Page 59 of Unlocked

The Curator.

It wasn't the first time he'd heard it. There had been whispers before, faint ones, the kind that disappeared when you looked directly at them. His gut churned. Calliope had been around a long time. She'd seen everything this city had to offer, and he’d never seen her frightened by anything the way she was unnerved by the night’s activities. Her violent shaking had told him considerably more than her words had.

Rush slid into the passenger seat. "What did she say?"

"Professional clean-up crew. She's terrified."

"That doesn't bode well," Rush said.

"No. It doesn't."

"Did she give you anything else?" Ryker asked from the back seat.

"She gave me a name. A code name."

"What is it?" Rush asked.

"The Curator."

Rush frowned. "Never heard of it."

Archer glanced in the mirror at Ryker.

"I've heard whispers," Ryker confirmed. "All of them horrific."

Archer started the engine. "Yes. Same here. We need to find out who the Curator is and what exactly is going on. I have a feeling this is considerably bigger than just the Ponzi scheme."

Rush growled. "And once we know who's behind this, then what?"

Archer's jaw tightened as he pulled out into traffic.

"Then we're going to stop them," he said. "Before anyone else dies."

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Tatum stared at the ceiling, watching the early morning light creep across the plaster. She hadn't slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw it. The killer leaning close to Lebowitz. The knife sliding between his ribs. The way he'd jerked once and then gone still.

And underneath that, the other thing she couldn't shake. The memory of Archer's hands on her skin. His mouth on hers. The way he'd looked at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered.

I can't lose you.

She pressed her palms against her eyes. It was a mistake. The kiss. All of it. She'd let her guard down, let the adrenaline and fear and relief tangle into something that felt like want. Like need. But it wasn't real. It couldn't be real.

Because Archer Gray was dangerous in ways that had nothing to do with his body count or his connections or the cold calculation ever-present in his eyes. He was dangerous because he made her feel things. Made her want things she'd spent her entire life convincing herself she didn't need. Trust. Partnership. Someone to have her back.

And that was terrifying.

She'd built her life on self-sufficiency. On not needing anyone. On being strong enough, smart enough, capable enough to handle whatever came her way. She'd watched her parents and decided long ago that she would never let anyone get that close. They used their love to hurt one another. Her father was a master at it. He merely had to give her mother a look, and Bunny would stop arguing, stop wanting whatever it was she'd been arguing about, and simply give in.

No one would ever believe it of Bunny. She had a reputation for never compromising. If she wanted something, she got it. No one said no to Bunny. Outside the house.

Inside those four walls, out of public view, Bunny existed on a very short leash, and although she railed against it internally, she knew the hopelessness of rebelling against Tatum’s father. It drove Tatum nuts. She'd rooted for her mother to stand up against her father her whole life, but Bunny never had. Not once. It was a strange, painful thing to grow up watching.

What made it worse was how Bunny redirected all of that suppressed rage onto Tatum. Tatum had always been the safe target for everything Bunny couldn't say to Stuart.

She rubbed her eyes. Thank God for her grandfather. He'd stepped in on more than one occasion and taken her out of the house. Weekends at museums and the theatre. Summers at the Finger Lakes at their cottage, Thistledew. It was how she'd survived her childhood intact.

And yet here she was, still working for the family firm. She'd said no in law school, been determined not to do it. Then her grandfather had stepped in and asked her, as a personal favor, to give it five years.