through the light. “No,” I tell him, the question makes me think of the letter I read from his father. “Just you.”

  “Good.” Logan visible relaxes, letting out a soft sigh of relief. “Tell her if someone does, that she needs to let you know and then you need to tell me, okay?” He makes a left into a crowded parking lot and pulls into one of three parking space marked reserved. We’re at Benny’s. I’ve picked up take-out here once or twice for Patrick and Declan but have never eaten here myself. Shifting into park, Logan kills the engine before turning is his seat to look at me. “Okay?” he repeats himself when I don’t answer him and there’s no denying the urgency in his tone, the sound of it all but confirming that whatever his concerns are about my mom, they center around his father.

  “Okay.” I nod again, fast and tight. “Yes—if someone contacts her about you, she has to tell me and I’ll tell you. I’ll let her know.” I aim a look over my shoulder, at the restaurant behind me. “What are we doing here?” I ask, my curiosity finally getting the better of me.

  “You said you wanted to know who Abbey Reid is,” he reminds me, opening the center console to retrieve the file folder he stowed there, before unsnapping his seatbelt and popping the driver’s side door open.

  “Is she in there?” I ask, following suit, before opening my car door so I can get out.

  He shakes his head, the expression on his face unreadable as he reaches for my hand. “No,” he tells me as he laces his fingers between mine and leads me across the parking lot.

  Twenty-Eight