He was hired to bury my story. He moved me into his house instead.
Eight weeks in a Beacon Hill townhouse with a locked door on the fourth floor. One truth a night, at nine, in the kitchen under the street. He picks which one.
I’m an investigative reporter, and Ronan Doyle is the man who buries stories like mine. He ruined four people this month, and nobody in this city can tell you where he was standing.
I came here to take him apart.
By the second week, I was going down those stairs early, sitting close enough to feel the heat coming off him. He’d stand on the other side of that counter with his sleeves shoved up and tell me things nobody living had heard, then look at my mouth about a second too long and send me up to bed.
Night twenty-eight, he didn’t send me to bed.
He came around the counter and took me up to his.
He told me he was in love with me, and I said it back before he’d finished the sentence, because that man has never lied to me.
Then he answered a question I should never have asked.
Now I have four thousand words that will end him, every one of them out of his own mouth.
And there’s no version of this where I keep the story and keep him.
Titles in the Devils We Keep series include: The Fixer’s Confession ~
This story may contain language, violence, and/or sexual situations intended for an adult 18+ audience.
