Finally the lock gives way. I stow the key again and lead Merendsen up the wooden steps, shutting the door firmly behind him. The light’s on, but the room’s empty, no sign of Molly or any stock workers. Good.
I turn to face Merendsen again, but my explanations die on my lips. He doesn’t look at me the way Flynn did—he doesn’t see me covered in blood. He doesn’t look at me and see a murderer. He’s grinning at me, in that same way he used to when I screwed up in the field, when he was my captain a year ago—and suddenly it’s like no time has passed and nothing has changed. My mouth goes dry.
“All right, Lee.” His voice is soft, but firm. He has a way about him I’ve never managed to emulate, an ability to be confident, even stern, while still being pleasant and encouraging. “I’ve only got two days here—the military kicked up a fuss over a private auditor coming in with no warning, so that’s the limit. We have to work fast. Start at the beginning.”
I want to answer, but my throat is too tight, my mouth refusing to open. How can I begin to tell him how lost I am?
“Everything’s messed up, sir. Everything…” I drop my head, shutting my eyes and hating that he’s seeing me this undone. But then his hands come to rest on my shoulders, squeezing tight, and when I look up he’s gazing down at me, unwavering.
“Nothing we can’t fix,” he murmurs, words I’ve heard from him a thousand times.
I nod, not trusting my voice, and the lines of his face soften as he breaks every protocol we’ve ever known and draws me into a hug. He’s warm and solid, and smells a good sight better than anyone else on Avon, having not showered yet in badly filtered swamp water. I cling to him, trying to banish the thought of green eyes and pain, and the realization that his arms aren’t the ones I want around me.
I’m holding on so tightly that I don’t properly register the sound of the back door easing open. Merendsen does, though, and he lifts his head. An instant later he squeezes me, but this time it’s a warning. I pull back so I can look at the door.
It’s Flynn.
I freeze, going rigid in Merendsen’s arms, unable to speak.
“Can I help you, friend?” Merendsen’s voice is cheerful as he eases back from me, slowly enough not to arouse suspicion. Nothing to see here, his actions say.
Flynn doesn’t even look at him. His eyes are on me, his face devoid of emotion. He’s breathing hard, like he’s been running, but now his muscles are rigid and tense. He’s soaking wet, his hair dripping—his hair. I stare at him, suddenly noticing that in the days we’ve been apart he’s acquired a tan and that his dark curls are now bleached platinum and plastered to his head by water. He looks so different. He looks exactly the same.
My throat closes, my mouth going dry. I can see nothing in his face. No sign of forgiveness. No sign of revulsion. No sign of anything, except that he can’t seem to look away either.
A tiny sound breaks through to my brain—it’s no more than a scrape of fabric, but I’d know it anywhere. Merendsen’s pulled his gun out of its holster, slowly. When I jerk aside to look at him, his gaze is flickering between me and Flynn, his friendly smile gone.
“Stop,” I gasp, as though I’m the one who’s been running. “Don’t.”
Merendsen holds, though the gun doesn’t drop back into the holster. “What’s going on, Lee?” he asks, his voice low, demanding an answer.
But Flynn’s still ignoring him, as if he hasn’t even noticed we’re not alone. “Your note,” he manages. His voice is rough and broken, bearing the signs of whatever he’s faced since we parted. “I came.”
“I told you to wait,” I reply, my voice coming out sharp. Tense, like a taut wire.
The muscles stand out visibly along his jaw before he speaks. “Would you have waited?”
For that, I have no answer. Or rather, I do—but it’s not an answer that would help my argument.
Finally, Flynn’s eyes shift, and I realize he hadn’t missed Merendsen’s presence at all. His gaze is chilly at best as he looks over my former captain. “Sorry, friend,” he says, echoing the word Merendsen chose. “I was startled. Just shipped in. Looking for work.”
He can’t lie convincingly—not here, not now. “It’s okay,” I tell him. “Merendsen and I go way back. We can trust him.”
Flynn doesn’t answer, glancing from Merendsen to me, and it strikes me that Merendsen still looks like a soldier, despite the civvies. He stands like one, reacts like one. It’s impossible not to know he’s military.
Merendsen looks no more convinced than Flynn, eyeing him and taking in the bleached hair, the faux tan. The disguise works, and the fact that he looks ridiculous enough to brush aside is a good thing, but the desire to defend him from Merendsen’s unspoken judgment surges up anyway. I push it back down.
“Merendsen, this is Flynn. Flynn Cormac. Orla Cormac’s little brother.”