If He’s Watching

Laney Wylde

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

If He’s Watching

Copyright ©2019 Laney Wylde

All rights reserved.

Summary: James Sterling doesn’t know the first thing about After Twelve, but he’s heard the rumors—and if Estlyn can take down a D.A. in grand fashion—well, that’s exactly the type of service he’s looking for. The way James reaches out sets off alarm bells, but Estlyn’s strapped for cash, so she agrees to a meeting. 

ISBN: 978-1-63422-353-9 (paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-63422-352-2 (e-book)

Cover Design by: Marya Heidel

Typography by: Courtney Knight

Editing by: Cynthia Shepp

For Sarah.

You’re the sister I never had.

No, you’re the sister I’ve always had.

Quick! What show is that from?

You can’t trust water:

Even a straight stick turns crooked in it.

W. C. Fields

Also by Laney Wylde

Never Touched

The After Twelve Series

If She Were Blind

If She Plays His Game

If He’s Watching

Chapter One

Estlyn

September 3

It is a well-established fact that there are only three-acceptable ways in which to awake.

To the smell of coffee which will fuel a productive day of destroying one’s enemies.

To the sight of water and Advil after a night of celebrating vanquishing said enemies.

To the feel of the warm skin of one’s lover because… obviously, fucking is fun and an excellent way to start the day.

Notice there is no fourth choice involving an aggravating knock on the front door.

“Linus…” The word soaks into my drool-dampened pillow. “Can you get that?”

No answer. Eyes closed, I pat the wrinkled comforter that no longer covers his body. Where is he?

After I roll from stomach to side, I search for my phone on the nightstand. My fingertip taps the screen for the time. 10:07? Damn. Those blackout curtains Linus insisted on hanging are screwing with my circadian rhythm.

“Linus?” I shout as I swing my legs out of bed, my toes squishing into the carpet. On my way out of the bedroom, I grab Michael’s Clippers T-shirt from my dresser and slip it over my head. Light streams from under the bathroom door, and the shower faucet runs muffled behind it.

The fist on the door bangs again.

I make it to the peephole in time to check out the blonde girl outside before she starts her third round of pounding. It’s not until I open the door that I realize who it is.

I never should have answered.

Blue eyes sweep from my face to my bare thighs. Her arms cross as she scoffs.

“Can I help you?” I ask, leaning against the doorframe.

“Are you the slut Cal’s fucking these days?”

“These days…” I squint as I think. “Well, not yesterday, but today I could get lucky.”

I wink, but she is not amused.

I am. I think I deserve a fist bump for coming up with that within minutes of being woken by an unapproved fourth option.

“Are you dating him or not?”

“Who’s asking?” I know exactly who is asking. It’s Erin, Linus’s ex, who went all ancient Greek on him by fucking his dad behind his back. But I’m not supposed to know who she is. I’m not supposed to have given her name and contact information to Dean back in June. I’m not supposed to have used her to take down Linus’s father. Hence the question.

That pair of blue eyes drops to a pet crate on the ground before her foot slides it toward me.

I back away from whatever is encaged within it. “What’s that?”

“I can’t have him in my new place.” Erin tips her chin my way. “He’s your problem now.”

That’s all the explanation she gives before she walks away.

Stepping out into the hall, I watch her shrink as she strides to the elevator. When I look down, I see a cardboard box containing a bag of cat food, an empty litter box, and a bag of litter.

Oh. Hell. No.

The crate mews behind me. From the door, I hear the shower creak off and the last of the water hit the fiberglass floor. I hurry back over the threshold and close myself inside the apartment, letting the door push the crate back into the hall.

I slip into the kitchen to ensure I’m pouring a cup of coffee just as Linus opens the bathroom door. He tousles his hair with a towel, leaving the rest of him exposed. My back rests against the kitchen counter’s cool edge while I take a sip and watch him over the rim of my mug. My eyes follow the indent between his pecs, down the muted muscles of his abs.

Linus has a mix of writer’s bod and I’ve worked out since high school but was too busy reading and writing poetry to play varsity sports bod. Hard muscles hidden under soft skin. Unless flexed. Nothing too veiny. Nothing flabby, either. God, I’m a sucker for it.

“Was someone at the door?”

My eyes whip to his face at his question. When he wraps the towel around his hips, I say, “You can air-dry, you know?”

Smirking, he combs his hair back with his fingers as he cuts the distance between us. His feet step between mine, and his hands wander under my shirt, tickling the skin around the hems of my panties. “How’d you sleep?”

I rest my cheek against his chest, still dewy from his shower. His arms and scent envelop me. “I slept.”

Linus mutters, “Good,” against my temple as he kisses it, then reaches past me for the coffee pot. Instead of grabbing his usual coffee cup he fills a travel mug to the brim and twists the lid down.

“Where are you going?”

“Critique group. Remember? We meet Mondays before my shift?”

It’s Monday?

More importantly, Linus will be leaving soon and will find the feline remains of his relationship with Erin?

Okay, I can see two ways to handle this. The first choice is the mature one. I could say something to the effect of, Hey, Linus, your ex dropped off a cat I deduce you once shared. It’s in the hall. What do you suggest we do with it? Now, the obvious problem with this scenario is that he might want to keep the pathetic excuse for a panther in my home.

The second involves dumping the contents of the crate into the stairwell and hiding the rest of the evidence there until Linus leaves the building. But that isn’t workable now that Linus, brows furrowed, is heading toward the door. “Do you hear that tapping? It sounds like there’s something clawing at the door.”

Lesson learned. Next time, I’ll move the crate farther away from the door so the cat can’t poke its claws through the slats and scratch at it.

There’s no hope, no chance to intervene before he swings open the door. Linus crouches down to the cage and his eyes light up. “Eddie?”

Damn it.

As soon as Linus has loosed the black, short-haired cat from its rightful captivity, he holds and pets and squishes it like a long-lost child. “Hey, buddy, I missed you! How’d you get here, little man?” Linus stands and turns to me with the creature curled against his chest, running his finger along the cat’s jaw. “We can have pets here, right?”

I sigh and run my hand over my face. “Technically, yes, but it costs like an extra fifty dollars a month, and you have to pay a deposit, too.”

He must sense my reluctance because his face is doing that stupid cute-boy thing it does right before he gets his way––his eyebrows scrunch together, the green of his irises shimmering as if liquid, and one of his damn dimples creases. “Can we keep him?”

“Linus, we already have a cat,” I say as I point to our bedroom where Lioness is perched on my nightstand.

“Do you not like pets or something?”

I shrug. “I’m just more of a dog person…” Because cats are useless mini-lions that can’t actually do any of the cool things lions can. Has anyone ever heard a cat roar? No. Because they can’t even do that.

“Look, it’s fine. I’ll call Erin and see if she can take him.”

“She can’t. Wherever she moved won’t let her have pets.”

His eyebrow arches and lips harden into a stiff line. Nope. Shouldn’t have said that.

“You knew Eddie was here and you left him outside?”

“Eddie? As in Edward Estlin Cu––”

“God, Estlyn! What if someone took him?”

“Then I’m sure he would have gone to a loving home.” Linus glares, and I throw my hands above my head. “What do you want from me?”

“I want three valid reasons why we shouldn’t keep him.”

My index finger hooks on the other one as I count off a one, “We already have a cat.”

“Nope,” he shakes his head, “not a valid reason.”

“It costs money I don’t have.”

“I’ll pay the pet rent and deposit. So that’s not a reason, either.”

“I’m deathly allergic.”

“You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

“Black cats are bad luck.”

“Seriously?”

“He senses my hostility toward him and has already started plotting my demise.”

“Probably.” In a lovey-dovey voice to the cat, he adds, “You’re so vindictive, aren’t you, buddy? Yes, you are. Yes, you are.” Then, in a flash of black fur, Linus releases the thing to the floor. “That’s only one. He stays.”

We’ll see.

Chapter Two

Cal

September 3

“Wet, dry, and dirty,” Elliot says as he sets three martinis on the bar in front of Estlyn.

She raises her eyes from the work on her tablet, flipping her voluminous waves behind her shoulder. “What?”

Elliot’s elbows lock, and the heels of his palms press into the bar. “From the gentleman over by the door.” His eyes search past Estlyn. When he doesn’t find who he’s looking for, his fingertips start tapping. “Well, he was by the door.”

Estlyn whips her reading glasses off. I join her as she turns her attention to the destination of Elliot’s gaze.

Who the hell is buying Estlyn drinks? An idiot, obviously. Anyone close to her knows that she exclusively drinks Chardonnay when she’s wearing her reading glasses, unless she wants to make me work, in which case she orders an Old Fashioned. Today is one of those days. I assume it’s my penance for Eddie. But not even in the direst of circumstances would she drink a martini while in jeans, a graphic tee, and a leather jacket with work in front of her. That would be absurd.

Estlyn rests her chin in her palm and smirks up at me. “You jealous, babe?”

I scoff. “No, but if you don’t want this to happen, maybe you should switch Michael’s ring back to your left hand.” That was the only time she took it off––to move it to her right hand. She did it after that barbecue at her parents’ house where there was a lot of confusion about our relationship status.

Estlyn clicks her tongue against the roof of her mouth. “I don’t know,” she sing-songs. “He might not have a cat.” To Elliot, she says, “What’d he look like?”

“Really?”

She shrugs with an innocent tilt of her head.

“Uh, buzz cut, some scruff.” His eyes sweep left and right before he leans in to whisper, “Black.”

“Yeah,” Estlyn nods, “some people are.”

“Oh!” Elliot reaches into the back pocket of his jeans. “He left me his card to give to you.” He slaps a business card on the counter.

Estlyn hooks the corner of it with her fingernail. On the front is typed James Sterling with an email address below. A handwritten note says, I have a job for you.

Estlyn’s forehead creases when she flips the card over. There’s a web address on the back, along with another note, Your résumé is impressive.

“What?” She snickers the word, but her nerves are clear when she types the address from the card into her tablet. Estlyn’s spine straightens as she swipes her fingers across the screen. She swipes again. And again. And several more times before she slams her tablet face-down on the counter. “Elliot, what the fuck? This isn’t funny.”

“What?”

“Did Dean put you up to this?”

“Put you up to what?” Dean chimes in as he steps up to the bar. “Honey, you really shouldn’t drink all of these with your medication,” he tells Estlyn before helping himself to the cloudy martini.

“This,” she answers and hands Dean her tablet.

Eyes focused, his fingers swipe the screen in the opposite direction Estlyn’s had. “Did I put Elliot up to showing you some pictures of yourself at the Young campaign fundraiser?” He spends a solid thirty seconds flipping through the photos before saying, “Holy shit, this is like a stalker’s gallery.”

“I know,” Estlyn seethes.

“I mean, these are from the time you sat at the table to when you got in Wyatt’s car. Where’d you get these?”

Estlyn picks the business card up, then shoves it in Dean’s face. “Drop the act, bitch. I know these are all Emory’s.”

Dean shakes his head. “Emory took shots of Young that night, not you.” Turning the card over and back, he adds “But hey, looks like you have a new client.” As he slides onto the barstool next to her, he adds, “This is why I told you to market yourself better. You need some kind of website with a portfolio of jobs or something. Clients have to stalk you to find After Twelve if they don’t have a referral.”

Estlyn and I shoot Dean incredulous looks, which he ignores, fully absorbed in his free drink. Mine lingers, but she props herself on the counter with her elbows and calls for Elliot.

He makes his way toward her, drying a tumbler in his hands with a dish towel. “What did this guy look like?” she asks.

“Uh…” Elliot shakes his head and stammers, “I—I already told you.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” She flicks her fingers in dismission. “He’s black with facial hair and a buzz cut. But what was his build? The shape of his face? Did he have light or dark eyes? Milk or dark chocolate skin? What was his essence?”

“What? How the hell should I know?”

“Let me help you out, sweetie,” London, one of the other bartenders, condescends with her hand on Elliot’s forearm. Her aquamarine eyes flicker. “He was taller than Elliot––at least six feet. Real broad shoulders, you know?”

“So, athletic build?” Estlyn confirms.

London nods, then stares through a lust-filled fog in the direction Mr. Hot Stalker had been sitting. “He was smooth with this, I don’t know, quiet… charisma.”

“What kind of charisma? Are we talking Obama charisma? Jamie Foxx? Denzel––”

“Idris Elba.”

“Damn,” Estlyn and Dean exhale in unison.

What?

“But younger,” a woman two seats down interjects, because apparently no one here with a vagina missed him.

Why is everyone getting wet over this guy? Am I the only one who remembers thirty seconds ago when we were all creeped out by him?

“Right,” London agrees. “Probably in his thirties. Dark eyes. Milk-chocolate skin. No visible tattoos. Business casual dress. Top button of his dress shirt undone.”

“Mmm…” Dean hums.

“Why can’t you just look him up?” I suggest casually as I push the card back in front of her. Okay, not at all casually. More murdery. But really, would anyone blame me for being a little protective of my hot girlfriend having an, I guess, equally hot stalker?

“I will,” Estlyn says as she taps on her tablet, reading glasses back on. “But if he’s on the edge of legality he probably limits his internet presence.” She pauses for a moment, the words on her screen reflected in her glasses. “Huh. London, is he this James Sterling?”

London leans on the bar to the tablet Estlyn turned her way. “Mmm… yeah, that’s him. What does he do? Is he some kind of CEO or something?”

Estlyn flips the tablet back to herself and scrolls through whatever site she’s on. “Not exactly. Looks like he’s a chemical engineer at Sterling Agrochemical.”

“No, that can’t be right,” London says as she ushers Estlyn to turn the screen back to her. “Have you ever heard of a hot engineer?”

“Does an engineering student count? One of my clients was one, and he was pretty cute.”

London returns the tablet. “Whatever. Rich is rich, right? Is he single?”

Estlyn shrugs. “I can find out if he hires me.”

“Woah, woah, woah.” My hands slap on the counter as I lean toward her. “You’re not meeting with him, right, Est?”

Estlyn’s fingers crawl over the counter until her hand covers mine. “Relax, Linus. You have a Ryan Gosling kind of charisma.”

I flip my hand over so my fingertips can feel the warmth of her palm. “No, I mean, it’s not safe.”

“Why not?”

“Are you kidding? Do I really need to explain his kidnapper vibe to you?”

“It’s a job.”

“And you have an inbox full of others, right?”

“Yeah, full of boring ‘Can you please cut off my husband’s dick?’ cases. What if this one is more… fulfilling?”

“Fulfilling?”

“Yeah, maybe more of a ‘Can you cut off the dick of the prosecutor who wrongfully imprisoned my son?’ kind of case.”

God, this girl and prosecutors. “That’s fulfilling?”

“And…” She puts her tablet in my face. “Look at him.”

Do I have to?

“The job probably pays amazing. We could really use the money to pay that pet deposit.”

I turn to Dean, already halfway through his first stolen martini. “Can you help me out here?”

Dean squints at the ceiling, contemplating his answer. “Nope.”

“No?”

“You knew what you were getting yourself into when you started dating her.”

I hold a finger up. “For the record, I did not.”

“True,” Estlyn agrees with her wet martini toasting the air. “The second time around, though,” she interrupts her sentence with a sip, “that’s on you.”

