Page 37 of A Trap So Flawless

And then his father killed himself.

And Darragh came home to find them both.

After everything he’s done, I shouldn’t feel guilty. But I look at the bag filled with thoughtful things that he would never dream of using for himself, and I do. I feel tiny and mean and unfair.

“Darragh,” I begin, my hand reaching for him. But his long legs have already brought him to the door.

“Let’s go,” he says. “I have shit to do today.”

Darragh’s “shit to do” involves visiting his grandfather’s house. Callum Gowan’s townhouse really is just down the street from the place he’s renting. The sky is slate grey, but luckily the rain holds off until we get there. This townhouse, though not dissimilar in layout from the place we’re staying, has a completely different vibe. Darker paint and wood dominates the space. Not a floral motif to be seen.

What is to be seen, though?

Another man. I startle at the sight of him, panic pricking in every nerve. Because Darragh’s grandfather was recently murdered, and what if someone has now come for us? But Darragh isn’t fazed. He nods and grunts a greeting at the huge man with the ginger beard and red ponytail.

“Rowan. This is Valentina.”

Rowan gives Darragh a bit of an odd look. Probably because he already knows exactly who I am. But points to Darragh for being somewhat polite, I guess.

“Hi,” I say, giving him a thin smile.

He nods at me, but doesn’t answer. Man of few words, I guess.

After all the time I’ve spent with Elio and Curse, I can’t say I’m not used to that.

When Rowan does speak again, it’s only to Darragh, and I have a feeling he’s being extra cryptic due to the audience. The audience being me.

“I finally got in.”

In where? Rowan doesn’t say. But tension enters Darragh’s frame at once. A current of energy drawing his spine straighter, his jaw tighter.

“We have some work to do in the office,” Darragh tells me. He hands me the bag of stuff from the drugstore. “You can do whatever you want until then.”

“Whatever I want?” I ask, raising my brows at him.

“You know what I mean. No crazy shit. You can watch TV. Have a shower. Take a nap. No rooms are off limits.” He takes my chin in his hand, forcing my face up to his. “But do not try to leave this house without me. I will know. And I will come for you.”

“Please,” I mutter, smacking his hand away from my face. His touch leaves an echo of heat behind. “Where would I go? What would I even do? We still haven’t even gone to get my bag.”

I once again forgot to remind him after the drugstore, and by the time I remembered, we were already nearly here.

“I’ve got new clothes coming to the house for you today.” His eyes narrow to suspicious slits. “What are you so concerned about getting your bag back for?”

Because that ring is in it, I want to scream, and it’s probably worth fifty fucking grand!

“Your passport,” he suddenly growls, even though that thought hadn’t even crossed my mind, “isn’t going to do you any good now. I think I’ve already made that pretty clear.”

“Crystal,” I bite out. I squeeze the bag in my hands, feeling the thin plastic scrunch as I flounce angrily away.

As Rowan and Darragh close themselves off in Callum’s office, I find myself in the kitchen. It’s simple, small, and clean, with charcoal-grey stone floors and butcher block countertops. I still haven’t eaten, unless you count the sky-high sugar content in that awful coffee drink. I’m not feeling any nauseating effects of the contraceptive yet, but I figure that making sure there’s something in my stomach before that happens is probably a good idea.

I open cupboards and the fridge. There isn’t much, but I do find a package of something called biscuits that look like what I would call cookies. I pause as I open the box, wondering if this is… well, weird. Standing in the kitchen of Darragh Gowan’s dead grandfather and casually eating his food.

But it’s got to be better than standing in the kitchen of Salvatore Di Mauro’s dead wife. So I shrug and take a cookie – biscuit – from the box. It’s not half-bad. Gingery and sweet. Which makes me snort, remembering Darragh’s deadpan comment earlier that he thinks ginger tastes like ass. Unfortunately, that snort makes a tiny chunk of biscuit go straight to the back of my throat, and I immediately begin to cough violently, hacking away until tears gather in my eyes.

Somewhere in the house, a door slams open. The rapid-fire thunder of running footsteps gets louder and louder until Darragh is before me, his body blurred by my watery gaze.

“What is it?” he asks, quick and urgent. “What the fuck are you choking on?” Suddenly, his face is right in front of mine, his hands caging in the sides of my jaw. “If I have to perform the Heimlich on you again, Valentina, so help me God…”

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