Isn't It Bromantic (Bromance Book Club #4) by Lyssa Kay Adams

            “Elena.” He coughed to clear the sand from his throat. “I don’t understand. How long have you been working on this?”

            “A while.”

            “How long?”

            “Since I’ve been in Chicago.”

            He freaked out a second time. “Are you kidding me?”

            “It took me a long time to start to piece everything together, but I’ve finally started to make progress, Vlad. Real progress.”

            He stood, carefully, the ginger movement incongruous to the steel in his voice. “This is too dangerous. You have to stop.”

            “No. I’ve been careful. I use untraceable email addresses and burner phones. I—”

            “Burner phones?” His eyes nearly fell out of their sockets. “Do you hear yourself?”

            “Yes. I sound like a journalist. That’s what I am.”

            He raked his hands over his hair.

            “Look,” she said, picking up something from the bed. “Look at this.”

            He was doing his best to keep an open mind, but the further he stretched it, the more terrifying possibilities poured in. “What am I looking at?”

            “A report from the witness who said they saw my father get on the train that night. But the witness lied. He was nowhere near the train station that night.”

            “How do you know?”

            She hesitated. “My source.”

            “The person on the phone just now?”

            “Yes.” She put the paper back and resumed gathering everything into an organized stack.

            “Who is he?”

            “I can’t tell you.”

            “Jesus, Elena. This isn’t a game.” He regretted the words and his tone this time, so he tried again. “How does this source know the truth?”

            “Because he has seen the original witness report, the one he gave before it was changed. I need that report, Vlad.”

            “And you have to go to Russia to get it.”

            “He has a copy. But it’s too risky to email or fax. I have to get it in person.”

            He swore under his breath. “And what then? What happens after you get that report?”

            “And then . . .” She shook her head, grabbed the entire stack of notes, and shoved them in her backpack. “And then I don’t know.”

            She started to walk away, so he gripped her arms to stop her. “Why didn’t you tell me any of this, Elena?”

            She unartfully dodged his question. “I’ll only be gone a few days. Maybe, maybe a week. I can get a flight to New York in a few hours and then to Russia from there tomorrow night.”

            “No.” He shook his head, his jaw a wedge of granite. “You can’t go.”

            She looked at him with beseeching eyes. “I need to follow this lead.”

            “What lead?” he exploded. “Your father is dead, and nothing is going to change that.”

            “I know that,” she yelled, yanking free of his hands. “But I have to know what happened to him, Vlad. I’m trying to find out what happened to him.”

            “No, you’re not! You’re trying to justify in your mind why his job was always more important than you!”

            Her face fell as the color drained from her skin. “His job was important. Journalism is important.”

            “Is that how you justify the fact that you hid in a hotel room for three days with almost nothing to eat? Why my mother had to buy you your first tampons? Why he never, ever remembered your birthday?”

            She wrapped her arms around her torso and looked as small and defeated as she did the day that he snapped at her in the hospital. He wished he could take it away—the pain of what he said—but he couldn’t. She had to face it, because the guys were right. It was just like in fiction. This was her internal conflict, and until she truly faced it, they would always end up right back here.