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GARETH The person who was texting me all that information about Kayden and his wife is a bulky bald man with a blond beard and bulging blue eyes. An ugly dagger and roses tattoo slither from beneath the collar of his black shirt, up his neck and his bald head. We’re in the location he gave me over the phone—near the beach, in front of a warehouse with a rusty roof and a door off its hinges. The sea’s cold air seeps into my bones as I lean against Medusa, my blood slowly dripping onto the concrete. I wrapped my wounds in a bandage earlier, when I decided I’m not dying yet. Not until I hear the entire story. But I still messed up Medusa’s interior with all my blood. She seems to take the hit whenever I fuck myself up because of a certain fucking⁠— No. I need to stay calm. I can’t go through this if I’m not calm. “Name’s Declan O’Connor,” he says in an Irish accent, toying with a toothpick between his teeth. “Don’t give a fuck about your name.” My monotone voice sounds far away, as if I’m