Without a second thought, I closed my fist around the key and bolted out the front door, staring over my shoulder at the house. I kept my eyes glued to the windows on the top floor, but nothing moved. Still, I couldn't shake the goosebumps that rose on the back of my neck. I felt someone's eyes on me as I fumbled with the key and finally unlocked the car.

I peeled out of the driveway like a bat out of hell, driving ten over the residential speed limit until I reached the first intersection and realized I had no idea where I was going and no phone to use for navigation.

I tried to remember the route Donovan had taken last night. A right here? So I needed to go left.

I did my best to retrace our path, but I still had to pull over and ask directions. As I turned into the lot of Ciar's garage, everything came rushing back. The echo of the speeding car's impact sent another wave of soreness between my shoulder blades. Everything had happened so fast; one second I was taking a picture, the next death was hurtling toward me.

The picture. My camera. I'd left it here last night.

I threw the car door open and jogged into the garage. If I wasn't so fucked up, I might have laughed; I hadn't touched that camera in years, and suddenly I felt naked without it.

Now, it was just another rung on my insanity ladder.

Besides, who knew what Ciar would do with it if he found it. Probably toss it. It was a nice camera—expensive—and I didn't want to have to buy another one. That was all. It wasn't some psychological symbol of a life long past. It wasn't a desperate wish that things could go back to the way they were before.

I didn't remember removing it from my neck, but then again I also didn't remember the whole journey out into the parking lot. I walked a lap of the garage, scanning the tables and shelves, but nothing stood out among the tools.

"Excuse me?" I shouted, hoping someone was in the office at the back. "Hello?"

No answer. At the whoosh of a car passing by outside, I whipped my head around, for a second imagining that the intruder at Donovan's house had followed me. With a shiver, I half-wished Ciar was here, just so I wouldn't have to be murdered alone.

Shuffling to the office, I shaded my eyes from the glare of the lights overhead and pressed my face to the glass. It was dark inside, but as I squinted through the window, I saw it on the end of the desk.

My camera was in there.

I jiggled the knob, but it refused to turn. I wished I'd worn my hair in a more sophisticated style last night. Something with bobby pins. Or that Ciar hadn't taken my keys from me; Tilda's safety pin might have done the trick. But I was stuck rattling the knob uselessly and wondering how cathartic it would be to punch the window, even though I knew I couldn't break it.

Plus, that would be considered a crime. Clarissa had made it abundantly clear that working with the FBI didn't give me immunity.

Damn Clarissa. I wished she hadn't found me last night. Or staring off into the horizon on I-95, for that matter. She didn't even know yet that someone had tried to kill me. That was how little I trusted her. So far she'd only used me and narc'd on me for buying alcohol, which was perfectly legal.

The crunch of tires outside made me swing around, but I didn't step away from the door fast enough. The 70s muscle car that always seemed to be in the lot swung up to the front of the garage, and I met Ciar Cosgrave's eyes through the windshield.

For a moment, he just sat there. I thought I saw his mouth tighten, his lips thinning as they pressed together, but the glare on the windshield left me uncertain. The car's engine idled as I considered running, but he still had my car, my keys, and my camera. Basically my entire life at this point.

And it was better than confronting some creepy stalker who'd followed me all the way across town.

Then I froze, staring at him through the windshield. What if he was the one in the house? He knew Donovan had picked me up last night, and he was probably nosy enough to wonder if he'd taken me back to his house. What didn't make sense was why he cared so much, unless he had a habit of killing his brother's blonde bedfellows.

Finally, he shut the engine off and slid out, shoving his hands into his pockets as he slowly made his way inside. He tilted his head as he stared at me, his white shirt as clean as I'd ever seen it and his hair still damp from what I hoped was a shower. It glistened in almost-black waves atop his head.

"Whatcha doing?" he asked, as if he already knew the answer.

I swallowed my panic. "My camera is in there."

"I know. I put it in there after you disappeared last night."

I pinched my lips shut. In the silence, his eyes flicked up and down me once, and I fought the urge to pull Tilda's skirt further down my thighs.

He let out a soft breath, almost a snort but not quite. "You spent the night at Donovan's place, then?"