“Can I at least go with you to make sure you’re okay?”

“Relax, I probably won’t even meet with him. People like him can’t afford to be seen with me.” She flicks the card my way, but I don’t catch it. It bounces off my chest, then the bar, and tumbles to the tile below. “Hence the stalker shit.”

Or he’s actually a stalker. I would say this, but the woman who made sure we knew this creep was a young Idris Elba is calling me over for a refill of her Bacardi and Diet Coke. I take a step in her direction when a slender hand grips my arm, slinging me backward. Estlyn’s fingers catch my cheek before slicing through my hair, the heat of her lips slipping between mine.

Dumb and mouth-breathing, I watch as she leans back. Estlyn answers my silence with, “I’m not Erin.”

“I know.”

“So, if Eddie crosses me, I’ll bury him.”

I chuckle and watch her drop back into her seat.

I know Estlyn isn’t Erin. I know she won’t cheat on me. But I know I’m not everything she needs. And I don’t know how long it will take her to figure that out.

Chapter Three

Estlyn

September 4

Iwake slick with cold sweat. My heart pounds faster than the knuckles on the door. “Linus,” I whisper and shake his shoulders. “Linus, wake up!”

“What?” He bolts upright in bed, the sheet falling down his bare chest. “Are you okay?”

“Shh!” I cover his mouth with my hand. “Someone’s at the door.”

He lowers my hand from his face and shrugs. “Okay.” He throws back the covers and swings his legs off the side of the bed.

I grab his arm. “What the fuck are you doing?”

It’s dark, but I can still make out his puzzled expression. “I’m going to see who it is.” Well, at least he whispered his dumbass answer.

“In the middle of the night?”

The pounding on the door sounds again.

“I’m just going to look through the peephole.”

He moves to stand, but I clutch his wrist. “Wait!” I let go and roll off the bed until my stomach is flat on the floor, then stretch an arm under the bed. When my hand lands on what I’m looking for, I snatch it, then sit up and hand it to Linus.

“Estlyn! What the fuck is that?”

“What does it look like?”

“When did you get a gun?”

“June. Now––”

“What? You had this under there the first time we slept together?”

“Of course!”

“Why?”

I shove it at him. “Just take it, motherfucker!”

He does, but unloads the magazine onto the bed before tucking the now useless gun into the waistband of his sweats. If I wasn’t so panicked that my stalker––or worse––was at the door, I would be aroused as hell. Linus looks badass with a gun against his butt cheeks.

Linus leans to where I’m now sitting on the bed. Forehead to forehead, his hand on my cheek, he says, “Take a Xanax. I’ll be back.” He leaves, but turns back once he reaches the bedroom doorway. “If this is young Idris Elba, I’m going to say, ‘I told you so.’”

“If this is another one of your exes with a damn cat, Imma kick your white ass out that door.”

Linus snickers and walks away, still lacking any healthy sense of fear.

I tiptoe a few feet behind him as he shuffles through the living room. He stares through the peephole a moment before his shoulders relax and he opens the door. “Leo! What are you––”

Linus freezes, one hand gripping the door’s edge and the other on the frame. On the other side of his silence, sobbing starts.

“God, what happened?”

“Jess,” she chokes out. Or maybe “Yes.” I can’t tell.

“He did this?” Linus seethes. Alright, so more likely “Jess.”

What did Jess do? What’s happening out there? Stop blocking everything, Linus!

Leo continues to cry as Linus relieves her of her bag and leads her into the apartment. When I flip the kitchen light on, I see what all the tears are about.

The feminine face framed by matted blonde hair is smattered with cuts and slashes. Her nose his swollen, the eyes on either side of it shadowed with bruising. Black and blue marks decorate the part of her chest exposed by her form-fitting tank top. I catch sight of a few more bruises on her right arm, but I can’t see if there’s any on her left—her belly is obstructing the view of it.

I’m not naive. I’ve seen plenty of cases of domestic violence. I know husbands beat their wives. Their sick wives. Their pregnant wives. But it’s never walked into my home before.

It’s so much more chaotic up close.

I start to rush toward Linus, then freeze when I realize I shouldn’t intrude on such a delicate situation when I haven’t formally met Leo. But then I take another step closer when getting the Glock out of Linus’s ass emerges as an adrenaline-induced priority. Then I stop again because Leo is shaken up and doesn’t need to see a Mad Black Woman waving a gun around. Gotta think of the optics. My indecision between the gas and brake creates a breeze between my thighs, one that reminds me I’m wearing only a T-shirt that barely covers the flourishing cursive w that is my ass. So, the obvious solution in the chaos is to moonwalk the hell out of there, which I do until I’m safely in the shadows of our bedroom with access to a pair of yoga pants to shelter my booty from the night air.

My butt on the foot of the bed, I’m shoving my legs through the spandex sleeves when Linus and Leo round the corner in time to be greeted by my uncovered vag. I shut my legs and lean my elbows to my knees to hide it. “Leo, right?”

She swipes a tear from her cheek and nods.

“Estlyn.” I wave without lifting my arms from where they shield my lady parts. “Welcome to our home.”

By the time I get my yoga pants over my double-wide ass, Linus has sat Leo down on the couch and himself on the coffee table in front of her. I catch myself fighting a smile at the way he tips her chin up to inspect the lacerations on her face, at his thumb brushing back her tear, at the softness of his words, “You’re safe here, okay?”

After I grab a water bottle from the fridge, I take a seat next to Linus. “Here,” I say as I hand Leo the bottle. On the inside of her forearm that reaches for it, I glimpse a heart outlined in red baseball stitching. Within the shape, black ink exhibits the words, pretty good, too.

Once she takes the water, I lower my face to hers and try to adopt that gentle, feminine voice Michael was always telling me to use outside of debate. “Have you been to the hospital yet?”

Leo sniffs as she wipes her nose with her sleeve. “No, I’m okay.”

“Leo, I know it’s scary, but you need to get checked out. Get record of this. Get a rape kit done. Get––”

She shakes her head. “He didn’t rape me,” she whispers.

Linus’s breath releases in relief. “Please let us take you,” he interjects. “They need to make sure the baby is okay, at least.”

“He’s fine, see?” Leo takes his hand and presses it to the left side of her abdomen. “Wait, maybe he’s over here.” She shifts Linus’s hand toward the middle. His eyes glisten when he feels his nephew kick.

Big whoop. So, the kid kicked? Doesn’t mean he’s okay.

“Have you talked to the police?” I ask.

Her eyes dart to the floor. “No, no,” she says with a fervent shake of her head. “I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Do you know who my husband is?”

“Jesse.” Obviously.

“Jesse Gray. The left-handed pitcher for––”

“The Dodgers. Right.” Straightening, I tap my fingers on the table. “Are you worried the LAPD is so full of Dodger fans that…”

Leo sighs and watches her fingers twist together in her lap. “I don’t have a job,” she explains without making eye contact. “If I go to the police, it would ruin his career. If I ruin his career…”

“It could put your alimony in jeopardy.”

Her eyes snap to mine. “Alimony? I’m not divorcing him.”

Oh, sweet Jesus. I drop my head to my fingertips and massage my temples to keep myself from saying anything rude or insensitive or obvious like, What the fuck are you thinking?

I mean, I guess I understand. I was abused. I relied on my abuser for everything. I even missed my abuser after she died. But I was also a stupid kid and didn’t know any better. Leo’s a grown-ass woman about to have her own stupid kid. What’s her excuse?

Linus lowers his face to hers. “Leo, you can’t stay with him.”

She bolts up from the couch as fast as a pregnant girl can. “I should’ve gone to Mom’s.”

Linus stands and catches her wrist. “No, wait. At least let us take you to the ER. We won’t mention Jesse again, okay?” He looks over his shoulder at me, awaiting my agreement.

“Yeah, no,” which is California millennial for no. “Totally your business. Sorry I said anything.”

Chapter Four

Cal

September 4

“Did you know?” Estlyn whispers against my neck. Her head is limp on my shoulder, arms cuddled against our chests, and legs curled up on my lap in the one visitor’s chair we found in Leo’s tiny OB triage room. Leo’s peeing for the second time since we got to the hospital, making this the first time Estlyn and I have been alone since she showed up at our place.

“About Jesse?”

Estlyn nods.

“No, I had no idea.”

She pulls her face away. “What do you mean? There had to be signs. Was he possessive? Did she become less social after they got together? Did she wear long sleeves when it was hot out?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen her since her wedding two years ago.”

“What? Why not?”

“Jesse played for the Astros up until this summer. She travels with him, and I never got a chance to fly out to Houston.”

“Because the humidity would make your cowlick untamable?”

I smooth down the back of my head. “I don’t have a cowlick.”

“Yeah, right here.” Estlyn’s fingers comb through the right side of my hair. “It flips up instead of down at the beach.”

“I also had a job.”

“No judgement,” she says, hands raised in surrender. “I’d look like Colin Kaepernick after three minutes in Houston.”

I know I shouldn’t find that hot. But I do, and I’m not going to overanalyze it.

“She should stay with us,” Estlyn continues. “I’ll file her restraining order in the morning.”

“You need to ask her permission first.”

“She’ll take the bed, obviously, since she’s one spicy Dorito away from going into labor.”

“Speaking of our bed and what you hide under it, why did you buy a gun in June?”

“We can both fit on the couch, right?”

“Who were you planning to use it on?”

“I can take the chaise, you can take the main part, unless you want to spoon. Could be kinda cute.”

“Wait, are you still planning to use it?”

“We’ll have to get creative about sex.” She gnaws on her thumbnail and looks straight ahead. “We’ve never done it in the bathroom at the Dive. That could be fun.”

“Est.” I grip her jaw between my thumb and finger. “Were you afraid someone was going to hurt you?”

“If we were in Houston, it’d be weirder if I didn’t have a gun.”

So, yes.

Estlyn will admit a lot of things––anger, affection, envy, heartache, stomach ache––but never fear. I’ve seen it, though. I’ve seen her anxiety, her terror. I’ve seen dread that creeps toward hopelessness. But she can’t form words around it. It’s as if there’s so much of it within her that her voice is the only part of her it hasn’t consumed. Her voice is the boundary she refuses to let it cross. Because if it does, if that dam breaks, then nothing can contain the fear. It’ll drown her. And she doesn’t trust me to pull her out of the water.

“Sometimes you scare the shit out of me,” I answer.

“Only sometimes?” She clicks her tongue and shakes her head. “That’s disappointing.”

“God, I’m so ready to have this kid out of me.”

Estlyn and I turn to see Leo waddling from the bathroom.

“When are you due?” Estlyn asks.

“October fifteenth,” she sighs as she drops to the bed.

“You have a name yet?”

Leo kicks her feet up and reclines. “Not yet.”

A freckled woman in blue scrubs pushes past the curtain. “Eleanor?” she asks, her eyes trained on my sister’s open file. She extends her hand and looks up. “I’m Dr. Haas. How are you feeling?”

“Good.”

“Great.” She sits on that rolling doctor stool and looks back down at Leo’s chart. “You’re thirty-four weeks, and you’re here because you got in a car accident?”

I throw Leo a glare. “That’s what you wrote on the form?”

Leo ignores me and answers Dr. Haas. “I just wanted to get checked out to make sure the baby’s okay.”

The doctor drops the page in the file she had lifted and looks back up at Leo. “You were in an accident, right?”

“Yep.”

“Alright, what happened?”

“I swerved into oncoming traffic, then overcorrected and swerved off the road into a ditch. See,” her ring and middle fingers cautiously brush the cuts on her cheek, “from the broken glass.”

“And the bruising here?” the doctor asks, pointing to Leo’s nose.

“My airbag only partially deployed. I hit the steering wheel.”

Dr. Haas nods. “I need to check your cervix. Do you want some privacy?”

Leo waves at me. “Linus, look away.”

No problem.

I cover my eyes and hear Estlyn say, “I’m gonna go ahead and do that, too.”

A dark minute passes before Dr. Haas says, “You’re already at two centimeters and sixty-percent effaced.” Whatever the hell that means.

I hear the paper sheet covering Leo’s lap rustle. “Is that okay?” she asks.

“This is your first, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Thirty-four weeks is early for that kind of progress. Have you been having contractions?”

“No. I don’t think so. Oh, you guys can look now.”

I drop my hands to see the doctor wheeling what I assume is the ultrasound machine––I don’t know for sure since I’ve only seen them on TV––over to her bed. After she exposes Leo’s belly, she squirts some blue goop on it, then slides the little Doppler-wand thing––that’s as specific as I can be with my movie-only medical education and lack of a uterus––over her stretched skin. My eyes jump to the black screen when squirming grey and white curves light it up.

“Okay, so here’s the heart,” Dr. Haas says and points out the four chambers on the monitor. “Looks good…” Dr. Haas moves the wand around Leo’s swollen belly. “Amniotic fluid is all right.” The image zooms out so that we can see my nephew, head to toe.

“You alright?” Estlyn whispers in my ear.

“Yeah, why?”

“You grabbed my hand just now.”

“Oh.”

I let her go, but she smiles and laces her fingers through mine. “That’s not our kid, you know?”

“Shut up,” I snicker.

“When was your last OB appointment, Eleanor?” The doctor freezes the screen, tracing a line over the baby’s leg. She types something then resumes the scan.

“Um, the twenty-week one. When we found out the gender.”

Dr. Haas pauses the image a few more times, each time drawing more lines on my nephew’s arms or legs or head. “You haven’t had any prenatal care in the last three months?”

Leo’s face flushes, and the pitch of her voice heightens like a kid at the dentist. “We’ve been traveling a lot. It was hard to get an appointment.”

“Did you do your glucose test?”

“Yeah. I’m not diabetic.”

Dr. Haas takes a peak at the monitor tracking Leo’s vitals. “Blood pressure is normal,” she mutters. “Any bacterial infections during your pregnancy? Syphilis? Rubella?”

“I had a cold in the spring.”

Fairly sure that’s not what she’s asking, Leo.

“Do you smoke?”

“Nope.”

“Drink?”

Nothing.

All eyes fall on Leo.

Her eyes fall shut.

Shit, Leo.

Besides her hazel eyes, dusty blonde hair, and artistic instinct, Leo inherited my mom’s urge to drink. Though, unlike Mom, my sister didn’t need her coffee Irish every morning to get out of bed. Leo was a social drinker, binging her way through high school and college, but she always put the bottle away when the party was over. She could function without alcohol. She held down a job. She graduated art school even after getting a DUI her junior year. But she wasn’t pregnant with her abuser’s child then. She wasn’t living in fear every day.

She wasn’t trapped.

“About how many drinks a week, Eleanor?” Dr. Haas asks.

Leo’s glassy eyes refuse to leave the ultrasound monitor when she answers, “It’s not every week.”

Dr. Haas grabs a handful of tissues for Leo to wipe the goop off her belly. “When you do drink, how many?”

Focused on cleaning her skin, she shrugged. “I don’t know. A few.”

“What about drugs?”

“No, of course not.” Because that would be crazy? God, what was she thinking?

Be nice. She’s hurt. She’s desperate.

