The Secret Thief

by Nina Lane

  Flynn and I exchange glances. Understanding passes between us like the current beneath a river’s surface, steady and strong.

  “King.” Flynn points at the door. “Get the hell out of my room.”

  Jeremy blinks. “You’re serious? You think people around here are going to leave you alone when they find out what you’ve been hiding?”

  Flynn rises to his feet, his height and breadth dominating the other man. “I said, get out.”

  “Okay, okay.” Jeremy pushes his chair back. “But if you know what’s good for you, you’ll think about it. Hard.”

  He stalks out of the room. Flynn sits back down, still tense with suppressed anger. I nudge his attention back to the crossword, not wanting any additional stress to impact his recovery. Though we return to the puzzle, unease simmers like a cloud in the wake of Jeremy’s visit.

  It still doesn’t make complete sense, either to me and Flynn or the police. William had apparently been digging into Flynn’s history for ammunition to block him from opposing the lighthouse sale. His interest in the Oracle Corporation is certainly a strong motive. As of now, William is only speaking through his lawyer and hasn’t yet revealed anything else.

  But if Flynn was the one he wanted to stop, why did he come after me?

  “I cannot believe this.” My mother’s shrill voice pierces me from clear across the country.

  I stare out the front windshield of my car. The hospital parking lot is filled with vehicles, and the sky is the color of metal.

  I’d called Juliette right after the attack in the forest to assure her I was all right before she heard the news reports. She’d been both shaken and relieved. But now that she’s had a few days to process the events, she’s back on the warpath.

  So am I.

  “What is wrong with you, Eve?” she snaps.

  “Nothing.” I grip my cell phone and take a deep breath. “In fact, everything is very right with me. Probably for the first time in my life.”

  “Oh my God. I read the reports. It’s that man from the lighthouse, isn’t it? You’ve gotten yourself involved with another scumbag who’s using and manipulating you. He’s the one who made you cancel your Santa Clara interview. Can you really be that stupid? Have you learned nothing?”

  “I’ve learned everything,” I reply, my voice cool though I’m trying not to shake. “And Flynn had nothing to do with my interview cancellation. I’ve decided to take time off and work on independent study projects before looking for a permanent position. There are some other local colleges in towns around Castille where I might teach interim classes, but I have a new focus now.”

  “Spreading your legs?” Juliette snaps. “He’s making you do this, isn’t he? And you’re stupid enough to let him.”

  “He’s not making me do anything. It’s my decision.”

  “How do you expect to earn a living? To rebuild your career?”

  “I’ll find a way.”

  “You are as foolish and impractical as your uncle was. I should never have let you associate with him.”

  She goes on, her voice hard. I stop listening. I peer through the windshield at the hospital, counting up to the fifth floor windows. Though I can’t see him, I know Flynn is standing at the third window from the right. Watching me. Waiting.

  “…this kind of idiocy, and if you think—”

  “Mother,” I interrupt. “It’s time for you to fuck the hell off.”

  I end the call. Though I’m still shaking, a sudden laugh breaks out of me. I picture her standing there, holding the phone, her eyes wide with shock and her mouth agape.

  Just let her try and contact me again. If she does so with graciousness and the effort to make amends—not likely, but also not impossible—then I’ll meet her halfway. If not, I have my life to live.

  And my love to love.

  Dropping my phone into my purse, I walk into the hospital and take the elevator to Flynn’s room. He turns from the window to smile at me, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Though he’s still pale and somewhat weak, the light inside him is stronger than ever. My heart fills to bursting.

  “Hi,” he says.

  “Look at you, Lighthouse Guy.” I slide my gaze admiringly over his charcoal-gray trousers and navy shirt. “I thought you’d wear the jeans and ratty old T-shirt I packed for you.”

  “And miss the chance to impress the woman I love?” He shakes his head and holds out his arms. “No way.”

  I step right into them, mindful of the bandage still covering his wound. We exchange a kiss that deepens in intensity before a loud “Ahem” breaks us apart.

