As Donovan disappeared into the darkness, Ciar turned to me.

"Well, you heard him," he said, nodding back toward the party.

I folded my arms, keeping my bare feet anchored in the grass. No way. I was not going anywhere with Ciar Cosgrave.

"What, you take orders from him now?" I asked.

"It's not an order, it's a favor." He grabbed me by the wrist and tugged.

"At least let me grab my shoes," I grouched, wrenching myself out of his grip to retrieve them. Not that he tried very hard to hold on.

"They're not your shoes."

With a huff, I stomped after him back toward the house, holding the shoes in one hand. We skirted the edges of the writhing mass of bodies, my bare feet feeling the sting of rough gravel and then asphalt as we neared the driveway.

Ciar led me across the street, to where his ancient Mustang sat at the curb. I stood stupidly on the sidewalk as he got in the driver's side and reached across to pop the lock on my side.

When I didn't open the door, he did it for me, pushing it out as hard as he could. He stared at me, eyebrows raised.

"Why are you doing this?" I asked.

"Because my brother asked me to," he said. "Get in."

I frowned down at him for a few seconds, then threw my shoes inside, plopped myself down beside him and shut the door.

"Seat belt," he said as the engine rumbled to life. It sounded like a bucket of bolts waiting to fall apart.

"Nothing's going to make me feel safe in your damn 1970s—"

"'69, actually," he said proudly.

"Of course."

I sighed, reaching for the tongue of my seat belt, but as I started to pull it up, something pierced the skin of my index finger.

"Ouch!"

Cursing, I shook out my hand and glared daggers at Ciar.

"Oh, yeah. Belt's broken on that side. The stopper fell off. The pin must've come undone. Just close it back up."

Cautiously, I reached for the belt again. Stuck into the thick webbing was a safety pin, sprung open and waiting to maim innocent passengers. Not that passengers in Ciar's car were probably ever innocent, but still.

It was obviously meant to keep the tongue from falling the whole way down between the seat and the door, but right then I wouldn't have minded being unable to find the damn thing over it drawing my blood.

With a huff, I clipped the pin back together and shoved the seat belt in place.

"What happened to your McLaren, anyway?" I asked as he pulled away from the curb.

"Sold it."

"Why?"

He looked at me like it was the dumbest question I could have asked, then turned back to the road. "That's what I do. Buy and sell sports cars. Make a lot of money, too."

The Instagram photos. Of course. They were his cars—for a short time, anyway. It all fit, except one thing. "And you work at a sketchy repair shop that's seen much better days, while owning...what, like one outfit that doesn't smell like motor oil?"

I expected him to fling a swift comeback in my direction, but he just stared out the windshield, his jaw settling. I rolled my shoulders and turned away, watching the houses flash past on the right side of the road.

"Maybe you should sell this car," I said, unwilling to let him ignore me.

"Maybe you should sell yours," he threw back, giving in. "Might be better if you didn't have it, seeing as you keep bringing it back to my sketchy garage for repairs."

"That's not my fault."

He leaned his head back against the headrest. "Mhm. Did you ever find where you hid that starter relay?"

I shot daggers at him with my eyes, but he didn't bother to look at me, and glaring at his profile wasn't nearly as satisfying as doing it head-on.

"Look, is it really that hard to believe?" I exclaimed. "After everything? I almost got run over. Someone slashed the tires of the car I borrowed from Donovan—"

"—Tillie's car—"

"—and someone broke into his place," I finished, ignoring him.

"Wait, what?"

"Yeah. I keep hearing someone in that house. Not him," I added, because I knew he'd try to make me look stupid. "And did you know there's a locked door in there? It's not the master bedroom. I heard someone in there, I swear. What is this, some Jane Eyre shit?"

"Maisye," Ciar said, his voice cutting through my tirade like a hot knife, "no one is locked in that room."

I fell silent, watching him as he focused intently on the road. "Do you know what's in there?"

"Yeah, I do. And if Donovan hasn't told you about it..." He propped his elbow on the window and dropped his head into his hand, rubbing his temples. "Well, maybe he has some fucking sense."