The doctor exhales and rotates the monitor her way, pointing to numbers on the screen. “Your baby’s femur, humerus, and abdominal measurements are small for thirty-four weeks, in about the fifth percentile, which could be a sign of intrauterine growth restriction.” Her fingertips move to the outline of his skull. “The head is in the fifteenth percentile, which is on the lower end of normal. However, if you continue to drink––”

“I won’t,” Leo’s voice breaks. “I swear.”

“I don’t see any direct trauma from the accident, but you are at high risk for preterm labor. You gotta keep that baby in you at least three more weeks, okay?” Dr. Haas pats her arm. “No drinking. No lifting. No sex.”

“No problem,” Leo scoffs.

“You’re on bedrest until at least thirty-seven weeks. And you need to see your OB immediately.”

“Okay.”

“We’ll monitor you and the baby another hour or so, then you can go home.”

Leo nods, and Dr. Haas disappears behind the curtain she entered, leaving the three of us alone in thick silence.

Chapter Five

Estlyn

September 4

It’s a small apartment. Not for two people, but for two estranged siblings yelling at each other at 7:00 AM and for the third party changing the sheets in the single bedroom that has been recently invaded by a feline namesake of E. E. Cummings and will soon be occupied by the sister of the pair shouting in the kitchen. It’s especially tiny since none of us has had more than three hours of sleep. Except the damn cat. He’s curled up on the mattress after I’ve removed the sheets but before I can put new ones on.

I whip the fitted sheet toward Eddie. “Step off, motherfucker.”

He refuses, flaunting his defiance by stretching his claws out in front of him and yawning. Yawning. Am I that nonthreatening? Does he not know that his days are numbered and I’m the one counting down?

I grab a hanger from the closet and poke his furry gut with the rounded edge of it. “Get your creepy asshole off my bed.”

Eddie bats at the wooden hanger like this is a game and not me showing all the self-control I have to not smack him with it. When I realize my attempts are fruitless, I start to make the bed around him, tucking the sheet in at the foot of the bed first. Eddie still doesn’t move when I pull the sheet over him.

My lungs let out a groan and my hands rub my exhausted forehead and cheeks, muscles strung tense from the past few hours. I venture out into the family fight to recruit Linus to remove the vermin from our bed.

“Because I was ashamed!” That’s what I walk into: Leo snapping before snipping through her hospital bracelet with scissors. She drops both on the kitchen counter she leans on. “God, you think I wanted to tell the golden child that I fucked up like this? That I’m a worthless drunk like Mom?”

“Golden child?” Linus says, slamming the top of the coffee maker shut.

So, we settled on waking up then? We’re not going to shut the blackout curtains and pick up sleep where we last left it?

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Oh, please. Mom has always liked you better than me. Every time she calls, it’s always, ‘Isn’t Linus’s show so great?’ and ‘Did you hear he sold his screenplay? They might get Jude Law to star in it!” and ‘He got a four on his American Literature AP test. A four!”

AP test? God, we’re really digging into the archives, aren’t we?

“You mean the show I got fired from?”

Leo rolls her eyes. “Dad fired you, then the show fell apart without you.”

“The show fell apart because Dad couldn’t keep it in his pants.” He crosses the kitchen and presses his hands on the opposite edge of Leo’s counter. “Have you tried AA?”

“Pregnant? Hell no.”

“Why does that matter?”

“And Jesse makes me travel with him, so it’s not even possible.”

“That’s not an excuse. Leo, you’re having a baby. You gotta grow up––”

“That’s not an excuse? What do you think Jesse would do to me if he found out I was drinking while pregnant with his baby, huh? And you want to talk to me about pregnancy, asshole?”

Oh, shit. Step it back, Linus.

He sighs and crosses his arms on the counter. “Sorry, I just––” Linus hangs his head and combs his fingers back through his hair. “You’re not a fuckup, okay? I just worry about you. You hardly talk to me for two years and then you show up in the middle of the night like this, and I––”

Desperate banging on the door interrupts him. From behind it come muffled calls. “Open up!” Pound-pound-pound! “It’s an emergency!”

My eyes dart to the microwave clock. No, that can’t be right. It can’t be 7:14 AM. Because Dean is not only awake, but out of bed. He’s here. I tap the screen of Linus’s phone sitting on the kitchen counter. It says 7:12. That’s even earlier! Is his night just ending now?

“Estlyn!” Dean shouts again.

I jog to the door and swing it open. He grabs my shoulders, walking us into the apartment before closing us inside. “Do you still have cinnamon raisin bread?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

His eyes bore into mine. “Do you?”

“Where’s your key?”

“You guys don’t like it when I let myself in.”

“Because this is much less disruptive?”

He shoves me aside and heads for the pantry cabinet which he begins rummaging through like a raccoon in a dumpster. “Don’t mind me,” he says after passing Leo and Linus, “I’m just hiding out here until the mistake I made last night leaves for work.” Once he has a loaf of cinnamon raisin bread in his arms, he shuts the cupboard and spins toward the toaster. “Est, have you considered moving to a different building? Ooh, or to a house? Maybe it’s time to buy.” He opens the bread and drops two slices in the toaster before opening the silverware drawer. He brandishes a butter knife toward Linus and me. “If Cal here ever makes an honest woman out of you, there are some cute neighborhoods in Thousand Oaks.”

Lord, I have not had enough sleep for this. “If you’re so worried about running into him, you could just not come over. And what happened to our rule about you not sleeping with guys in my building?”

“I didn’t know he lived here.” Glancing up, Dean notices Leo. “Oh, I’m so rude.”

No shit.

Dean drops the butter knife to the granite with a clank before extending his hand to Leo. “I’m Dean, Estlyn’s best friend whom she is so attracted to that she cries herself to sleep every night because I’m irredeemably gay and won’t fall under her persuasion even when intoxicated.”

I shake my head. She shakes his hand.

“Leo. I’m Cal’s sister.”

“Nice to meet you.” There’s a stiff second during which he takes in Leo’s battered face before returning to the toaster. “Est, why are there two bags of hooch on your counter?”

I look at Linus, who straightens up, staring a plea my way to not mention that he’s rounding up all our booze to keep from his sister.

“The creature won’t get off the bed,” I say, changing the subject. “I can’t make it with him on it.”

Linus pushes his hands into his pockets and shrugs. “So move him.”

I scoff. “What do I look like? Pest control?”

“You won’t even touch Eddie?”

“Gross, no!”

He rolls his eyes but disappears into the bedroom.

I clear my throat and lean back against the counter next to Leo. “Not to get in the middle of you two,” I lower my voice, “but Linus really isn’t all that great. I mean, I got a five on that AP exam.”

“Only because you were a nerdy virgin in high school,” Dean chimes in after popping a grape in his mouth.

After Leo cracks a smile, I turn back to him. “You didn’t even know me then.”

Food muffling his voice, he answers, “You were a nerdy virgin freshman year of college. It’s a safe assumption.”

I return to Leo. “Also, Linus has a cat.”

“I like cats.”

I huff a sarcastic, “We could have been friends,” before heading into the kitchen. I peek inside the paper grocery bags that hold all my alcohol. After I pull out an unopened bottle of Chardonnay, I tell Dean, “Can you take this home? It’s not fair for us to drink in front of Leo.”

“You staying, Leo?” he asks her, but I answer.

“Her husband travels for work, and she’s on bedrest until the baby’s full term. We’re helping her out for a while.”

Dean’s eyes light up. “You’re pregnant?”

Leo’s face scrunches, bewildered, as she stands upright from where she was propping her elbows on the counter. “Uh, yeah.”

“Oh. My. God. Can you tell Estlyn it’s wonderful and miraculous or some other brazen lie so she’ll have my baby?”

“No, Dean!” Linus shouts from the bedroom.

My teeth bite my bottom lip, but my laugh still slips through. I like it when Linus acts a little possessive. Even with the irredeemably gay.

“Is it okay if I lie down?” Leo asks and points to the bedroom.

“Yeah, of course.” I pass her on my way to the living room, bottle of wine in hand. After I sit on the floor to open my safe, my phone buzzes in my pocket. An email.

From young Idris Elba.

Ms. Peyton,

Oh, that’s the name I gave him when I reached out about the job. As he was saying…

Thank you for your prompt response. The urgency of this matter matches its delicacy. Are you available to meet today? I have a reservation for us at 3:00 at The Bistro Garden in Burbank. If you cannot make this time, please reply within the hour.

I look forward to our meeting.

James Sterling

My stomach rolls, and not because I’m due for breakfast. This Sterling guy is determining everything. He’s one step––or maybe several––ahead of me. He’s hiring me to fight to get him justice, but for whatever reason it doesn’t feel like we’re on the same side.

I hit reply.

See you then.

I’m probably just paranoid. Rory says I’m always looking over my shoulder when no one’s there. James is probably just in a hurry to have his case settled.

I’m finished locking the bottle of wine inside the safe when I hear Dean sink into the couch behind me. After the bedroom door clicks shut, he asks, “So why is she really here?”

I spin to face him as he crunches on his toast. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Is that the answer to my question?”

“Yeah.”

Chapter Six

Cal

September 4

Dean is still here. I guess that sentence could be the first in many chapters of the story of my life with Estlyn. He has been squatting at our rapidly shrinking apartment for about five hours now, alternating between napping on the couch, eating our groceries while watching Netflix, and working on Estlyn’s laptop. He’s either out of food at his house, or the one-night stand he had last night is still home and he doesn’t want to risk leaving the apartment until the guy’s gone.

I’m writing at the dining table when I hear the bedroom door open. I turn to see Leo collecting her tangled blonde hair into a messy bun as she yawns.

“Good morning,” I say. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay,” Leo answers as she takes a few more steps toward the kitchen. She stops and points toward the living room. To me she mouths, “He’s still here?”

I roll my eyes and nod.

“Where are the glasses?” she asks as she heads into the kitchen.

“If you want water, there are bottles in the fridge.”

She opens the fridge, her eyes widening at the shelf that exclusively holds water bottles. “Why don’t you guys filter the tap water?” She grabs one and shuts the fridge. Shaking the bottle she adds, “These are terrible for the environment.”

I chuckle because I’ve said the same to Estlyn—verbatim, I think. “I know. But Estlyn doesn’t trust tap water.”

“Not even filtered?”

“Not enough to drink it every day.”

“That’s a little crazy.”

I toss my hands up and offer her an I have no idea grin. “She’s full of conspiracy theories.”

“Is she ever right?”

My forehead creases as I think about it for a moment. “Yeah, actually. Sometimes.”

Leo nods. Not in understanding or anything like that. She nods because she doesn’t know what to say.

“Recycling’s under the sink.”

She nods again as she takes a swig of water. “Well, I better run.” She starts to stand, mumbling something that sounds like, “Why did I bother sitting down?”

“What? Where are you going?”

“I gotta go pick up some clothes, a toothbrush, stuff like that.”

“You can’t go back to your house.”

“No, I’m not stupid. I was just going to buy a few things.”

“You’re on bed rest. You can’t go anywhere.”

“I have no clothes.”

I cross my arms, my shoulders lifting in a shrug. “Give me a list. I’ll buy you some.”

“You’re going to buy me maternity clothes?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“And panties?”

“I guess.”

“And comfy nursing bras?”

“If I have to.”

She sighs. “You pick up the clothes. I’ll order toiletries and have them same-day shipped.”

“Do you need any baby things while we’re out?” Dean pipes up from the living room. Leo and I look over to see him sitting up and apparently no longer asleep.

“No,” Leo answers, “just the clothes are fine.”

“You sure? No onesies? Tiny socks or hats? Ooh, what about those little sleepers with the feet?”

Damn, he is baby crazy. Estlyn needs to keep her eggs the hell away from him.

“Yes, I’m sure, Man I Met Only Hours Ago.” She waddles over to her purse on the kitchen counter and pulls out her wallet. “Take my card.”

“Nuh-uh,” Dean says as he stands from the couch. “Your husband would be able to track your purchases. That’ll make it easier to find out where you’re staying.”

Leo’s face whips to mine. Yikes, she is not happy. “You told him?”

“No, honey,” Dean responds on my behalf. “I have the EQ of Oprah. I knew your story the moment I saw you. You and Linus haven’t seen each other in a while, I gather?”

Leo nods.

“And Linus feels that your current situation is his fault.”

“Umm…” I start but have no sentence to actually say, so Dean continues.

“But you feel,” again to Leo, “that you deserve this, and in fact everything bad that happens from here on out in your life, because you drank while pregnant. That’s why you are trying to inconvenience your estranged brother as little as possible, yes?”

Her lips part as she glares at Dean.

“See, hon, we don’t need to pretend to keep secrets from each other.” He winks then snatches his wallet and keys from the kitchen counter. “I’ll pay for them, then you can Venmo me. But change your Venmo password first.” He tips his chin at me to follow him to the door. I do after squeezing Leo’s hand.

“Sorry,” I whisper. “Text me the list?”

Speechless, she nods.

I catch up to Dean in the hall and whisper, “You’re a shitty liar.”

He smirks and says, “It’s not fair to compare me to Estlyn.”

Chapter Seven

Estlyn

September 4

He’s late. My clients never make me wait, but I’ve already been sitting at the bar long enough to polish off a glass of the most expensive white wine on The Bistro Garden menu. I lift my hand to order another one. Why not? Mr. Sterling’s paying for it.

If he ever shows up.

“Ms. Peyton?”

I turn toward the voice behind me. No, I look up at it. Sterling is tall––tall and close enough to smell the scent of new Porsche and subtle cologne drifting off him. And he is not a young Idris Elba. Sure, he’s got that commanding Elba vibe, but how had no one thought of Michael B. Jordan? Spitting image.

“Our meeting was at three,” I answer. “I was ‘bouta leave.”

He looks at his watch. Who wears watches anymore? Rich people. And annoying, super-fit types with their fucking pedometer watches that double as smart phones. Sterling’s is a millionaire’s watch. “It’s seven minutes past. I apologize.”

I chugged that whole glass of wine in seven minutes? Okay, I’m nervous. This man stalked me. How long has he been keeping track of me? Is he still watching me? And why? I mean, I’m hot, but not that hot.

I stand, poised to leave. “I don’t tolerate people who waste my time.” I tip my chin to him. “Tab’s under your name.”

My heels click twice on the floor before he says, “Dillon, hold up.”

Dillon. The soles of my stilettos stick to the tile. How the hell does he know my name? I pivot toward him. “What? You tryna intimidate me?”

His lips slip into a smile that’s icy with warmth. “Not at all. I simply prefer to start relationships from a place of total honesty. Especially business ones.” His hand offers to shake mine. “James.”

I give him my hand. My grip flinches at the rough skin on his palms, calluses that clash with his charcoal Burberry suit and Valentino tie.

“Miss?” the bartender calls from behind me. We both turn to see him setting my glass of Chardonnay on the bar.

“‘Bouta leave, huh?” James says with a smirk.

I roll my eyes before I take my wine and follow him to our table.

The moment we’re alone, I ask, “Why were you late?”

“My daughter. I had to pick her up from school.”

Right. He picks up his kid from school. “I thought you insisted on starting from ‘a place of total honesty,’” I air quote.