  “You can just wait until later for that,” the nurse says cheerfully, pushing a wheelchair into the room. “You ready to go home, Mr. Alverton?”

  “Actually, it’s Donovan.” Flynn squeezes my hand. “Flynn Donovan. And yes. I’m ready.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  Two days after Flynn’s return from the hospital, he and I sit in his truck across the street from city hall. Snowflakes swirl through the air and collect on the windshield. The building’s windows glow with light in the darkness of evening. Dozens of people walk up the steps to the atrium.

  Tense silence fills the space between us. His hands are fisted on the steering wheel. My chest is a tangle of nerves. I feel his gaze on my profile, potent as a touch.

  Turning, I meet his eyes. Beneath the hard set of his features, tenderness gleams. A tenderness reserved for me alone.

  “I like the way you smell.” His voice is a deep, warm rumble.

  I manage to smile. “I figured that out a while ago when you ordered me to wear my apple-lavender body lotion to work.” I lean across the seat and kiss him. “But thanks for finally admitting it.”

  He wraps his big hand around my nape, holding me against him. The kiss strengthens my courage. I rest my palm on his chest. His heart beats strong and steady, the vibration echoing into my blood. Never will I tire of feeling and listening to his heart.

  I remember the day I felt like I could do anything if he were at my side. Now I know I can.

  We get out of the truck and walk toward the city hall. Though we’re not even touching each other, people glance our way as we approach the steps. Thanks to both Jeremy and the news reports, everyone has heard about Flynn Donovan and his twin.

  A crowd circulates in the atrium, people slowly heading through the open doors of the council chambers. Rows of chairs are set up in front of the dais, where the twelve councilmembers sit. Most of the seats are already taken, and people stand alongside the walls.

  I catch sight of Carol from Jabberwocky, seated beside her son Alex and a tall, lanky man who must be her husband. Jeremy King is in the front row, his blond head bent as he listens to something the woman beside him is saying.

  Flynn and I stop behind the last row of seats. A palpable curiosity goes through the room. Some residents twist around to look at us. I grasp Flynn’s hand and curl my fingers around his.

  There are a thousand reasons for so much curiosity and interest. The mystery of Flynn and revelation about his past, the endless gossip and stories about me, the lighthouse conflict, the fight, the Kings.

  The townspeople now know Flynn’s true story. The question is—will they forgive him for it?

  A gavel thumps. The chatter dies down. People turn to face the dais.

  “While we’re here to discuss the issue of the lighthouse development and zoning laws,” Mayor Richards, a thin man with a bird-like face, leans toward his microphone, “we know you’re all interested in hearing what certain speakers have to say. So we’ll get to them first. Mr. Jeremy King.”

  The crowd shifts with eager anticipation. As Jeremy approaches the microphone, an odd understanding rises in me. I know what it’s like to want to desperately please a parent and have them fail you. And though my mother is now estranged from me in a different way than William is from Jeremy, we’ve both effectively lost a parent.

  “As I struggle to process recent events
…” Jeremy stands at the microphone and unfolds a sheet of paper, “I would like to remind the residents of Castille of the public service my father has done for this town in his three terms as mayor. His reelections speak to his popularity and dedication to the well-being of Castille.”

  He pauses and clears his throat. “His efforts to build a development on the acres of land where the Castille Lighthouse sits were, in fact, instigated by a desire to improve Castille’s failing economy. To that end, he set me to the task of fulfilling the project, which I, too, believed in. Unfortunately, I was unaware of my father’s connections to the Oracle Development Corporation as a major shareholder. Had I known, I never would have advocated on Oracle’s behalf. And I sincerely apologize for any part I have played in my father’s deception.

  “But this doesn’t change the fact that I still believe a coastal development is the best thing we can do for our town. While I recognize my need to step back from the situation and regroup, I would like to ask the residents not to discount the idea for the future.”

  Most of the audience applauds, though there’s a smattering of boos. The mayor silences them with a slam of his gavel.