If it wasn't for the comically loud engine, silence would have deafened us. Told me about what? Why would he be sensible to keep me out of it? Then again, Ciar was probably just happy there was any part of Donovan's life at all that I was in the dark about.

With a bump, we pulled into my driveway, and he cut the engine. The sudden quiet rang in my ears, and I fought the urge to clap my hands over them.

"Why do you hate me?" I finally asked.

He sighed, sinking deeper into his seat. Rolling my eyes, I unsnapped my seat belt and popped the door open.

"I know that's what you think it is," he said, stopping me halfway out of the car. His voice was so quiet that I couldn't be sure I'd heard correctly.

I hovered there, half in and half out, waiting. The asphalt dug into one of my bare feet while the other scraped against the floor mat inside.

"You know what, maybe you're right." He threw his hands up, his demeanor shifting in the blink of an eye. That hard outer shell was back, throwing up walls to trap me behind. "Maybe I hate you. Yeah, that's the truth. Seems about right."

I didn't move as he convinced himself, his words tumbling over each other in haste as he hurtled toward what he wanted to hear.

"I haven't even done anything to you," I mumbled when he had finished.

I spent what felt like an eternity there; my legs had begun to ache when I gave up, pulling myself the rest of the way out of the car.

"Maybe not." He still refused to look at me, focused straight ahead out the windshield. "But I know how this goes."

How what went? Was he really blaming me for something Tilda had done? That didn't seem fair, or realistic. The Tilda I knew wasn't some malicious bitch, and being cagey about it wasn't going to change my mind. And he didn't get to dangle Donovan's mysterious locked room in front of me and not shed some light on it.

I slammed the door hard enough that the Mustang rocked from side to side. Then I stalked up to my apartment, almost accumulating several splinters in the process.

Great. My shoes were still in his car.

No way was I going back out there. I slammed my front door closed and glared at the kitchen, with its stupid lopsided floor and bubble-ridden fake wood laminate.

As I fumed silently, the camera on the counter caught my eye. Without a second thought, I seized it and stomped back to the door. Shoving my feet into a pair of sneakers, I yanked the door open.

Ciar stood right there, fist raised to knock.

"Stalker," I blurted.

His eyes flicked skyward. "You forgot your shoes." He held them out to me.

"They're not mine," I snapped, just to be contrarian, because he was an ass.

With half a shrug, he pulled them back out of my reach. "I'll just give them back to Donovan then."

Dick.

He raised an eyebrow, taking me in from head to toe—camera clutched in both hands, feet only half in my sneakers with the heels folded under my feet. "Going somewhere already?"

"None of your business." I pushed past him, leaving the door hanging wide open. I didn't even care anymore past the trembling, lightheaded anger.

Absolute fucking dick.

"Hey!"

He grabbed my wrist and swung me around. I growled, a wordless, feral sound that made him jerk away but not let go.

"What is wrong with you?" he asked. "It's one in the morning. Where the hell are you going?"

"Let go of me or I'll scream."

He did. A silent request for penance flickered like a dying candle across his eyes, but as soon as I blinked, it was gone.

"Where are you going?" he repeated, more gently this time.

"Why do you care?"

"Because I remember what happened the last time I caught you going mysterious places in the dark."

The crunch of metal echoed in my memory, along with the slam of my own car into my shoulder blades. I was lucky that night. Not that he found me, but that my reflexes were fast enough.

I didn't need him to come rescue me. I hadn't asked for that.

I started to turn away.

"Wait."

I froze without knowing quite why. His tone had shifted, something softer and less self-assured. As my eyes drifted back to him, he bit his tongue and looked away, sighing.

"I know a place," he finally said.

"What kind of place?"

"Just a place."

It was the lamest answer in the history of answers, but Donovan's abrupt departure earlier had peeled the scab off my wounds and left them bleeding. He'd left with nothing but a kiss on top of my head, like I was a little girl with attachment issues.

Which wasn't that far off, but still. It stung.

So I followed Ciar back out to his Mustang and climbed in.