He reaches into his pocket for his phone, which he sets between us on the table. His finger taps Play on a voicemail that starts through the speaker phone.

“Hi, Mr. Sterling, it’s Nurse McCarthy from Harvard-Westlake. Adaline fainted in ballet this afternoon. We need you to pick her up as soon as––”

James stops the message, then holds the phone up so I can see the timestamp. “That was at 2:02 PM.”

I nod. “Nanny’s day off?”

He shakes his head. “Nanny? She’s sixteen.”

“Wow. Y’all had her young.”

“We did.”

“Why’d she faint?”

“That’s a little personal.”

“So is my birth name, motherfucker.”

James’s tongue rolls over his bottom lip before he leans his forearms on the table. Sighing, he whispers, “Adaline has an eating disorder.”

Shit.

“Started after we lost her mom a year ago.”

Goddamn it.

“Now,” he sits back, his hands parting as he adds, “you see that I trust you. You willing to trust me?”

My shoulders shrug toward my ears as I pull in a breath. “Trust is best measured in dollars, don’t you think?”

“Is two hundred fifty thousand enough dollars?”

My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth while I try not to pee my pants. I cross my legs.

“That’s everything Young took from you, plus interest.”

The half of my brain that is relatively sound of judgment twitches at the fact that James knows the police took my money in a civil forfeiture. It’s even more disturbed that he has any idea of the amount. But that half of my brain knows my bank account balance is, well, filled with lust of the untamable kind.

Damn. He’s playing me. And he’s really good at it.

I twist the stem of my wine glass, allowing James to continue his pitch. He doesn’t need to know I’ve already made up my mind.

“The job…” He pulls in a breath, “So, I’m a real estate investor. But you probably already knew that.”

I flinch. Clearly, I didn’t investigate this guy thoroughly. It’s not like he gave me much time. “Online it said––”

“Sterling Agrochemical.”

I nod.

“Right.” His eyes descend to his hands clasped on the table. “When you were a kid, what did you want to do when you grew up?”

What does this have to do with him sort of being an engineer? I want to say, That’s none of your business, asshole, but my mind is so fogged with dollar signs that the answer slides from my tongue. “A country singer.”

He restrains a smirk, but the smile he keeps from his lips lights his eyes. “A country––”

“You heard me, negro.”

That smile finally breaks through. “And why aren’t you one now?”

I snicker. “What?”

James hasn’t deviated from his serious tone when he asks, “What happened between now and then that kept you from becoming a country singer?”

“Um, twenty years of real life.”

He sits quietly, waiting for me to elaborate.

“My dad went to prison,” I relent. “He was an English teacher, so I majored in English, tryna, I don’t know, pick up where he left off, I guess. Then…” After a deep breath, I still can’t bring myself to say:

“Michael was murdered,” James finishes my sentence.

Whatever. That’s public record. There are half a dozen Los Angeles Times articles that mention Dillon Collins sitting in the front seat of that Camry, refusing to get out after the paramedics arrived. There are hundreds of photos of Collins soaked in Michael Bishop’s blood. There are a handful of quotes from Collins’s court testimony against Officer Monroe that circulated online.

My eyes sting, and now they, too, plummet to the clasped hands on the table. “Michael had been accepted to UCLA Law.”

“He would’ve been a good lawyer?”

“He was a good man.” My eyes cut to James’s. “I’m the better lawyer.”

He sits back for a moment before saying, “I wanted to be a doctor.”

“Oh?”

“Ever since I can remember.”

My elbows sink into the tabletop as I hover over my wine. “So what happened? Why’s there no Dr. James Sterling?”

“My father wouldn’t pay for any bachelor’s degree that wasn’t in chemistry or engineering.”

“In his defense,” I say, pausing to swallow a sip of wine, “you were a disappointment, wanting to be a doctor and all.”

He smiles. “It’s his company. I’m his only child.”

“Ah.”

“Anyway, my boring day job is irrelevant,” he says with a flick of his fingers. “I’m barely there anymore.”

“Right. Real estate. Much more exciting.” I wink.

“Exactly.” He opens his hands on the table as he says, “There are two types of real estate I build or invest in. The first is luxury apartments. You know the ones on Burton, up in Beverly Hills?”

I shake my head.

“What about the ones on Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica? I assume you’re familiar with those.”

Shit. This guy’s my landlord. My hands fold on the table, and I straighten in my chair. “What’s the other kind of real estate you develop?”

“Subsidized housing in Santa Clarita Valley. Well,” he tilts his head from side to side as he corrects, “just outside Santa Clarita Valley. The city council wouldn’t approve the project within city limits. Anyway, we have five hundred units in sixty-five buildings. So, about two thousand tenants live there who pay sliding-scale rent based on their income.”

“Okay, sorta like public housing.”

“Well…” He lifts a finger to contest. “Without the same limitations.”

“Limitations?”

“Public housing is strict about criminal records. Any prior convictions or even arrests without convictions can disqualify an applicant or get them evicted.”

I sit back and cross my arms. “But you’ll take anybody?”

“No, of course not. Not sex offenders or murderers or anything like that. But people on parole for nonviolent offenses? A kid who has a misdemeanor and can’t get public housing for three years? Someone in and out of rehab? Sure. Gotta live somewhere, right?”

My eyes trail from his perfectly trimmed beard down his tailored suit jacket. This philanthropy act clashes with the subtle floral print on his four-hundred-dollar tie. Am I really supposed to buy that he’s the give back to society kind of wealthy and not the let’s exploit the lower classes and look the other way as we get rich off their suffering sort of guy?

“You’re a slumlord.”

There’s no offense in his grin that stretches from cheek to cheek. “May I take you for a drive, Ms. Collins?”

Two fingers prop my head up against the passenger window as I watch the city disappear into the hills and the freeway descend into suburbia beyond them. We’re exiting off the 14 Freeway in James’s Tesla––not the Porsche I’d imagined, but still, a Tesla––when I say, “I used to live up here.” I don’t know why I just volunteered this information. Creeper Man probably already knows.

“In Canyon Country?” Playing dumb. That’s polite.

“Valencia.” My neighborhood was on the west side of the valley. We’re headed east.

We drive up the hill, past Golden Valley High School, past shopping centers, past tract homes, until we go through the open gate of a sprawling townhouse complex. As James parks, he says, “The location’s not ideal, with the landscape up against the mountain. We’ve lost a building to a wildfire in the past and were evacuated a few other times.”

“Damn. Then why’d you build here?”

“City council wasn’t thrilled at the possibility of having released convicts within city limits.” He unbuckles his seatbelt, but before he swings open his door, he looks at me. “But we wanted the kids to be able to bus to schools in an upper-class zip code.”

What’s with the euphemisms? I lived in Santa Clarita. I know upper class zip code means white zip code. Why doesn’t he just say it?

I remain in the car after he shuts his door behind him. It’s only now that I notice we’re parked in front of a basketball court with a playground behind it. Four of the five teenagers on the court look like James. Look like Michael. Look like my dad.

Past the dribbling ball, I see a girl pushing someone who must be her younger sister on a swing.

A girl who looks like me.

My stare is broken when James opens my door. I look up at him as he offers me his hand. “Where’d these families used to live?” I ask.

“About seventy percent of them are from South Los Angeles. Others are from San Bernardino, East LA, a couple from Lancaster––all over southern California.”

“But most are from South Central?”

He nods.

Eyes wide, I whisper, “You got’em off the island.”

“Island?” James stares at me like I’m an idiot or have permanent damage to the section of my brain that processes geography. For the record, I’m aware that South Central Los Angeles is not an island.

Except that it is.

If I could explain, it would be obvious that my logic is seamless.

Maybe.

Probably not.

Whatever, I’ll give it a shot.

Eighth grade was my first year at a predominantly upper-class, white-ass, private academy with a classical approach to education. The summer before, my then foster, now adoptive parents met with my dad to discuss my transferring out of my current public junior high where I was apparently showing signs of being under-challenged.

In other words, getting into trouble.

Nothing big like sex or drugs. Not even drinking or fighting. More like being disruptive in class by arguing unnecessarily with my teachers about points on which they were wrong. I didn’t have any friends or means to get any, so I had nothing to lose going full-nerd in class, despite students’ snickers, whispers, and stares.

Especially in history class.

I guess Mr. Cronin did not appreciate my ‘your history is not my history’ rebuttal to about every one of his lessons. In my defense, I studied the syllabus the night before each class to make sure I knew which points to challenge, for what reasons, and with which resources. If anyone left that course with a thorough knowledge of US history, it was me. That’s easy to overlook as a teacher, however, if one of your students daily raises her hand to ask something along the lines of:

“What about the clause in the Thirteenth Amendment that legalizes slavery for the incarcerated?”

“What about the black veterans who fought in World War II who were refused the mortgages they were promised because the VA created exclusively white neighborhoods?”

“What about the fact that the women’s liberation movement only applies to white women since women of color had no choice but to work to support their families for decades?”

“What about Reagan’s thinly-veiled declaration of war on the black and brown communities through the War on Drugs?”

Reagan.

Oops.

At the time, I had no idea that Reagan is considered by the whites to be one of the greatest presidents of all time, and that therefore, calling him out on a bad policy is like calling the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. out on his inability to keep his dick to his wife. It’s something people just don’t do.

The next time I raised my hand in class, Mr. Cronin didn’t call on me.

The day after, I sat in the front row and raised my hand. He didn’t look at me.

The following day, I covered his entire classroom door in permanent-marker penmanship. The words composing my graffiti were the Langston Hughes poem I learned in English class:

Looks like what drives me crazy

Don’t have no effect on you—

But I’m gonna keep on at it

Till it drives you crazy, too.

My English teacher chuckled.

My history teacher fumed.

My principal suspended me.

I would have been expelled had that English teacher, Mr. Matthews, not gone to bat for me. He even called Mr. Cronin’s behavior a violation of the First Amendment and cautioned the principal that I could have grounds for a lawsuit if expelled. Gotta love Mr. Matthews.

Needlessly long story short, my three parents enrolled me in Excellere Academy, at which I had too much homework to research and craft verbal arguments against the teachers.

But damn, the tweens there were bitches.

Rumors of my origins evolved at an explosive pace. The slivers of truth that I was a foster kid with a black father in prison for murder and a record of suspension for vandalism morphed into my being a gang member from South Central, expelled from my last school for drug dealing with a side of tagging. My dad stayed a murderer in prison. To be fair, that’s a hard one to top.

For whatever reason, those eighth-grade girls were convinced my clothes covered up all sorts of track marks, gang tattoos, and possibly even a scar from a stabbing. This they deduced partly because I changed in the bathroom stall of the locker room for PE class instead of joining them as they flaunted their awkward middle-school bodies to each other in front of the mirror.

They never considered that I hid my scantily clad body from them because the only people who had seen it naked had raped it.

When those girls could no longer contain their curiosity, a handful of them busted in the door to my bathroom stall. After all the squealing and screaming and photo-snapping, I sat on the locker-room floor, knees curled to chest, covering my bruised head and arm from where the door had crashed into me.

All that, and I knew nothing about gangs. I grew up in Altadena, the semi-rural suburbs of Pasadena. I had never even been to Watts or East LA or Compton. I didn’t know what gangs did or why they were scary. So, as with anything else, I researched.

And holy shit, did inner-city black people look bad. They were shooting each other and getting arrested, dealing drugs and bragging about it, unemployed and fatherless. It all suddenly made sense: why foster parents didn’t want to take me. Why these kids from uber-suburbia expected to find me tatted up and packing. To find me scarred and high.

For the first time, I wondered if they were right. I mean, the facts were plentiful and damning.

My dad killed my mom.

I was a “troubled” foster kid.

I framed a kid for plotting a school shooting.

I got suspended from public school.

All that, and I hadn’t even started high school yet.

Maybe it was in our blood. Maybe all those things I’d said to Mr. Cronin were wrong. Maybe his history was the only history. Maybe ours was a fantasy. Or worse.

An excuse.

That weekend, as promised to my social worker, my foster parents drove me out to Lancaster to see my dad. After several attempts to work up the nerve, I finally asked, “Daddy, were you ever in a gang?”

“What?” He laughed, this warm chuckle that rose up from his gut. “No, of course, not. Why would you ask that?”

“Why weren’t you?”

“What do you mean? Why would I be?”

I lowered my voice and leaned in to ask, “Is every other black person in here from a gang?”

Dad sat back and crossed his arms over his chest. His brow furrowed, and the troubled eyes beneath it stared at me. For a long time. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. You understand that?”

I shook my head. “No, no, I’m not–– It’s just…” I sighed and dropped my gaze to my swollen middle finger, the one the stall door had jammed when the girls broke it down. “These kids at school…” I scanned the wall behind my dad, hoping to find the words there. “Not just them, you know, lots of people… Maybe they’re right.” My eyes wandered to his swarthy hands folded on the table. “About us, I mean.”

His finger stretched across the table to brush mine, long enough for me to know he wanted me to look at him, short enough that a CO wouldn’t notice. “About you and me?”

I brave his eyes and answer, “About all of us.”

“Baby, you’re going to have to start speaking in full sentences.”

I huffed. “If black neighborhoods are so dangerous, if all these black people are drug dealers or murderers or in gangs or in prison…” I pointed around the room without lifting my palm from the table. “Then there’s a reason, right? I mean, this isn’t slavery. It’s not segregation. No one is forcing them to break the law. Forcing us. I even…” I rolled my eyes, landing them on his. “So, why…” I lost the rest of my sentence when I saw him smiling.

“Baby girl, you’ve got a good brain.”

That’s nice. A little off topic, though.

“Logical, resourceful, sometimes wise. Which is how I know your heart is hurting too much right now to use it right.”

I dabbed my eye with the sleeve of my shirt and scoffed.

“I talked to Cassi.”

Damn it. My dumbass foster mom probably––

“She told me what happened after PE class.”

Bitch.

I tugged my sleeves down to cover my palms, then folded my hands at my lips, resting my elbows on the table. My eyes refused to meet his.

Dad sat back and brushed his hands over his thighs. “Have you read Lord of the Flies in school yet?”

“What?” I sniffed.

“If you’re studying the modern era this year, you should be reading it.”

“I––” I shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Can you do me a favor and read it before I see you next? Even if it’s not assigned?”

I nodded.

And I read it.

The next weekend, I returned, slapped the book on the table in front of him, and said, “I read it.” That’s all I could say about it because my teeth were grinding as they restrained me from shouting, Why the hell would you have me read the most depressing book about children killing each other when I’m already feeling like shit? I could have just read The Hunger Games. At least that had hot guys in it! What kind of father are you?

“What did you think?” he asked.

It was a stupid-ass waste of my time. “It had nothing to do with our conversation last week.”

“What were some of the themes?”

Oh, God, not the teacher voice. I dropped my face between my palms, then massaged my temples with them. “Uh… we’re all savages if no grownups are around.”

“Okay, but the grown-ups weren’t any better, right? They were at war. Anyway, keep going,” he said, ignoring my pissy attitude.

I tossed my hands up. “That’s it! It’s a terrible book! And they kill the fat kid who couldn’t breathe.”

Dad grinned. “What else is missing besides grownups?”

“I don’t know…” I mumbled.

