Crossfire (Cross Duet #1)

45. GRAYSON

45

GRAYSON

Now that I had Ivy’s name, uncovering her birth date shouldn’t be too difficult. From there, I could back into the year that she would’ve been the age of thirteen. She said she’d lived on the outskirts of Chicago at the time, so any arrest should have been handled in the Cook County court system. I could look for any arrests for attempted kidnapping and narrow that list down to cases that got convictions. Then, I could narrow it down even further with those that had a sentencing of three to seven years.

In theory, that should spit out a short list of names to go hunting.

Even so, I’d have to call in a favor from Hunter to help with this one. As a criminal prosecutor, he would have access to things that I wouldn’t. At least this favor didn’t require him babysitting a hostage in my bedroom.

Then again, it could involve him in a violent crime because when I got my hands on this asshole, I’d torture him until he gave up the name of his accomplice—the man with the red scar who got away. That man—who’d slammed Ivy to the pavement, punched her, and dragged her to the car—would suffer a fate worse than death.

Ivy studied me, her beautiful face warming every cell in my body, and when she spoke, her voice was an intoxicating melody of compassion and determination.

“What made you become an assassin?”

I clenched and unclenched my fists, imagining that man before me, bloodied and beaten and begging for mercy. How dare he lay his hands on her and poison her life. It was almost impossible, putting a pin in my raging thoughts about what I would do to this man in the future so I could focus on the present, here with Ivy.

Who wanted to know why I killed people for a living. I suppose it was a fair question, being that she was trapped in a remote cabin alone with said killer, but still. I hesitated. I had never talked about this with anyone—anyone by choice, that was. My mother had forced a therapist on me, but as an unwilling participant, I shared very little, and that was before I’d chosen my profession.

But Ivy had just shared the most profound moment of her life. She had bared her soul, so was it too much to ask of me to do the same?

Strangely, as I drown in her hazel eyes, I didn’t feel the usual resistance fighting to silence me. Rather, I wanted her to know.

“It happened when I was eleven,” I began.