“Wait until her family finds out. No way will they let that slide. I’m surprised they haven’t shown up on her doorstep yet.”

“She hasn’t told them, and my guess is, she won’t.”

“The fuck? I can’t keep something like that from Maliki. He’s one of my closest friends.”

“I know.” I blow out a ragged breath. “I know.”

“Look”—his tone turns serious—“you need to tell them. Ditch your loyalty for a moment and think about Cassidy’s well-being. What if the guy shows up again and does worse than what he did before?”

I scrub a hand over my forehead—an attempt to ease the regret, guilt, and headache pounding through. “I don’t know. Taking care of her is my biggest priority at the moment. Just find someone to cover my shift for me.”

Subconsciously, I’m not sure if I’m telling my brother this because I need someone to confide in or because I know he’ll tell someone he shouldn’t.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Cassidy

For the past few days, I’ve been through hell … and then back after Lincoln showed up.

I’m not sure what I was thinking when I invited him over. In the back of my mind, I knew the bruise would come to light, knew he’d see it, but his comfort was what I needed as a Band-Aid to cover my pain.

Lincoln understands keeping secrets. I trust him, and even though it’ll kill him, I know my secret is safe with him.

Will he constantly pester me to turn Quinton in? Absolutely.

Will he go behind my back and do it himself? No.

I’ve put him in a tough situation, made him go against what he thinks is right, and for him doing this for me, I’ll forever be grateful.

Lincoln is in the shower when the doorbell rings. He told me he left the door unlocked and to run in there if there was danger. The poor guy has been scared to leave my side since he arrived last night.

Since I’m not expecting visitors and the last thing I want to do is talk to someone, I ignore the doorbell. If it’s important, they’ll call or text. If it’s for Grace, she’s at work, so they’ll have to come back later anyway.

I prop my feet up on the coffee table, and the doorbell rings again.

And again.

And again.

Then my phone rings.

The hell?

Lincoln, who apparently has the ears of a moth, walks out of the bathroom, now freshly showered. His hair is dripping wet, and he’s wearing black sweats and a tee. “Is that the doorbell?”

It rings again.

“Yes,” I groan. “That’s the doorbell.”

“I got it.”

Commotion erupts as soon as he answers the door, a hurricane storming into the living room, a rush of frantic voices taking in the space.