“Come on, Dil. They’re plane-wrecked on an island. Lots of stuff is missing.”

I groaned. “Food, maybe? Houses. Plumbing. Electricity. Cities.”

“Okay, basic needs. Civilization,” he confirms. “What else?”

“Girls?”

“Sure.” He nods. “What about law? Order?”

“They try to set up order.”

“Uh-huh, with the conch.”

I shrugged. “Sure.”

“What about a way to communicate with people off the island? A way to get off the island?”

“They have a fire to communicate, to try to get someone to see them.”

“But what ultimately gets them off the island?”

“The fire they use when they’re trying to kill off that main kid.”

“And who sees the fire?”

“Some military guy who saves them.”

“Right. Oh, and why were the kids in the plane that crashed in the first place?”

“They were escaping some war.”

“So,” his fingers ticked off his list as he spoke, “here you have boys with no resources, no food, no parents, no sure way to communicate with people who can help them, nowhere to go, and their home is war-torn.”

I nodded, so fucking bored my thirteen-year-old attention span was twitching.

“All right, many black people migrated to Los Angeles or Oakland or other cities to pursue jobs or escape the states in which their parents or grandparents had been enslaved.”

Oh, so there is a point. Carry on.

“That’s your plane,” he continued, “to escape unlivable conditions.”

“Yeah, but that plane didn’t crash.” This felt like a stretch, like my dad just wanted me to read a book because he was an English teacher and that’s the kind of shit those bastards always tried to pull.

“I’m saying they landed on an island. Last week you said black neighborhoods. Why do you think there are some poor black neighborhoods?”

“Redlining?”

He smiles. “Okay, good. Black families crowded into industrial areas without enough housing because they couldn’t buy houses in white neighborhoods.” Dad drew a circle with his finger on the table. “There’s your island.”

Okay…

“Now, you’re denied good-paying jobs or jobs at all because of your race. So, you struggle to get your limited resources. Think little-to-no food like on the island. Fast forward to the Reagan Era––” He flinched when I snickered. “What? Why is that funny?”

“Nothing,” I said as I waved him on.

“Now your resources are even scarcer, and the police are rounding up the young men for prosecutors to give long prison sentences to for drugs. At the same time, kids in white neighborhoods,” Dad pointed on the table somewhere off the invisible island he’d drawn, “get little to no time or college and careers for using and dealing the same drugs. So…” On the table, he pinched and removed an imaginary part of the island. “There goes a generation of fathers. Now you have single moms working multiple jobs, and––”

“Kids left alone.”

He gave me that good, you’re getting it teacher nod. “Kids who then rally around a charismatic leader, kids who succumb to the same peer pressures that kids in the suburbs do. Suburban kids deal drugs, too, but they don’t need them to gain power and financial stability the way urban kids do. That’s where it starts to look different.”

I nodded.

“So, back to the book. What happened when they had more than one potential leader?”

“They fought a lot.”

“So in the city, this looks like rival gangs. Territory wars. Kids killing kids. Now…” Dad pointed back to the invisible island. “Suppose the people in the inner city want to get out or get help. They have to communicate with the rest of the country. That happens in lots of ways––protests, documentaries, books, social media, rap. Those are like the signal fire. But when that doesn’t work, when the rage of being desperate and oppressed is ignored by the nation, people riot. Which is like––”

“Setting the island on fire.”

He nodded. “How’d you feel at the end of the book when Ralph found the naval officer on the beach?”

My shoulders rose before my exhale dropped them. “I don’t know, Dad. I was pretty annoyed by the end that you made me read it.”

“Fine,” he snickered. “Besides that, were you afraid? Relieved? Sad?”

“Relieved and sad,” I relented. “Because sure, some of the kids were saved, but the others still died. And those boys who killed them aren’t really kids anymore.”

“They lost their innocence.”

“I guess.”

“Okay. Replace the naval officer with a police officer.”

My stomach sank.

“Make sense?”

I swallowed through the thickness in my throat and nodded.

“Baby girl, this is not a black thing. Every race has gangs. Every race kills each other. I mean, how many black guys do you see shooting up schools? What about black serial killers?”

I shrugged.

“None.”

“Huh.”

“Our skin, where we live—none of it taints us, okay?”

I nodded. “Okay.”

“It’s just that nobody thrives on a deserted island.”

I turn to James, who is expecting me to explain why South Central is an island. “No, it’s…” too convoluted to explain to a client. Or anyone. I shake my head. “Nothing,” I say as I climb out of the car and shut the door.

James leads me to one of the nearby units, one with a note on the door from management notifying the tenant that the owner will be stopping by. He knocks. A young mom with a baby on her hip and a phone to her ear answers.

“Hang on,” she says into the phone. “You the owner?” she asks James.

“Yeah, may I?” he points to the kitchen.

“Sure,” she says as she nods us inside her home.

Her chatter fades as she heads up the carpeted stairs. My eyes follow her until James’s voice brings them to the kitchen, where he sheds his jacket and messenger bag, draping them over a dining chair. “What is it that you do exactly, Dillon?”

I scoff. “What, you don’t know everything about me already?”

“I reached out because I saw you take down Young. If you can ruin a DA, you can do just about anything.” As he pulls two plastic bottles and what look like some of those cheap strip pregnancy tests still in their flat, metallic wrappers from his bag, he continues, “But your day job––I couldn’t find anything about that anywhere. You said you’re a lawyer?”

So, maybe I’m overestimating his Estlyn intel. Maybe his first glimpse of me was at that fundraiser. Maybe I have done a decent job separating Dillon Collins from Estlyn at After Twelve. “What were you doing at that fundraiser?”

“I wasn’t. My friend’s a journalist for the Times,” he says as he moves to the sink, unbuttons the cuffs of his sleeves, and rolls them up. James fills one of the bottles with tap water from the sink, the other from a filter attached to the faucet. “He sent me the photos of you. I gave them to my PI, who gave me your name.”

“Then you followed me to my boyfriend’s bar?”

He shrugs and unwraps one of the test strips before dipping it in the first bottle he filled.

“That seems normal,” I mumble before answering his question. “Yeah, I’m a lawyer.”

Without looking up from his little tap water science experiment, he replies, “What kind?”

“Civil.” That’s the lie I stick with.

He nods, but we both know he’s not buying my answer.

When he dips a fourth test strip, I finally ask, “What are we doing here?”

“Did you know almost all the municipal water in the United States runs through lead pipes?”

“No, I must have skipped that day in my municipal water class.”

James continues to dip and lay out test strips from each bottle of water when he glances up through his eyebrows at me. “If all the pipes have lead in them, why don’t we all have lead poisoning?”

I shake my head. “You’re the scientist.”

His lips curve into a crooked smile at his kitchen lab. “City water is treated with corrosion control agents to minimize how much lead leaches from the pipes into the water. But when those agents aren’t added, the pipes break down. Flecks of lead mix into the water and make it look like this.” James holds up one of the bottles filled with cloudy, brown water.

“Holy shit,” I breathe as my feet stride toward the kitchen. “That came out of the faucet?”

“So did this,” James says as he holds up the filtered water. It doesn’t have particles floating in it like the other glass, but it’s not exactly transparent, either. “The EPA-set standard for lead in drinking water is less than fifteen parts per billion.” His fingertips press two of the test strips on the counter my way. “The unfiltered water has over one hundred ppb, the filtered between ten and twenty. It’s hard to tell with these color-gradient tests, but––”

“But it’s still a shit-ton of lead.”

He sighs. “Right.”

“Okay, so why haven’t I heard about this? If the whole valley has brown water––”

James shakes his head. “They don’t. We’re not connected to Santa Clarita’s city water.”

“What? Then where does this water come from?”

“We share the same water treatment plant as those rural areas between here and Palmdale––Acton, Agua Dulce, Ravenna. But most of their homes are on well water, so if their water is brown, it’s only affecting, you know, the one gas station they have out there.”

“Can’t you have the water plant add that anti-corrosive stuff?”

He plants his palms on the counter and drops his head to his chest as he snickers. “Officially, they are adding it.”

“What?”

“State officials inspected the plant after we made several complaints. On that day, everything was up to their standards.”

“On that day,” I confirm.

“Right. They tested water from one of the apartments, said everything about the water was safe, and that, if we were ‘unsatisfied with the taste or odor of our tap water,’ we should work with our neighboring city.”

“Santa Clarita.”

He nods.

“Okay, so, get hooked up to Santa Clarita’s water.” That’s as technically savvy as I can sound. I have no idea how any of this works.

“We can…” His words linger as he unrolls his sleeves and buttons the cuffs. “But they’ll charge us a fee to use to their supply, and 225% the rate of customers within city limits. We already have to foot the bill for damage done to pipes and hot water heaters from the corrosion.”

“But the city required you to build outside city limits.”

James’s full lips widen. “So you understand my indignation at their response.”

“Do I understand why you would be mad that they’re trying to Flint you? Yeah, I can understand that. What do you need me to do? Get the EPA out here? The ACLU? The Times?”

“No. I’m not hiring you to repeat Flint’s response to poisoned water.”

That’s a little rude. The people of Flint’s response were pretty damn amazing.

“My tenants aren’t going to wait years for clean water.”

“So, what do you want me to do?”

“You’re going to make it Santa Clarita’s problem.”

“Oh.” Shit, this guy does not play around. “You want me to poison their water?”

“Poison?” His eyebrow rises with his tone. “Our water isn’t poisonous, is it? Not according to the state. If subsidized housing tenants can drink it, why can’t everyone?”

I massage the bridge of my nose between my finger and thumb and squeeze my eyes shut. “If this were even the tiniest bit ethical, how do you expect me to pull it off? Am I supposed to get them to switch to your water? Can that treatment plant even handle the valley’s population?”

“The treatment plant can handle it. And you’re going to get the city to switch the same way anyone gets politicians to do anything.”

“And when that bribe isn’t enough to get the mayor to quietly taint his constituents’ water…?”

“You’ll do what you do to get a politician to do what we want.”

Wow.

“Look, sir, I think it’s disgusting that the city is excluding and price-gouging your community, but I don’t do cases with such massive collateral damage. We’re talking hundreds of thousands of people with lead poisoning, thousands of those kids and infants.”

“Ms. Collins, what do you think is happening here?”

“You’re asking me to spread a disease when you need a cure.”

“I’m asking you to spread a disease so the people who can cure it will have a reason to.”

“Why can’t you sell your Tesla and collection of Versace pocket squares to pay for the water switch?”

“Why should I have to? And you know that won’t be enough to cover the switch, let alone the monthly water bill for two-thousand people.”

I pull in a breath to collect my temper before answering. “Thank you, Mr. Sterling, for the opportunity, but I recommend you find someone else for the job.”

I head out the door without a glance over my shoulder.

Chapter Eight

Cal

September 4

Estlyn trudges through the Dive until she makes it to the counter. In a single, heavy motion, she drops her messenger bag on a stool and climbs onto the one next to it, letting her head slump into her hands. She’s in work clothes––a professional charcoal dress and black heels with red soles––but she’s definitely not about to work.

Wet martini it is.

I clink the glass on the bar, then start her drink while I wait for an explanation. Toothpick-speared olives plunk into the gin when she finally raises her head. Her fingers wrap around the stem as she says, “Can you tell me about your day so I can stop thinking about mine?”

“Well…” My palms plant outstretched on the counter, elbows locking as I lean on it. “I had the novel experience of shopping for maternity clothes today.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Oh? With Leo?”

“No, that would make too much sense.” Shaking my head, I answer. “With Dean.”

She spit-giggles into her martini glass before setting it on the bar. “What? Dean isn’t that kind of gay.”

“No, he isn’t great at picking out maternity clothes. Or sticking to a list. Or not wandering next door to the baby store in which every single woman thought we were a ‘beautiful couple.’”

Estlyn weaves her fingers together, then rests her chin on top of them. With smiling eyes, she asks, “What did you say to that?”

“I didn’t say anything. Dean told everyone, ‘Thank you, our surrogate is due in January. We can’t wait!’”

Laughing, she runs her hands over my forearms. “Are you having a boy or a girl?”

“A little girl. We can’t decide between Cambria and Brooklyn for the name, but we know we want all our kids to be named after cities we love.” I shrug. “So I’ve heard.”

She bites through the slight smile playing on her lips. “Whose sperm did you use?”

“His for our first. Mine for our second.”

She pulls herself toward me until I feel her bottom lip between mine. We part, though only a few inches, just enough for her to whisper, “You two are going to make great dads.”

Before she can sit, I lace my fingers through her curls and tip her head back to taste her again, to breathe in the scent of her skin, to hear that almost inaudible intake of breath she steals when I kiss her. I stroke her cheek with my thumb when I reply, “I know.”

She laughs, then shoves me away.

“You had a shitty day?”

Another sip of her martini down, she answers, “Yeah.” Her gaze floats to the ceiling as if she’s watching the events of the last few hours projected up there. I look up, too. I don’t know why. “Well, I don’t know. It depends.” After a pause, she adds, “What would you do for a quarter of a million dollars?”

I smirk, squinting at her. “Are you Indecent Proposal-ing me? Because I think we’ve established I’ll sleep with you free of charge.”

“Thanks for the drink, by the way,” she says, raising the glass to me. “You have a bright future if this screenwriting thing flops.”

Why is she changing the subject? She only does this when she’s nervous. “Wait—the job is a quarter of a million dollars?”

She sighs. “Yep.”

“Did he Indecent Proposal you?” I chuckle, but not in the confident kind of way. It’s the kind that makes it obvious I’m terrified to hear the answer.

Estlyn grimaces. “God, no. It doesn’t matter anyway. I didn’t take the job.”

“Why not?”

“It’s unethical.”

I laugh, but stop when she frowns.

“What is it that you think I do?”

“No, I just didn’t think you let ethics hold you back.”

“Linus, I care more about ethics than anyone. I find justice in creative ways, not immoral ones.”

“Sorry, you’re just so secretive, I––”

“Client confidentiality. Oh, on that note, what did Leo say about the restraining order?”

I shake my head. “She’s afraid of doing anything on paper in case it gets leaked to the press.”

She waves her hand, then swallows another swig. “Oh, I’ll make sure it gets leaked to the press.”

“Est, you can’t––”

She slams the glass down. “Linus, really? He’s going to beat the shit out of your pregnant sister, and we’re going to let him get away with it? You’re going to let him get away with it? Let him continue his dream job with his twenty-five million-dollar salary where he’s idolized by hundreds of thousands of people, including little boys who want to grow up to be like him?”

I slip my hand over hers. “I love that you care about her, but––”

“Yes, I’m very lovable.”

“But Leo isn’t your client. This is not your wrong to right.”

Her dark eyes sharpen until they slash into mine. “They’re all my wrongs to right.”

Chapter Nine

Estlyn

September 5

“Are you sure you don’t want one?” I look up at Leo from my laptop. She drops into the dining chair next to me with one of the deli sandwiches we had delivered for lunch. Since Olivia got pregnant, I have learned that deli meat during pregnancy is more or less a no-no. But it’s better than pounding tequila, so I’d buy Leo a meat platter if she asked. “I’m filing my own already. It’s not any trouble.”

