Page 77 of My Fallen Saint

“Yeah,” I say, looking over at where he sits reading to a group of preschoolers. “I will.”

“Today was great,” I tell him as we’re heading back to the room to change for dinner with Anna and some of the other staffers. “Talking with everybody, meeting Stacy, all of that will make a difference with the article.”

“There’s more I can show you. Hell, you could write a whole series of articles.”

My brows lift. “Trying to get me to stay, Mr. Saint?”

His face, which had been animated, turns to stone, and I immediately regret the quip. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest—”

He takes a breath. “I’m worried about the other article. The story you’re doing about Peter.”

“Oh.” I pause as we turn into the elevator bank. “Why?”

He takes my elbow and steers me to the elevator, which has just arrived. We step onto the empty car, and as soon as the doors close, he says, “You need to stay clear of that world, Ellie. Those people, they’re vile. I saw what it did to Peter being around the edges of that organization. I ran, remember? These are not people that you want to mess with.”

I turn his words over in my head, trying to understand exactly what’s bothering him. But I don’t get it. “I’m not messing with anybody. I’m not on the edges. I’m a reporter, remember? I report. I write stories.”

“This isn’t a story you should chase. I don’t know how to say it more simply than that.”

“But you’re not making any sense,” I say as the elevator glides to a stop. Our conversation does, too, as there is a couple waiting to get on. I wait until we’re in our room, then continue. “Daniel Lopez is dead. The Wolf is gone. His organization doesn’t exist any longer. What kind of danger could I possibly be in?”

He pauses inside the door, then presses his fingertips to his temple. “You don’t understand how long the tentacles of these organizations are. And like worms, they don’t necessarily die when you slice them in two. Daniel Lopez might be dead, but his minions are still running around, trying to get that organization up and running again. You step in and stir that pot, and you’re going to wake the hornets.”

I frown and move toward the kitchen, then grab a sparkling water from the fridge. “I think there were about a thousand mixed metaphors in what you just said.”

“Ellie, please.” He’s come up behind me, and he presses a hand to my shoulder. “I’m not joking. I need you to take this seriously.”

The pleading tone in his voice actually gets to me, and I turn to look at him. His expression is as serious as his tone, and I nod. “Okay. I promise. I’m taking it seriously. But that doesn’t mean I’m giving it up.”

His shoulders rise and fall as he sighs. “Listen, I know that you’re going to do what you’re going to do. I know you’ve got that fire in your gut that sends you chasing after injustice and exposing bad people. And believe me, I know why. But please understand that organizations like this never die. Someone will want to protect their reputation, and you’ll end up in the crosshairs.”

I step back, then lean against the counter and take a sip before I answer. “Do you think that’s a deterrent to someone like me? My father was killed because someone aimed a gun at him. My uncle, too. I became a cop anyway. And now I’m a reporter. A solid one, Devlin. In five years, I’m going to have a reputation for writing articles that blow the lid off some seriously criminal operations. And you’re trying to scare me with crosshairs? Fuck that.”

“I’m not trying to scare you. I’m trying to give you perspective.”

“You’re worried I don’t understand the risks,” I say. “But I do.”

He takes a step toward me. “Understand? Bullshit. I think you like the risk. I think you get off on it.”

I actually laugh. “Oh, please. So what? So what if that’s the fire that makes me do my job well?”

“So what?” he repeats, his voice hard and harsh as he reaches out and clutches my upper arm. “Because, dammit, I don’t want—”

He releases me suddenly, taking a step back with a hard, sharp, “Fuck.”

“What?”

I watch as he takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to see you hurt,” he finally says.

He slowly meets my eyes, and what I see there makes my chest ache with both longing and loss. I swallow, then lick my lips. “I’m careful,” I tell him. “But I’m also curious. And I’m going to do my job.”

“What you are is stubborn.”

I smile. “That, too.”

He drags his fingers through his hair, and I step forward, then run my hand over his jaw. He catches it and holds it in place.

“I don’t think I’ve told you,” I say, my voice breathy. “I like this. Your beard. Your hair. The way it looks. The way it feels.”