Page 32 of Ripple Effect, Vol. 3

“Dorian had me watch Enzo last week.” Jörgen leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I followed him to an abandoned house.”

“Why’s he sending you after Enzo?”

“Protection. But I think he’s making plans.”

“You scope the house?”

Jörgen gives a nod and tips back another sip of beer. “Cleared out junkies. Brought in furniture.”

“I’ll keep my eye on him.” Enzo’s the black sheep of the Bertrand brothers—the fuck up who can’t keep his hands off the drugs. If I had to guess, he’s setting up shop for something. “I may need you to do something, Jörgen. Cashing in that favor after all.” In exchange for saving his life, Jörgen insisted that he return the favor somehow. I’ve not taken him up on it, but if shit goes down, Dylan will need a safe place away from the Bertrands and away from the Agency. Jörgen is the only person I’d trust to carry it out. I had Anthony lose the tapes of the night at Spades when I nearly killed the bouncer, but I’m not taking any chances where Dylan’s concerned.

“Say the word and it’s done.”

“I’ll keep in touch. If anything transpires in the next week, you’ll be my first call.” Patting his back, I rise to my feet and exit the church, heading back to my car parked a block down.

The dark neighborhoods of Chicago’s south side zip past me as I drive toward home. Home. I’ve not considered any one of my temporary dwellings a home, and for the most part, I’ve enjoyed having no permanence. I can feel that changing inside of me, evident in the contentment of returning to the house.

To Dylan.

It’s just past dusk when I climb the stairs and pause to find an object propped inside the storm door. I glance around, scanning my surroundings for any cars parked off to the side, any shadows moving in the distance, anything that would suggest what I might find inside the brown envelope wedged inside the door.

Opening it, I carefully pull the envelope and tear away one side of it. The objects inside have my muscles drawn up in knots, and as I slide out the first, a haze of red anger clouds my vision.

I lift my gaze while rage stampedes through my veins, blinding me of everything but one single face.

“Dylan.”

11

Dylan

“Get up.” The voice peels me out of dreams and I awake to the cold barrel of a gun pointed at my forehead.

My muscles lock. Breath catches. The blur in my eyes fades to the sharp lines of Ripley’s face.

He stands over me, his expression unreadable, but certainly not friendly with the gun aimed at my skull.

“A … Are you … dreaming again?”

“I wish I was. Maybe then I’d wake up and this shit wouldn’t exist.” He tosses an envelope onto my lap, and I dare a downward glance where eight-by-ten images sit scattered atop of it.

Images of Emily’s shop. Of Rip hugging her. Of her leaving the shop at night. I flip the image over and find “Natalie” written in cursive on the back. There are others of him entering a church and exiting the same church.

The message is clear—someone’s following him.

“Who sent these?” There’s a dangerous edge of fury in his voice, and my instincts tell me to tread carefully.

Swallowing a gulp, I shake my head. “I don’t know, Ripley. I swear to you.”

“Except that you’re the only one who’s been to Emily’s. You’re the only one who knows what she is to me.”

“You’re crazy if you think I had anything to do with this.”

“You watched me all those months. What for? Who ordered you?”

“I already told you why I watched you.”

“Yeah? And how much of what you told me is bullshit, Dylan? Knowledge is power, right?”