“No.” Leo forces a smile. “Jess doesn’t know where I am. I don’t think I need a restraining order.”

“Well, if you change your mind, I’m happy to help.” I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose and refocus on my computer, where I’m supposedly filing a restraining order against James Sterling and definitely not studying articles and photos about Leo and Jesse Gray that Dean sent me. After clicking through about a hundred images, a quarter of which include Leo, I have yet to find a single brick of evidence to build a case against this guy. No bruising on Leo. No winter clothing on a summer day. No discolored concealer hiding swelling under her eyes. If there had been, the tabloids would have been all over it. Instead, it’s just the happy couple together everywhere––including the shop where they got their matching tattoos done just a year ago.

Dean’s unfortunately straight, as he calls him, colleague at TMZ snapped the photos and took quotes from the Grays when they went under the needle for their forearm tattoos. The article states that the words pretty good, too inside the red-stitched heart are an allusion to the Yogi Berra quote, “Love is the most important thing in the world, but baseball is pretty good, too.”

So what happened? For years, they were tabloid untouchables, then he just flipped a switch and beat the shit out of her? Did he find out about the drinking and say You might as well do this to our son with each blow? Was he drunk, too? Was it roid rage? Did he find out Leo did more than drink while pregnant?

Or had it been happening for years whenever the cameras weren’t pointed their way?

A knock on the door interrupts my train of thought. Yes, another one. Dean’s right. God, did I really just think that? I need to move.

Leo looks over her shoulder toward it. “Are you going to answer that?”

“No, I don’t do that anymore.”

“Answer the door?”

“Right.”

After another round of knocking, Leo presses up from the table, her shoulders swaying back as she runs a hand down her belly and pads to the door.

“Leo, you’re supposed to be on bed rest. You don’t need to––”

She waves me off with one hand, her other pressing against the door as she peeks through the peephole. “It’s just the UPS guy.”

After Leo pulls open the door, my above-average looking, Brazilian UPS guy––about whom I have had no fewer than two pornographic dreams––asks, “Is Dillon Collins home?”

Huffing, I slip off my glasses and shove my chair out from the table. “Need to sign for something?”

“Yep,” he says as he turns the parcel scanner toward me. I take the heavy, briefcase-sized box, nodding a goodbye to Sexy Stefan as I shut the door with my foot.

With my less than sufficient upper-body strength, I carry the box to the dining room and drop it on the table. I scan the shipping label. No return address.

Creepy.

Using a pen, I slice into the shipping tape, popping loose each plastic string that threads through the brown adhesive. On top of the brown paper-wrapped contents is an envelope. In ink, the sender wrote, “Sometimes revenge is a choice you gotta make.” ––Miranda Lambert

Weird. Not the sentiment—I agree with my girl, Miranda. But should I be afraid to open this envelope?

My finger carefully slips under the envelope flap, revealing two advance-sale tickets to next year’s Stagecoach. Holy shit! I was sort of broke and preoccupied with a DA trying to extort me when these went on sale, so I didn’t get mine in time. Three days of inflicting country music on Linus will even the scales between us after he forced Eddie into our lives.

I lift the brown paper surrounding the rest of the box’s contents.

No, no, no, no, no, no!

“You okay?”

I must have been staring at the box, mouth agape, for longer than I realized because not only is my tongue sandpaper-dry, but Leo’s face is also scrunched with concern. My lips clamp shut as I shove the envelope back in the box, then smash the flaps down over it.

“God, what is it? You’re acting like a bomb’s in there.”

My voice shakes when I answer, “Wrong address.” Using the same pen, I scrawl RETURN TO SENDER across the top of the address label.

Leo hovers over the box before dropping back into her seat. “How are they going to do that? There’s no return address.”

Fuck.

Chapter Ten

Estlyn

September 7

The elevator dings when it reaches the second floor of the Beverly Wilshire. I knew it wouldn’t be a long trip from the lobby to the terrace, but I still set the briefcase at my feet on the ride up.

A quarter of a million dollars can get heavy.

“Name?” the host asks as I step toward the door.

“Estlyn Collins.”

After he scans the list on his tablet, he nods and ushers me onto the terrace, which is glistening with tiny white lights, wine glasses, and diamond jewelry.

“Lobster toast?” a waiter asks as he lowers a tray in front of me.

“Uh, no. Thank you.” I’m not here to eat the amazing food or to enjoy the live jazz or soak up the view of Rodeo Drive after sunset. I’m just here to find James, so I can return his cash before the police catch me with what they’ll be happy to call drug money.

My eyes scan the faces and turning heads in fitted blue suits until they freeze on one. Hang on. No. That can’t be him. He lives in Alabama. What would bring him here?

The woman in the black cocktail dress in front of him smiles as she accepts an appetizer from a waiter passing by.

Oh. My. God.

My hands shake as I try to refrain from squealing and crying like anyone would at a Taylor Swift concert. Yes, anyone. I stand by that. Not only is Bryan Stevens, the MacArthur “Genius” Prize-winning attorney here, but he’s also talking to Michelle fucking Alexander, the civil rights lawyer who wrote the book I have highlighted and marked the shit out of. Oh, and both lawyers have won awards from the NAACP. I could only dream of being as good as they are. Or of a place where I could meet them both.

Before I can step forward to fangirl, a voice catches me. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

I spin to see James in a navy suit, holding two flutes of champagne. He offers me one. As I take it with my free hand, I say, “I’m not that lucky. Here.” I push the briefcase toward him, but he doesn’t take it.

“Have you had a chance to meet anyone? Melina will be here any minute. I’m sure she wouldn’t want to miss the opportunity to talk to you.”

“Melina?”

“Melina Abdullah. One of the––”

“Founders of LA’s BLM.” I assume my pupils dilated because James’s lips slip into a smirk. “You couldn’t get Oprah?”

“She’s at her home in Hawaii right now.”

Damn. I was just playing.

His hand heats the small of my back as his lips brush my ear. “Between you and me, Oprah’s high maintenance as hell.” Straightening, he winks. “It’s not worth it.”

I shake off the shiver shooting from my ear down my spine, then set the briefcase on the cocktail table. “What is this ‘fundraiser,’” I air-quote, “exactly?”

“It’s for––”

“Hold up, is this the black cabal no one but me believes exists?” I slap the table beside me. “I knew y’all were real!”

He takes a sip of his champagne, then says, “We’re starting a new project.”

“Does it involve Tupac? Where’s he livin’ these days?”

“On Dr. Dre’s island in the Caribbean.”

My eyes widen. “For real?”

He chuckles instead of answering. I laugh, too, as if I’m in on his joke and not still waiting for the GPS coordinates of this island.

“I’m partnering with a few investors,” James continues, “to fund a nonprofit mortgage down payment assistance program for low-income families.”

“Giving away homes?”

“Do you know the main reason for the wage gap between whites and blacks in the United States?”

“No.” Sighing, I swallow a swig of champagne as I search the room for Michelle Alexander. “But you’ll tell me.” And hopefully quick because it looks like Michelle is on the move.

“Real estate. Owning a home is the kind of appreciating investment that black families have historically been excluded from.”

“Sure.” Found her. My eyes follow Michelle as she passes me on the left back into the hotel. Damn it! I hope she’s just peeing and will be back in time for me to get her autograph.

“So, while your mom’s parents were able to buy a home and sell it decades later for three- or four-thousand percent of the value, your dad’s parents couldn’t. They were denied mortgages because they were in a ‘risky’ neighborhood.”

“Redlined, right.” What if I missed my chance with Michelle because I was talking to this asshole?

“So the experts are here to show my investors it’s the right thing to do.”

My eyes narrow on James. “Why don’t you take some of the investor’s money and deal with your little water problem up in Santa Clarita?”

The scattered lights on the terrace glitter in his black eyes. James nods toward the band before setting his glass on the cocktail table. “I love this song.”

“I can’t decide if it’s entitlement or greed.”

“Would you like to dance?”

“I don’t, uh––”

James takes my right hand in his, his thumb grazing Michael’s ring. “How long has it been since someone danced with you?”

“I––um––” Damn it, mouth, make words.

He keeps my hand, taking the champagne flute from my other before leading me to the dance floor. When he pulls me to his chest, he says, “Then it’s been too long.”

What do I have to lose? I gotta kill time somehow while Michelle’s taking a tinkle.

“I don’t live on the income from my properties,” James says, his stubbled chin brushing against my hair as he does.

I tilt my gaze up to James’s face, then let it fall to my hand on his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

“The profit from my Beverly Hills and Santa Monica apartments covers the costs of the complex in Santa Clarita. Engineering pays my bills. So…” He turns me in a gentle circle before spinning me back into his arms. “Greed isn’t my problem. Entitlement sounds more like it.”

My eyebrow arches. “So you admit it?”

“Yes, I admit that my tenants are entitled to the same safe drinking water their neighbors have.”

I roll my eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Just as Michael was entitled to life like every other law-abiding citizen. And your dad is entitled to justice. And you are entitled to the life you could have had if they’d both gotten what they deserved.”

I scoff.

“What? You disagree?”

“No, I agree, it’s just,” I shake my head and sigh before I whisper, “I can’t sing.”

“I can’t cut into a dead body.”

I wince, and he clarifies. “You have to do that in pre-med.”

“Ah.”

The pause in our conversation persists longer than I know how to fill. To cut short the enduring eye contact, I lean my face to James’s chest. His arm wraps around me a little tighter, my cheek softening against his dress shirt.

He smells the way he did that first day I met him, but it doesn’t bother me so much now. His scent isn’t privileged or snobby. It’s just… rich. He earns his money because he tips the scales for people who can’t do it for themselves. He earns his money nearly the same way I do. There’s something about that so few people understand, so few people appreciate––that drive to eradicate injustice.

It’s something Linus sure as hell doesn’t get.

I catch the slow gallop of James’s heart, my eyelids sinking as our feet step with every other beat of it.

“Does the pain get better?” James breathes as he squeezes my hand. “Is five years after you lost Michael just as hard as it was at one?”

My gut twists at his question. James isn’t holding me this way because he wants to hold me. He’s holding me this way because he wants to hold someone. Because he hasn’t held his wife in a year.

My spine stiffens as I inch away from him. I don’t care why James is holding me or how. He’s twisted and creepy, and I have a boyfriend who isn’t. Nothing changes that.

“Death,” I answer, “is no longer something that simply happened. It etches into you, like a river carves a canyon. You become inseparable from it.”

His jaw twitches against my hair before I lean back.

“The pain never goes away, but at least––”

“They don’t, either.”

I force a smile, but James hasn’t had five years of practice yet to do that.

“And Michael wouldn’t want me to profit from putting innocent people in that kind of pain.” James releases me as I step back. “Please, leave me alone.”

Turning, I again walk away from a cause I believe in without means I can justify.

Oh, and the chance to meet Michelle Alexander.

Chapter Eleven

Cal

September 7

“How’re you feeling?” I ask Leo after planting a kiss on her head. I pass behind the couch she’s watching TV on, which I assume has been on the whole time I’ve been at work. There’s not much to do on bed rest.

“Oh, you know…” She sighs. “I’m bored out of my fucking mind. You?”

“I’m sorry.” After I step out of my shoes, I nod toward the bookshelf. “Estlyn borrowed some smutty and/or disturbing books from the library if you’re interested.”

“Read ‘em. I’d sleep with one eye open if I were you.”

I laugh, but she doesn’t. “Where is Estlyn?”

“How much do you know about her?” That doesn’t answer my question.

I drop on the couch next to Leo, then brush back some of the loose hairs that fall over my forehead. “What do you mean?”

“Well, for starters, what does she do for a living?”

“She’s a lawyer.”

“What kind?”

“Civil.” That’s what Estlyn told me to say when people ask.

Leo squints my direction, then nods that slow, you and I both know I’m not buying that nod.

“What?”

“No, nothing. It seems that… maybe she doesn’t, you know, believe me.”

“About what? Jesse?”

“Yeah.”

“Leo, I know that’s not true. I’m having to restrain her from ripping his life to shreds.”

“Really? ‘Cause this afternoon she was asking me all these questions. Like when was the first time Jesse hit me? Is he excessively jealous? Why do I travel to games with him? Is it because he keeps me on a tight leash? Why don’t I have a job? Can anyone else testify to his behavior?” She combs her fingers through her stringy hair before tousling it. “God, it felt like I was on the witness stand or something.” She glares at me. “Why are you smiling? This isn’t funny.”

I shake my head. “No, it’s not. It’s just how Estlyn is. She believes you. She’s just…” I exhale. “She’s always building a case. I’ll tell her to stop though, if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Do you know where she is now?”

Leo shakes her head. “She said she had to run out for an hour. Asked if I wanted her to pick up Panera for me while she was gone, but she was all dressed up and had a briefcase full of cash, so…”

“Cash?”

“Yeah, the UPS guy delivered this box with a shit-ton of cash in it a couple of days ago. She didn’t tell you?”

I shake my head.

Leo tilts her chin lower to meet my eyes. “Are you sure you know what she does for a living?”

“Some of her clients pay in cash,” I lie before pushing off my knees and standing from the couch. I have no clue how her clients pay. The last few months, I’ve adopted a laissez faire approach to her career, at least to her face. “I’m gonna hop in the shower. Need anything before I do?”

Leo shakes her head. Even after my back is toward her, I feel her eyes following me on the way to the bedroom. After I shut myself inside, I call Estlyn. Not because I don’t trust her—I do—but cash plus a hidden gun equals something sketch. Who the hell mailed her that much money?

The call goes to voicemail.

I sigh as I lean my head back against the closed door. How do I know that she’s safe? Do I go looking for her? Do I call Dean? Do I––

Got it.

I kneel on my hands and knees beside the bed, then shine the flashlight of my phone under it until steel reflects the light back to me. Estlyn left her gun. Wherever she went, she wasn’t scared enough to take it. That’s a good sign, right?

I grab a pair of sweatpants and underwear, then head to the bathroom. Once inside, I free the buttons of my shirt and shrug it off before turning on the water. The water runs only a minute before I get in the shower, but as soon as I do, the faucet sputters, the pressure dropping from a spray to a trickle.

To nothing.

Stepping out, I reach for the sink faucet.

Nothing.

After I wrap a towel around my hips, I pull open the door. “Leo, did Estlyn say anything about the water getting turned off for maint––”

Estlyn opens the apartment door, a bag of Panera hanging from two bent fingers thrown over her shoulder. “Sorry, that took forever, Leo,” she says, eyes down at her heels as she kicks them off. “Traffic was a bitch. Hey.” She smiles when she sees me. “I got dinner.”

“You okay?” I ask. I don’t know why I do. It’s not like she’ll give me a straight answer in front of Leo.

“Hungry. You?”

“Same.” I guess.

She stoops to pick up her heels, then sets dinner on the coffee table on her way to me. After slipping her fingers under the top of my towel, she tugs my waist to hers. My hands follow the soft curve of her back until they reach the small of it.

“You smell like sweat and beer. Why are you in a towel if you haven’t showered?”

“Our water got shut off.”

Estlyn’s muscles tense within my arms. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. It’s probably maintenance or––”

“When?” Her dark eyes spark as she studies my face.

“Like two minutes ago.”