  “Thank you, Mr. King.” He peers at the agenda. “Mr. Flynn Alverton.”

  Chatter, edged with excitement, rises. People turn and crane their necks to look at us.

  My stomach tightens. Our plan is that Flynn will speak first before I join him and we advocate for the lighthouse preservation together.

  He squeezes my hand, then walks to the front of the room. Whispers follow in his wake—people staring at him as if they’ve never seen him before, women lifting their eyebrows in admiration, curiosity thick in the air.

  Flynn stops at the microphone and faces the crowd. And just like that, my nervousness slips away, replaced by a pride so great it swells in my chest like a balloon.

  Confronting your secrets is one thing. Owning them in front of an entire town is something else altogether.

  He takes hold of the mic. He looks magnificent in a charcoal-gray tailored suit with a blue-and-gray striped tie, his thick dark hair shining under the lights.

  “Thank you for giving me the chance to speak,” he says into the mic. “All of you know me as Flynn Alverton. Or more accurately, the weird guy up at the lighthouse.”

  A few chuckles spread over the crowd.

  “I owe this town and residents more than I can express,” Flynn continues. “More than anyone knows. You’ve allowed me to live here, despite the fact that no one knew much about me. You allowed me privacy and isolation. The Forestry Department gave me a job. You treated me with respect, and if you gossiped about me behind my back, I did nothing to counteract the rumors. I could certainly understand the reasons for them.

  “But I haven’t lived in the lighthouse all these years because I wanted to be the local recluse. The fact is, I felt like I had to be. I didn’t deserve to live in the same world as everyone else. Because I never stopped thinking my brother’s death was my fault. I never will stop thinking that.”

  He pauses. Silence fills the room. My heart pounds.

  “I’ll tell you the facts as I recall them,” he says. “Given all that’s happened, I owe it to you. This will be my final statement about what happened.”

  His voice breaks a few times as he recounts the events—his brother’s hockey success, he and Riley alone on an isolated lake, the fight, the investigation, the police reports, the public scrutiny leading to the bankruptcy of the family business.

  When he’s finished, not a rustle breaks the thick silence.

  Grief mixes with my pride in him. Every day, he must wonder what his life would be like if his twin had lived.

  “When Riley and I were kids…” his voice cracks again, “…every summer for a month, our grandfather would bring us to a picturesque little town on the coast of Maine.”

  I blink. Surprised murmurs spread through the crowd.

  “The town was called Castille.” Flynn stops for a second, his eyes glittering. “We had the greatest time of our lives here. And we were best friends, my brother and I. Pop… that was our grandfather… took us fishing, boating, swimming. We explored tide pools and went lobstering. We rented a cottage at the Watercress Inn and had ice cream every day at Peddler’s over on Dandelion Street. We saw exhibits at the museum and went to story-time at the library. We biked through the woods and roasted marshmallows over campfires. We spent countless hours at the lighthouse. Put dozens of secrets in the wall, along the lines of Riley has a crush on Maggie McGinty and My brother is a boogerhead.”

  Laughter ripples over the audience. My vision blurs with tears.

  “Pop took us traveling up and down the coast a few times, but we always came back to Castille,” Flynn continues. “And after…”

  He stops again and pulls in a heavy breath.

  “After Riley died and the investigation was over, I… I guess I ran away. Tried to escape. I traveled aimlessly for about three years, hitchhiking, working odd jobs. Then one day I found myself back in Castille. Figured I’d stay for a week or two and then move on.

  “But this… this town had a hold on me. Like a spell. The more time passed, the less I wanted to leave. Then I met a man named Max Dearborne who proved to me that fairy godfathers really do exist.”

  Well, that does it. My tears spill over. I fumble in my purse for the handkerchief Flynn had given me a lifetime ago. I wipe my eyes, not sure my heart can contain so many emotions.

  “And you all…” Flynn spreads out a hand to encompass the entire town. “No matter how weird you thought I was or what you suspected I was hiding, you never made me feel like I was unwanted here. Instead you let me live quietly in the one place where I was closest to my brother. For that, I thank you.”

