Page 62 of The Pleasure of Panic

And isn’t it ironic that I was just thinking about how well I ghost and there he is? The man I walked out on eight years ago. The man I ran from.

The only man who knows who, and what, I really am.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - FINN

“Issy?” I ask. Because while I was talking about Declan being on TV with Caleb, she zoned out or something. “Issy?” I say again. But it’s like she doesn’t even hear me. She gets up, walks over to the big screen mounted above the fireplace, and just stares at the interview going on in front of the Capitol building.

“Issy?” I ask, walking over to her. “Are you OK?”

“What is this?” she asks, turning to look up at me.

“This?” I ask, looking at the TV. “I dunno,” I shrug. “An interview.” I read the ticker at the bottom of the screen out loud. “FBI joins forces with the Inmate Exoneration Project. Celebrating the release of Caleb Kelly after being incarcerated for—”

“Eight years,” she whispers. “Eight years.” She looks up at me, eyes wild. “They let him out?”

“Do you know him? Oh, man. That was the Caleb you mentioned last night, wasn’t it?”

Fuck.

“Holy shit,” she says, spinning around, grabbing her hair in confusion. “Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!”

“What?” I ask. “What the fuck is happening? Do you know him?” Which is a stupid question, because obviously she does. “Did he hurt you?”

She doesn’t need to answer. I see it all over her face.

“What did he do? Issy? What did he do to you? Is he the reason your background profile is so incomplete?”

She just looks at me. Then she says, “They said he was going away forever! They promised me!”

“Tell me what’s going on! How do you know him?”

But she just shakes her head. She turns away, walks to the bedroom, closes the door, and locks it behind her.

I turn back to the TV and try to figure out what the fuck is happening. Then I have my phone and I’m calling Declan. It goes right to voicemail, and for a second I think of course it does, he’s on TV. But it’s not live. There’s a little banner with the time stamp, and it’s from earlier this morning.

What the fuck?

The bedroom door opens, Issy appears—fully dressed in yesterday’s clothes—and says, “We need to find Jordan. Right. Now.”

“Why? Does he have something to do with this?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “But I need answers. I need to know what the fuck is going on. And I swear, Agent Murphy—”

Agent Murphy? I thought we were past that.

“—if you’re involved in this, if you were sent to distract me so I didn’t find out until it was too late—”

“Issy, you’re not being rational!”

“No?” she asks, pretty much hysterical. “No? Well, isn’t it interesting that you show up in my life the night before that asshole gets out of prison? Isn’t it weird that I was tied up all night fucking around with you while this was happening?”

“I’ve got nothing to do with any of that!”

“Really? Then why is your partner at the FBI standing next to him saying he’s a supporter? Huh? Answer me that.”

But I can’t. Because I don’t know. And it looks pretty fuckin’ bad because yeah. This has Finn is involved written all over it.

She walks to the door, but I grab her by the arm. Her hand is in throat-chop mode immediately, but I know that move now, so I duck. “You’re not going anywhere without me.”