“Motherfucker,” she hisses, reaching up to massage her temples.

“What?”

“The water’s not coming back on.”

“How do you know?”

“We need someplace else to stay until we can find a new apartment.”

“What do you mean a new apartment?”

“If we have no water, we have to move. It’s pretty simple,” she says as if I’m the one devoid of logic.

“No. We’ll call management. We’re not getting forced out of our home over this.”

“Our home? God, it’s just an apartment. Don’t get all girly about it.” She turns to face Leo. “Are you okay if we get a hotel room for a couple of nights? We can get adjoining rooms or a suite or something.”

Taking Estlyn by the shoulders, I spin her to face me. “Can you tell me what’s going on?”

“Oh…” She waves me off. “That client I refused to work with is having a tantrum because he didn’t get his way.”

“By shutting off our water?”

“Apparently.”

“How did he even do that?”

“Well…” She cringes. “He sort of owns the building.”

“Stalker Elba owns our building?”

Estlyn pivots toward the living room. “Want to eat first?” she asks no one in particular as she sits on the couch and starts sifting through the paper Panera bag. “You like turkey, right, Linus? ‘Cause that’s what I got you.

“Leo, we’ll spot you the hotel cost, of course,” she continues. “If you run your credit card there, Jesse could find you.”

“What are we going to do with Eddie?” I ask.

“We can leave him. Take turns checking on him.”

“I’m not leaving him all alone when Stalker-Man is out to get you.” Plus, he’ll get lonely.

“Actually….” Leo interjects. “I have a better idea.”

Chapter Twelve

Estlyn

September 7

So. Much. Glass. It’s everywhere. Huge sliding doors form the entire wall from the kitchen to the living room. Glass railings on the balcony and rooftop patio. Glass shower doors. And none is even smudged or dusty or clouded with hard-water stains. Someone cleans all this glass. Leo probably has someone to clean everything, because the sleek interior softened by rustic wood floors doesn’t even look lived in.

“You sure this is a good idea?” Linus asks Leo for the hundredth time. “He’s not coming back until when?”

Groaning, she pulls a crumpled stapled packet off the stainless-steel fridge. “See, he’s in Denver until Sunday, in Cincinnati through Wednesday, then in St. Louis until next Sunday, and in Milwaukee through the Thursday after. If you don’t find a new place by then, we’ll change the locks or something.”

I wander toward the glass doors overlooking the backyard. Even the infinity pool looks like glass. It’s too dark to see the view beyond it, but a hundred bucks says they can see the ocean past the rolling hills of LA.

Yeah, we’ll change the locks. I’m never leaving.

“You guys can take either of the guest rooms upstairs, though you’d probably like the second master better since it has its own bathroom.”

Two master bedrooms? God, I should have taken T-ball more seriously.

Leo pulls a carton of ice cream from the fridge and a spoon from a kitchen drawer before waddling toward the stairs. “Make yourselves at home. I’ll be in bed having a threesome with Ben and Jerry.”

Linus grabs our bags and follows, turning into the room she pointed out before continuing down the hall and closing herself in her bedroom for the night. God, this place is so big I might never have to see Eddie again.

Never. Leaving.

The second Linus closes our door, I flop onto the king-size bed. “Thank God! A real bed.”

He responds by heaving the suitcase on top of the dresser and unzipping it.

I prop myself up on my elbows before asking, “What’s wrong?”

His back to me, he says, “You’re in over your head.”

I scoff. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Linus turns around. Crossing his arms, he leans his hips against the dresser. “He knows where we live. He knows where I work. What else does he know?”

I shake my head. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing. James isn’t the scary guy he’s trying to be. He’s just… persistent. But I’m a stubborn ass.” I coerce my lips to smile. “I can handle him.”

“You’re not scared?”

“Not at all.”

“Then what’s with the gun?”

I roll down to the mattress. “Someone I put in prison years back got out a few months ago. It was just a precaution.”

“Who?”

I wince at the words. “The cop who murdered Michael.”

“He went to prison for shooting Michael?”

Pressing my palms in my eyes, I shake my head. This is something I imagined confessing to Linus on my deathbed. Something like, I love you, baby. Oh, and I framed a cop for embezzlement sixty years ago to avenge Michael’s death. Cue the flatline.

Linus has a black-and-white moral code that leaves little room for grey. It’s not that I’m afraid he wouldn’t be willing to overlook my framing a police officer for a felony. I’m not even worried he wouldn’t forgive my destroying a DA’s career to get away with it. I’m nervous he wouldn’t be able to stomach my lack of remorse for doing either.

“Linus, it really doesn’t matter. It was months ago. It’s one-hundred-percent taken care of.”

“You’re sure? You don’t think that cop is somehow using this stalker guy to get back at you?”

Cackling, I sit up and sweep my hair to one side of my head. “Please, James would never betray me to Monroe. That’s some serious Uncle Tom shit. He’s not capable.”

“Uncle Tom?”

“You know, like Kanye.”

He shakes his head.

“Stacey Dash?”

“The girl from Clueless?

He knows Clueless but not Uncle Tom? Good Lord, he’s white. And possibly gay. “A Judas of the black community.”

“Oh. How is this rele––”

“James is rich. And powerful. And consequently not used to not getting his way. That’s all this is. Plus, he just lost his wife. He understands what I’ve been through. For God’s sake, he subsidizes housing to help black families get out of the inner city. Despite trying really hard to look all intimidating, the guy’s harmless. There’s no way he’s working with Monroe.”

“That’s the cop you got put away for years?”

“Right. Why are you looking at me like that?” It’s the first time I’ve seen Linus’s green eyes go cold, like their warmth retreated inward to preserve them. To preserve him.

“Your pupils eclipse your eyes when you talk about him.”

If that’s not a writer’s line, I don’t know what is. “What?”

“Your cheeks tighten, like you’re trying not to smile.”

“So?”

“So, you’re right. You’re not afraid of him. You’re letting him play you because you like it. You like his attention.”

“Wow, asshole. Jealousy isn’t a good look on you.”

“I think you can outsmart him. You can outsmart anyone, Est, and the only reason you won’t, the only reason we can’t be in our home right now is that you’re enjoying whatever cat-and-mouse shit the two of you have.”

“You rather be at our place than here?”

“I’d like to have the option to live in our home, yeah.”

I throw my hands up. “Why do you keep saying ‘home’ like your childhood handprints are in the cement driveway? You’ve lived there three months.”

“Why are you changing the subject? Is it true or not?”

“Linus, I’m. Not. Erin.”

His hands gesturing wildly in front of his face, he yells, “You can’t throw that at me like all my fears are irrational, like I have some complex because my last girlfriend cheated on me. I’m not a jealous type. You know that.”

“Then why are you acting like such a possessive little bitch right now?”

Straightening, he points at me. “You and I both know you and James have something that we…” He waves his finger between us. “Can’t have.”

“Oh, what the hell does that mean?”

He spins back to the suitcase, sorting through it in an unnecessarily forceful manner. “Nothing.”

“Hold up.” I raise my hand to shut him up even though he’s not talking. “Is this because he’s black?”

Linus’s hands drop the edge of the dresser. His head tips toward the ceiling as he huffs.

“Oh, my God.” I cross my arms. “It is, isn’t it?”

“Not just that.” He pivots toward me, leaning on the hand still on the dresser. “He lost his wife like you lost Michael.”

I scoff. “Unbelievable.”

“Estlyn, try to tell me the two of you don’t have more in common than we do.”

“It doesn’t matter what we have in common!” I scream, pointing at him with one hand as the fingertips of my other grip my arm. “I want to be with you. Not him.”

Linus turns around, apparently unconvinced.

“And how small-minded of you to think I would have more in common with him just because he’s black. What, people should only date within their race? Besides, I’m half white. Is fifty percent not enough for y––”

“God, Est,” Linus interrupts from over his shoulder, “you know I’m not saying that.”

“Oh, really?” I bite out. “You’re not?” I stab my chest with my fingertip. “Because it sounds like you’re trying to put me in some sort of category so you have an excuse to be jealous.” I turn sweet-sarcastic, my fist on my hip and my finger tapping my bottom lip. “Let’s see, who am I allowed to date? White guys? Black guys? It’s going to be tricky because my parents were an interracial couple.”

“Yeah, and look how that turned out.”

Holy shit.

My ears ring. My eyes sting. My nose throbs as if blood is about to flood both nostrils. I raise my finger to my upper lip as if to catch the droplets, but there are none. Linus didn’t even need to turn around to punch me in the face.

But he turns as soon as the words leave his tongue. I flinch away from the heat of his hands stroking my arms. Through the mist of my tears I see his eyes. No longer cold. No longer retreating. Only swimming with regret. “Estlyn, I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean––”

I step away. His arms fall to his side, his voice silent. He can’t take it back, and I can’t unhear it. That’s the trouble with words. Memory immortalizes the worst of them.

My throat rolls with a swallow before my whispered words escape. “I am how that turned out.”

“I know,” he says and nods. “I’m sor––

I can’t hear the rest behind the door I shut between us.

Chapter Thirteen

Cal

September 8

There’s no way to tell when Estlyn left. She wasn’t in our room when I got out of the shower, and the covers on the right side of the bed were still in place when I woke up this morning. That’s when fights hurt the worst––in the morning when dawn illuminates just how much of a prick I was the night before.

Estlyn was wrong. I’m not worried she’s like Erin. I’m not even worried I’m not like Michael.

I’m worried this James guy is.

I haven’t thought much about my race or hers. To me, Estlyn is Estlyn. Yes, sometimes she talks like someone on Black Jeopardy when she’s pissed and/or frightened, but otherwise the fact our skin is different doesn’t cross my mind. It’s obvious to me now, though, that it crosses hers.

Estlyn knows I’ve never been worried for my life when a police car pulls up behind me. She sees the credibility the law has given my white father that it didn’t give her black one. She experiences the way people interact with her differently than they would if both her parents were white. And I wonder, with the shit she’s been through, if Estlyn needs to be with someone who has experienced the same.

That’s what I meant last night when I said she had more in common with James.

I did not mean to say her parents’ interracial marriage was the demise of her family. But since that’s what came out of my dumbass mouth, Estlyn’s gone.

And I don’t know if she’s coming back. I wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t.

Downstairs, the kitchen sliding door is open. Leo’s sitting in a chair on the back patio, scrolling through her phone while she eats a bagel.

“Morning.”

Leo waves at me without turning around. “Estlyn picked up bagels at some ungodly hour,” she says. “Drove all the way to that place you guys like in Santa Monica before traffic got bad.”

I peek in the Milo and Olive bag on the white quartz counter to find my usual everything bagel with a couple of cream cheese packets sitting at the bottom of it. Why would she get me a bagel? Did she do it begrudgingly since she was going out there anyway? Is she trying to make up with me? That doesn’t make any sense. I’m the one who screwed up. She shouldn’t feel the need to make any sort of peace offering. So maybe she’s trying to make me feel like more of an ass than I already do. But it’s Estlyn. Who the hell really knows why she does anything?

“Where’d she go?” I call to Leo as I spread some cream cheese on the seeded bagel.

“Said she’s going to her dad’s.”

“Did she have a bag packed?”

“I don’t know. I fell asleep on the couch by the time she left the second time.” She pushes up on the arms of the chair to pivot more toward me. “Is her stuff gone? You think she left you after your fight?”

God, Leo, thanks for dumping salt in the wound. “You heard it?”

With a nod, she lowers herself in her chair. After taking a mouthful of bagel, she mumbles, “I’m sure she’ll be back. She bought you a bagel.”

That’s one way to interpret it.

Chapter Fourteen

Estlyn

September 8

The Fourteen is packed. Sitting in rush hour traffic is the cost of leaving early enough to be at the front of the long-ass Friday morning visitors’ line at the prison.

And the cost of getting out of the house before Linus woke up.

On the upside, I bet that bagel confused the hell out of him. It’s always best to remain an enigma to enemies and lovers. If they’re not asking, Why the fuck did she do that? they know too much. Which is why I have not replied to Linus’s text:

I’m sorry about last night. I can’t believe I said that, and I wish I could take it back. It’s not what I think at all. Can we talk when you get home?

Or his second text:

Tell your dad I say hi.

Or his third:

Thanks for the bagel.

So, I assume, when my phone rings, that it’s Linus, not a collect call from the Lancaster prison that houses my dad. “Hello?”

“Hey, baby girl.” His voice is pained and gravely, not low and steady like usual.

“What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean?”

“You sound awful, like you’re dying or something.”

“Not dying. Just retching.”

“Yuck. I’m sorry. How long have you been sick?”

“I don’t know. A day or two. It’s nothing. Just a stomach bug going around. Everyone has it. So don’t come out today. I don’t want to get you sick.”

Okay, probably best not to tell him I took the exit into Lancaster a few moments ago. As I pull into a Chevron, I bring the phone to my ear when I park. “Dad, what are your symptoms?”

“Dil, it’s a stomach bug. You don’t want to know my symptoms.”

“Do you have a fever?”

“No.”

“Did you get checked out at medical?”

“Tino felt my forehead.”

“Jesus, Daddy, Tino feeling your forehead is not the same as going to medical.”

“Hey, show some respect. Tino was a prestigious surgeon for a prominent Mexican drug cartel for twelve years. He knows more than medical.”

“Sure, but does he speak English? Did he say you were okay or did he say, ‘fiebre’ or ‘cálido’? What about ‘muerte’?”

“There was a thumbs-up involved.”

In one hand, I knead the frustration out of my forehead. I mean, I get it. I wouldn’t want to go to medical, either. The COs and medical staff call each of the inmates it instead of him. It’s unnerving to go to a healthcare professional who treats you like an animal. No one thinks twice about putting down a sick dog.

“Well, have Tino check your forehead again, then lie down. If there’s a thumbs down, go to medical, okay?”

“Don’t worry about me, baby girl.”

“I’d really feel a lot better if I could get an affirmative on the Tino-and-nap plan.”

“I’ve been sick before, you know?”

“Yeah, and one of those times was valley fever from that fungus they didn’t take care of, remember? And a few other times were food poisoning. It’s probably the prison’s fault. How many other inmates are sick? Do I need to call your lawyer?”

“No, Dil, it’s a stomach bug.”

“When you say it’s going around, is it your block, or is it––”

“Dillon, it’s a virus. It’s not negligence. Not a conspiracy. Not a failure of the justice system.”

“You being in there is a failure of the justice system.”

“Sometimes people get sick. Don’t get so worked up over it.”

“Okay, well… try to take care of yourself.”

“I will. Try not to worry so much.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Love you.”

“Yeah, love you, too. See you next week.”

I drop my phone in my lap before my hands grip the top of the steering wheel. Leaning my forehead into my knuckles, I sigh as I search my mind for where I should go now.

I shut off the car in the gas station parking lot, get out, and head toward the convenience store.

“Now, I’m not a relationship expert, but I am married,” Rory says through my phone speaker. I lean back in my dining chair with my gas station water bottle in hand. “And you aren’t,” he adds. “So I have more experience in this area than you do.”

I swallow a sip of water before answering, “‘This area?’ Do you have Leo’s info or not?”