  A second of silence is broken by a sudden rolling wave of applause that catches Flynn off guard. He steps back, his gaze searching.

  Across the expanse of the audience, our eyes meet. A warm current flows between us, one of strength, promise, and love.

  “Quiet, please.” The mayor raps the gavel. “Continue please, Mr. Alverton.”

  “Thank you. I swear I’m almost finished.” He approaches the mic again. “It’s past time for me to give something back to Castille. In addition to working for the Forestry Department, I have a second career as an author and illustrator. I’ve written several picture books under the name Riley Flynn.”

  Another heartbeat of silence. Then an uproar—voices rising, gasps of shock, a few shouts, people getting to their feet.

  Alarm flickers through me. Flynn and I had both expected a reaction, even one of potential anger that he’s been hiding his author identity, but I suddenly can’t tell if the residents are upset or just surprised.

  “Quiet!” The mayor hammers the gavel again. “Please, everyone, sit down.”

  “Why would you hide that from us?” calls a woman from a middle row.

  “It wasn’t our business!” Alex responds, shooting her a mild glower.

  Flynn holds up his hands. “There’s a reason I’m telling you now. I know the economy has been on a downslide, and that the lighthouse development agenda is still very much on the table. So I—”

  The chamber doors open. A cold wind sweeps through the room. Papers flutter. People turn to scowl at whomever is interrupting.

  Allegra King enters, followed by two men in suits carrying leather briefcases. Imperious as a queen in a fitted navy dress and pearls, she stops and casts her assessing gaze over the crowd.

  When her eyes meet mine, she winks.

  What in the…

  Allegra strides down the center aisle to where Flynn is standing. Every eye in the room locks onto her. Jeremy stands, trying to catch her attention. She ignores him and extends both hands to Flynn.

  He takes them, as surprised as everyone else to see the convalescing first lady of Castille not only here, but looking as strong and lovely as she does.

  She gives Flynn a warm smile of affection and says som
ething the mic doesn’t pick up. He responds and leans in to brush his lips across her cheek. Then Allegra turns and takes hold of the microphone. The two men stand off to the side, holding their briefcases like shields.

  “Good evening, everyone,” Allegra says. “I am Allegra King. I apologize for having been away from town for so long. I assure you that changes now.”

  A number of people applaud. A man in the back row whistles.

  “Thank you.” She sweeps her gaze over the room again. “I’m here to address this ridiculous talk about selling the lighthouse property, which is held within a trust I created long ago. While I appreciate my son’s efforts on behalf of Castille, I assure you all there will be no development… certainly not a hotel or golf course… anywhere on the coastal land currently leased by the Forestry Department.”

  The audience responds with a mixture of loud applause and a few boos. Allegra holds up her hand for quiet.

  “In 1973, the Castille Lighthouse was taken out of commission,” she explains, “and purchased by my family. For many years, the lighthouse and fifteen acres of land were owned outright by my father. Then I married William King. While I do not wish to discuss the personal details of our marriage, I will say we had our ups and downs.”

  She clears her throat. “Clearly, my husband and I are currently in the midst of a down. Or rather, an end as the case may be.”

  People rustle with discomfort and wariness.

  “Through our marriage,” Allegra continues, “William and I shared common ground in our love for Castille and public service. However, I was always aware of his money-hungry streak.

  “And I’ve known for years he’s had his eye on profiting from the lighthouse. I also knew he would convince my son to do the same. Therefore, I had the lighthouse and land protected by the creation of a very specific trust, the terms of which William discovered only recently. Neither my husband nor my son are beneficiaries of this trust.”

  Murmurs rise, people turning to each other and whispering. Jeremy gets to his feet.

  “It’s really quite simple,” Allegra says. “Jeremy, sit down. The trustee was a person who I knew would keep the land and lighthouse as they are… an untouched testament to the beauty of this town. Jeremy, sit down.”