A mislead, or had he really not known? Heat scorched my cheeks. "Not the way you think," I said quietly.

"Uh huh, and what way is that?"

No way was I answering that. My ears burned as the mere thought of it swelled between us. He assumed I'd slept with Donovan, and maybe what I had done wasn't much better, but it also wasn't any of his business.

"Give me my camera," I said, trying to keep my voice as even as possible.

If he noticed a tremor, he didn't say it. He only took two steps closer, leaving only inches between us so that I had to crane my neck to look up at him. There was nothing in his eyes that revealed his intentions. My heart hammered in my chest as I waited for him to grab me by the throat or pull out a knife.

He tilted his head to the side, his gaze traveling downward. I only realized he was eyeing the skirt when his hand darted to the slit along my left thigh and tugged.

"You should be careful with those," he said.

I slapped his hand away, and then for good measure I kneed him in the gut. Hard. With a grunt, he stumbled back a step.

"Give me the camera. And my house key, while you're at it." I folded my arms and watched him bend over, satisfaction licking at the walls of my stomach. I smirked, finally looking down at him like he'd looked down on me since we'd met.

But when he straightened, still hugging an arm to his torso, he was grinning, too. It was a frightening thing, one that never made it beyond his mouth. His eyes remained steely, dead. If they were the windows to his soul, nothing lived back there.

"C'mon, Flash," he said, and I bristled at the stupid nickname. "No secrets here."

I glared at him. I hoped the accidental picture I'd blinded him with was horrible. I hoped he was making an embarrassing face. I hoped I could frame it and hang it up on the walls of some fancy gallery so everybody could stop and point and laugh.

"You know what, just give me the car keys, too. I'll take it to Beantown Body."

He raised his eyebrows. "Shit, is that where you took it the first time? You know they probably ripped you off, right?"

"Well whose fault is that?" I snapped. "You know, you don't have to be such an asshole about helping. I could have been your sister-in-law."

He froze. Too late, I realized the second way those words could be taken. As the smile slid off his face, it was almost worth the embarrassment. Almost.

"Could've." He reached for a pair of overalls hanging on the wall behind me, and I backed away. "I don't live in theoreticals."

I folded my arms and cinched them tight around myself. "Give. Me. My. Things."

"You know what? I'll make you a deal. I'll give you your things, if you give me mine."

I scowled. "Is that some crude euphemism?"

His snort echoed off the walls. "You wish. Just give back what you took, Maisye."

"I didn't take anything!" This guy had balls of steel. Every time we spoke, he was accusing me of some new ridiculous thing, and he never believed my defenses. What had I ever done to make myself so fundamentally untrustworthy in his eyes?

"Right." He nodded. "Then your camera's not in that office and I've never seen your house keys."

"Then I guess I'll just have to spend the night with Donovan again," I shot back.

He laughed. "You think I care? He can have you. God knows you deserve each other."

What was that supposed to mean?

He seemed to think our conversation was over, because he turned away. Fuming, I stared at the bulge in his right front pocket as he shifted. Lumpy, jagged...a lot like a set of keys.

I grabbed Ciar's wrist, catching him off guard enough that my yank on his arm pulled him off balance. He flailed backwards, slamming into the door just as I pressed my hands against his chest. For a moment we stood like that, only inches apart, both breathing hard in our frustration. For once, he seemed at a loss for words.

"Maisye, what the hell are you...?"

I answered by plunging my hand into his pocket. His whole body tensed, muscles coiling like a cat ready to pounce.

Or like a mustang ready to run.

An unsteady breath left his mouth, brushing my ear.

I ignored it, seizing the keys and jerking them free. Dangling them from my finger, I held out my hand as I stepped away, a proud grin tugging at my lips.

"You don't even know which one opens the office." His eyes were still just a hair wider than usual, his breaths slightly off-kilter, his feet placed far enough apart that he looked like a drunk man searching for balance.

"I don't need to." I gave the keys another jingle and took a step back for good measure. "I can't use them, you can't use them. I hope you didn't have paperwork to do today."

"Fuck." His tongue darted out to moisten his lips. "Fuck, fine! You can have your stuff. Just give me the damn keys."

I tilted my head, gave him a sweet smile, and threw them at his chest.

Hard.