The Lie Hidden in Roses Chapter 07

The Lie Hidden in Roses Chapter 07 The Key to Apartment 401

It was cold.

Metal.

A key.

A small paper tag hung from the ring, and an address had been written across it in neat black/ink.

Apartment 401, 76 Ashbury Lane, Eastbrook District.

I closed my fist around the key.

Sweat gathered in my palm, making the metal slick against my skin.

I snapped a photo of it, then put everything back exactly where it had been I returned the clothes to their original order, pushed the coat back to the far end of the closet, and shut the door.

I had barely stepped out of the bedroom when I heard the front lock turn.

Rowan walked in carrying a grocery bag filled with fruit, wearing the kind of gentle expression that belonged on a man you were supposed to trust.

“You’re home early,” he said.

“Yeah. Work was dead, so I took off.”

I took the bag from him and brought the fruit to the refrigerator.

“Rowan,” I said, keeping my tone light, “that trip you mentioned before. Where did you say you wanted us to go?”

He was in the middle of pouring himself a glass of water.

His hand paused.

Only for a fraction of a second.

It was almost nothing, the kind of tiny hesitation I would have missed if I had not been watching him as if my life depended on it.

“Bluewater Bay,” he said, giving me an easy smile. “I told you I wanted to see Lake Arden, didn’t I?”

Rowan had talked about taking a trip before.

But Lake Arden was my dream, not his.

I was the one who had always wanted to see that endless stretch of blue water, ride a bike along the shoreline, and wander without a plan through the old lakefront streets.

Rowan had never cared about Bluewater Bay.

The place he used to talk about was Cascadia Ridge, up in the highlands.

“Why are you asking all of a sudden?” he asked, walking toward me with the glass in his hand.

“I just want to leave town for a few days,” I said. “I’m tired.”

“Then we’ll go,” he replied, as if it were that simple. “When work settles down, I’ll take you.”

He reached out and ruffled my hair, his eyes soft with affection.

All I felt was ice under my skin.

The next day, after he left the apartment, I called someone else.

Gideon Mercer.

I had always called him Uncle Mercer, even though he was not really my uncle. He and my father had gone through the Oregon Police Academy together, and even after they were assigned to different departments they stayed close.

After my father died, Uncle Mercer became one of the few people who never faded out of our lives. He showed up every holiday to check on my mother and me. He fixed broken things around the house, dropped off groceries when money was tight, and somehow never made it feel like charity.

I called his number.

It rang three times before he answered.

“Maren?” he said. “It’s late. Did something happen?”

There was surprise in his voice.

Underneath it was something tighter.

Maybe fear.

“Uncle Mercer, I need to ask you something.”

“Go ahead.”

“How did my father really die?”

The line went silent.

Not quiet.

Silent

For a moment, I thought he had hung up.

“Maren” he said finally, his voice much lower than before, “your father died in a car accident. You know

tiat

He was testing me

I could hear it.

“Uncle Mercer, I know what really happened.”

My grip tightened around the phone until the edges dug into my palm.

“Rowan’s father was on the same mission as my dad. They both died. The agency sealed the files and told us it was an accident. Please don’t lie to me anymore.”

Another silence stretched between us.

This one felt heavier than the first.

“How did you find out?” he asked at last, and for the first time in my life, he sounded old.

“I found the files. Rowan hid them in a storage unit.”

“That kid…”

“Don’t blame him,” I said quickly. “He didn’t give them to me. I found them on my own.”

On the other end of the line, I heard the faint metallic flick of a lighter.

Uncle Mercer was smoking.

He had quit after retirement, and he only reached for cigarettes when something was bad enough to pull him back into old habits.

“Maren.” he said after a long exhale, “this started a long time ago.”

“I need to know.”

“Your father and Rowan’s father were working undercover near the Frostline Border. They were investigating the Black Meridian Cartel, but the cartel wasn’t only moving drugs. It had ties to cross-border infiltration, forged identities, money laundering channels, and people in power willing to protect them. The operation was bigger than anyone understood back then.”

I held my breath.

“They got close,” he continued. “Too close. They were almost at the center of the network when someone inside the task force betrayed them. Their covers were blown.”

“Who was the mole?”

“We never proved it. There were six people on that task force. Four died. The two who survived both had albis strong enough to hold up. Internal Affairs chased the leak for three years and still couldn’t build a case. Eventually, it went cold.”

“What about now?” I asked. “Has the cartel come back?”

Mercer’s voice sharpened immediately. “Why are you asking me that?”

Because someone is pretending to be Rowan.”

The words finally came out, and the second they did, the apartment around me seemed to drop ten degrees.

I swallowed hard.

“And right now, he’s living in my apartment.”

Uncle Mercer’s voice changed in an instant.

“What did you just say?”