I didn't stop her. Too disturbed by what Merle had done, I watched Brighton usher her toward the back of the house.
"Is there anything we can do to help?" Ren called.
Brighton didn't pause for one second. "Just leave. Please leave."
Squeezing my eyes shut briefly, I bit back a curse as I heard the back door slam shut. "Oh God, that didn't end well."
Ren was quiet as I turned to him. He didn't look at me, his gaze fixed on the broken glass, the spilled tea . . . and the blood. I took a step toward him and spoke low. "Part of me wants to think that what Merle said at the end meant nothing, but I don't think that's the case, is it?"
Casting a sideways glance at me, he gave a curt shake of his head. Dread formed, taking root. "You haven't told me everything."
"No."
Several feelings rushed me at once, and I didn't know what to feel. Disappointment and anger were at the top of the heap. I trusted him, but there were also a lot of things I hadn't told him, so it was a pot meet kettle moment, and I struggled to rise above it and boy, that was hard, because I wanted to punch him in the arm. I wasn't the bigger, better kind of person on most days, so I was proud of myself when I held it together. "Is there really such a thing as a halfling? What are you really here for, Ren?"
Tipping his head back, he let out a weary sigh and then nodded to himself. "We should leave."
"I'm not leaving until you tell me what the hell is really going on."
He turned to me. "I will tell you everything, even if it gets me killed."
"Killed?"
"Yeah, it's that big of a deal, Ivy. So I'm not going to do it here. We need to go someplace to talk. You live nearby."
Part of me wanted to dig in my feet, but we did need to leave the courtyard so Brighton didn't have to worry about us setting off her mother even more, but I couldn't take him home. Not when there wasn't any time to warn Tink.
I really needed to get a house phone with voicemail so I could leave him messages. That was getting added to my to-do list.
"We can't go to my place," I said, ignoring the sharp look he gave me.
He studied me a moment. "Then we can go to my place."
Nervousness caused my belly to tumble. His place? "I don't know about that."
"Thought you trusted me?" A wry smile appeared on his face.
I lifted my chin. "That was before I apparently discovered that you haven't been a hundred percent honest with me."
"Nothing between us has changed, Ivy. There are—were—some things I just couldn't tell you—that you wouldn't just believe." Sighing, he thrust his hand through his hair. "I'm not going to have this conversation in public. It's my place or yours."
My place was out of the question because I had no idea what Tink was doing right now. "Whatever you say, Renald." I walked past him briskly, heading toward the porch so we could grab our helmets. "It's your place."
He shot me a mortified look. "I really wish you wouldn't call me that."
I snorted. "People in hell want ice water."
"People in hell are dead and thirst is probably the least of their concerns."
Climbing onto the porch, I shook my head as I glanced at the closed door. Guilt prickled under my skin, making me feel icky. Merle would've never injured herself if we hadn't come here today, but I couldn't go back and change history.
And I had a feeling after this conversation with Ren, I'd never be able to go back to the way things were before.
~
Ren lived in one of the old warehouses that had been recently remodeled into studio and one-bedroom apartments. With its own parking garage, wide industrial elevator, and hallways with exposed steel beams in the ceiling and brick walls, the place had an eccentric, modern feel to it. Definitely on the upscale side, and if the Order didn't pay so well, I doubted Ren could afford the kind of rent this place demanded.
His apartment was on the sixth floor, right outside the elevator, and when he opened the door, I was greeted to a rather sparse place with an open floor plan and the fresh clean scent that reminded me of the detergent Holly used to wash our clothes in.
There was a wide sectional in the living room, a black coffee table with a glass top situated near a large flat-screen TV hung on the gray and white brick wall. Other than a picture on the corner of the coffee table, that was it in terms of anything with a personal touch.
I glanced into the kitchen. All the appliances were stainless steel and new. It was a chef's kitchen, with a double oven and a shiny hood descending from the ceiling over a gas grill top, but there wasn't a table, just two barstools tucked under the kitchen island. On the other side of the living room were two doors. One door I assumed led to a bedroom, and I guessed the other was the bathroom.