“If Liv hired someone to go through your phone records behind my back, that would piss me off.”

“What?”

“We’re screwing with Cal’s family. That’s not a small betrayal of trust. I don’t want to do anything that would cause a rift between the two of you.”

“‘Betrayal of trust’? ‘Cause a rift’? Did Liv drag you back into couple’s counseling?”

“All I’m saying is, I can simply send these files anonymously to the LAPD, and it’ll be like you never asked me to hack Leo’s––”

“The cops? Holy shit, Ror, what did you find?”

“Last chance.”

“Just send me the fucking email!”

At the end of his long sigh, an email from Rory arrives in my After Twelve inbox. “Did you get it?”

“Yeah,” I say as I open it and double-click all the attachments.

“There’s a password-protected PDF with the login information to her social media and email accounts called ‘EG_Login’. There are also PDFs with her last six months of call and text records labeled by month. The password for all is one-nine, lowercase-romeo, juliet, echo, victor, tango, six, eight, lowercase-yankee.”

That’s not the password.

When Rory and I were kids, he discovered Pig Latin. And Elvish. Then later, Pig Elvish. Yes, the same guy who moments ago tried to give me relationship advice. Rory used to share his secret languages with me to keep our foster parents and then our adoptive parents in the dark about his preteen goings-on. Most of the time it was about where he had stashed Pop Tarts or Doritos he stole from the pantry in case our salaried caretakers never came home to feed us again. The damn kid was so cute and scared with big glasses and too many freckles. God, he broke my heart.

Consequently, I am fluent in Pig Elvish. Or was. Now I only know a few phrases. It’s not relevant. I don’t want to drudge up my childhood.

The password Rory told me is 19rjevt68y. The real password starts with the first vowel, with everything before it tacked onto the end with an e for extra security. Or because that’s how pig languages work. Into the password box of each file, I type evt68y19rje.

“See the attachment called ‘September_18’?” Rory asks.

“Yeah.”

“Open it.”

I do. “Done.”

“You’ll see a handful of calls and texts from that 281 number you told me to track. I highlighted them in yellow.”

“Okay.” I scan the tiny font of Leo’s call list. “Yep. Looks like they all stop on September 3.”

Rory’s anxious swallow is loud enough for me to hear over the phone. “You know what that means, right?”

“That she stopped talking to him like we told her to.”

“Dil, watch an episode of Dateline! She murdered the guy!”

A burst of laughter throws my spine into the back of the chair.

“What? This isn’t funny, Dillon. Leo’s––”

“Calm down, Rory. The guy’s alive. I just saw him on TV last night.”

The call waiting tone on my phone interrupts Rory’s questions. “Hang on. I’m getting another call,” on that Google number I should have never given out. “After Twelve,” I answer.

“You could’ve kept the Stagecoach tickets.”

I bite the grin out of my lower lip. Why the hell am I smiling? I’m going to hang up now. “You could’ve kept my water on.”

Damn it. I didn’t hang up.

“What are you talking about?” James teases.

“You’re aware that, according to Section 1941.1 of the California Civil Code, I’m entitled to a water supply approved by the standards of the law?”

“Did you know that before last night, or did you look that up for me?”

“I’m a lawyer. Of course I knew that you are bound by the law to sustain livable conditions for your tenants.”

“And…”

I release a laugh away from the phone so James can’t hear. “I may have brushed up on the exact section last night.”

He chuckles and asks, “Who’s acting entitled now?”

Yes. I get what you’re doing, turning off my water. It’s not heavy-handed at all. “I believe I told you to leave me alone.”

“Did you? I don’t recall hearing that.”

“How diplomatic of you. To what do I owe the displeasure?”

“Are you moving out?”

“That’s none of your business, now is it?”

“You are, aren’t you?” In my silence, I hear the soft friction between his fingers and scruff as he rubs his jaw. “Huh.”

“What?”

“I didn’t peg you as someone who’d let me win so easy.”

“Lettin’ you win would be poisoning a city for you.”

“Nah, winning is simply having more power. I’m winning.”

“Interesting. If you’re so powerful, why didn’t you get your way?”

“There’s still time.”

“Sure,” I scoff. “Have you thought about hiring someone else, or is your hubris so afflicted that you can’t shake my rejection?”

“Nah, I just can’t shake you.”

“That’s cute,” I say with an eye roll, but that last syllable that leaves my lips quivers as my skin heats. I lean my face into my hand to collect myself. James is a jerk with a God complex. Linus is sweet and good and would never deprive you of running water. Also, your live-in boyfriend. Pull your shit together and get off the phone!

“You still there?” His question stinks with self-satisfaction. Ass.

“Call the EPA, the ACLU, the NAACP, the LA Times, KTLA, KCAL9, BLM even––any of the people who can help those families get the media and legislative attention they need to get clean water. Don’t call me again,” I assert, then swipe back to Rory’s call.

I tug in a deep breath. “Ror, you still there?”

“Yeah. Welcome back.”

“Sorry.”

“Explain, please.”

“Oh, it’s just this guy whose case I wouldn’t take––”

“No, I don’t care who was on the phone. Who is Leo’s husband? Why is he on TV?”

“He’s Jesse Gray, the pitcher for––”

In a pitch that can only be described as that of a dolphin on helium, Rory exclaims, “Leo’s married to J-Gray?”

Damn it. That was an inexcusable mistake. Like, truly idiotic. I know better. Rory’s heart pumps Dodger blue. And he’s a lefty like Jesse. J-Gray is his ultimate mantasy.

“How inappropriate would it be for me to ask for his auto––”

“Unthinkably inappropriate, Rory. God!”

“Why? They’re married, right? I know they’re separated or something, but––”

“They’re not just separated.” I let my hand fall down my face into my lap. In every case I do, I divulge the bare minimum about my clients to my contractors, even Rory. Leo isn’t my client, so technically attorney-client privilege doesn’t apply to her. But she’ll never be my client if I shit all over her trust, either.

Rory knew I needed to track her calls and texts to her husband’s number. He knew that she was staying with me and not Jesse. That’s about it. “It’s a delicate situation, okay?”

“So, I’m guessing I can’t come to your place to watch the game tonight? Since Leo will be there.”

“Shit, it’s Liv’s dirty book club night, huh?”

“Yeah, and I don’t know that I can survive overhearing Bri’s sexual fantasies about the biker wedding planner in that one book again. What the hell, right? What tatted up, bulky biker would plan a wedding? It’s so unrealistic.”

“Unrealistic, right…” I drawl. “And Southwest has daily flights to Middle Earth?”

“No, but Air New Zealand does.”

I groan. “Can we skip to the end of this nerd-fight where you say something that once again mystifies me as to how a woman ever let you knock her up?”

“Can I come over or not?”

“I mean, you can, but we only had one toilet flush left and I used it.”

“What do you mean ‘toilet flush’?”

“We don’t have running water right now.”

“When will you have it again?”

I drum my fingers on the table. “Not in the foreseeable future.”

“And you’re still staying there?”

Wow, I really cornered myself in this conversation. What is wrong with me today? “No.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Hotel.” The word is muffled between my lips and the hangnail I start chewing on.

“Which one?”

“The DoubleTree on 4th.”

“What’s your room number?”

“1071.”

“And what floor is that on?”

I said 1071, right? So the floor would have to be, “Ten.”

“The DoubleTree on 4th doesn’t have ten floors.”

“How would you know?”

“I bugged a room there.”

“Oh, yeah? For whom?”

“Why are you lying?”

“Why is where I’m staying any of your business?”

“The Dodgers are on the road right now…”

“Oh, yeah?” I pretend to be unaware and uninterested as I gnaw away at that hangnail, or the skin where it used to be.

“You’re staying at J-Gray’s!”

I don’t respond.

“Holy shit! What’s his address?”

“You know I can’t tell you that.”

“What’s his place like? Is it a mansion? Does he have a home theatre? Oh, oh! What about one of those showers that sprays water at you from every angle. You know, pshhhhh, pshhhh?” I assume he’s pantomiming the water flow from these alleged shower heads with his hand or a water bottle or whatever object is near him. “Does he have a room with all his relics? Like jerseys from Stanford? The Astros? The home plate from the field he played on as a kid?”

“‘Relics’? Are you asking if he has a shrine to himself in his home?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“I do. It’s my bedroom, and Linus worships there.”

“Gross, Dil. Stop trying to change the subject. Give me the address.”

“No.”

“Wait, I’m such a moron. Hang on…” I hear his fingers clicking on his computer keyboard. “If Leo’s password is the same for the electric company as it is for her email, I can just…” More click-clacking. It stops, and he lets out a low whistle. “Beverly Hills.”

Damn it. “You’re just going to show up, uninvited? That’s going to look suspicious, don’t you think?”

“No, I wouldn’t do that. That’d be so rude.”

“Good.”

“You invited me.”

Damn it.

“And Rhett and Chris and––”

“No!”

“Fine. I’ll bring beer.” Great. That’s what Leo needs––an uninvited guest with her drug of choice.

“Just snacks, please.”

He squeals like… well, a dolphin again, I guess. “See you then!”

Chapter Fifteen

Cal

September 8

“Hey, you want to go out for lunch?” Leo asks, poking her head into the guest room. I’m sprawled out on the carpet with my laptop, screenwriting-craft books, and the last draft of my shooting script––the title of which the producer and I still cannot settle on. I like Love is More Thicker. But he keeps pushing for Your Heart in Mine. He calls it a “crowd pleaser.” I call it cliché.

Anyway, I look up at Leo and say, “Shouldn’t I pick something up since you’re not even supposed to be standing right now?”

“You’re taking the term ‘bed rest’ way too literally.”

I cock my head. “Am I?”

“Please,” she whines, bouncing her foot on the floor. “I’m getting cabin fever. Plus, we have to get out of the house anyway. The security company’s coming to work on the system, and they have to shut the power on and off for a couple of hours.”

I exhale in surrender as I shut my laptop.

Leo pulls a slice of tomato from her sub sandwich, her usual order from this little deli in WeHo we’re eating in. She’s done this type of thing since we were kids––order extra tomatoes and pickles on her sandwich, then eat half of them in a pile on the side. Before she pops the tomato in her mouth, she says, “Jess likes Yogi for a first name.”

I snort, the bubbles of my Dr. Pepper hitting the back of my nose. “God, no. You can’t do that to the poor kid!”

Her smile is sad when she shakes her head. “I told him middle name is as far as I would go.”

“Yogi wasn’t even the guy’s real name, right?”

Leo snickers. “No, but Lawrence and Peter are too normal for Jess.”

I watch as she removes two pickles and another tomato slice from her sandwich, then reconstructs it before carefully wrapping her split and bruised lips around the bread. She winces as she takes a bite.

Her pain spreads down my throat into my gut like something noxious. My stomach clenches and fists follow. What the fuck are we doing, talking about Jesse like he didn’t ruin her life, like he didn’t brutally assault both her and her child? Is she in denial?

Have I been?

Estlyn is the only one who has been angry, has been vengeful and vindictive on Leo’s behalf. That’s not her job, though. That’s my job. I’m supposed to be the protective older brother. I’m supposed to go after Jess with a baseball bat in a blind rage for what he did to my sister and nephew.

Maybe it’s that she hasn’t felt like my sister until now. Those years apart made us acquaintances, made her business none of mine. We’re not acquaintances, though. She’s the same girl I grew up with. The same girl who cried when Dad’s girlfriend picked us up from Mom’s after she lost custody. The same kid who always had dried paint on her hands and colorful stains on her shirts. The same girl who made side salads of tomatoes and pickles.

“Leo,” my voice softens when I duck my head toward her, “what happened? The night you came to our place, I mean.”

She shakes her head and looks down at her food. “I’m not in the mood to talk about this right now.”

“Yeah, but you need to talk about this. Have you told anyone what happened?”

Combing back her blonde waves, she huffs. “He’s not a bad guy.”

Yes, he is. He beat the shit out of his pregnant wife. That’s the definition of bad guy. “Has he hurt you before?”

Leo shakes her head. “He had been out drinking with the team. Had one too many.” After swallowing a drink of her soda she corrects herself, “A few too many.”

“Okay.”

“He was pissed when he got home. Like, royally. Shouting about how he’d given me everything and how I’d be a homeless artist whoring myself out to support my addiction if it weren’t for him and how could I do this to him? Shit like that.”

“Do what to him?”

“Clinton, I think it was, was ragging on him about how his buddy who got traded to the Orioles was talking to this guy on his team who got traded from the Astros.” In the air she points and draws an invisible diagram to keep everyone straight for me. It doesn’t help, but I get the gist. “That guy who had played for the Astros claimed to have slept with me when Jesse still played for Houston. I guess Clinton made some joke about how Jesse better get a paternity test, and that made Jesse lose his shit.”

“God, Leo. I’m so sorry.”

She pushes her hands out in defense. “I didn’t––I would never cheat––”

I shake my head back and forth, more shocked than anything that she’s making this conversation about whether she was faithful to her husband, about whether her actions warranted a beating. “Leo, I don’t care about that. What happened?”

Her eyes wrinkle as they close tight. “He started ripping our framed wedding pictures off the wall and throwing them on the floor. Then he…” She swallows hard but doesn’t finish her sentence.

“Threw one at you?”

She nods.

“That’s where the cuts on your face are from?”

She shrugs. “Yeah, I think so. It got so blurry after that. Stuff kept flying at me, you know? Then he had me pinned up against the wall. He was screaming in my face. I don’t remember what he said, but I remember the tequila on his breath and that rage in his eyes.” Leo’s arms cross on top of her round belly as her eyes lower to the floor below. “Then he dropped his head to the wall beside me and cried. He was shaking and sobbing and saying ‘Sorry, I’m so sorry.’ When he finally let me go and dropped to the floor, I grabbed my purse and got the hell out of there.”

“God, Leo. That’s terrifying.”

Shaking her head, she brushes me off. “It’s fine. He was drunk. We all do stupid shit when we’re drunk.”

“Yeah, but that’s beyond stupid shit. That’s assault, Leo. Not everyone does that when they’re drunk.”

“I know.”

“Has he tried to contact you?”

“Not since I told him not to.”

“That’s good.”

Her eyes shine with tears not yet fallen.

I reach out for her hand. “You miss him?”

She nods, wiping away the tear that motion freed. “I want Jesse here when the baby comes, you know? He can’t miss it.”

“Leo, of course. He doesn’t have to miss it.”

Her muddied green eyes rise to mine. “And I want him to come home with us after.”

I shake my head. “Leo…” My voice softens to velvet, or it tries to at least. “That’s not safe. You can’t––”

“That’s not up to you.”

“Then why are you talking to me like you’re asking for my blessing?”

“I’m not. I just––” She straightens in her chair, taking her hand from mine when she does. “You know he’d never hurt our son.”

“Leo, he already has.”

She picks at the pile of tomato and pickle slices. “New topic.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” she snaps. “Pick a new topic.”

“Okay, um…” I cross my arms on the table and search the restaurant behind her for ideas of something to say. “What have you painted lately?”

“I don’t do that anymore.”

“What? Why not?” How can she say that like it’s nothing? Art is her life. When we were kids, she broke her right arm and couldn’t draw or paint for four weeks. It was awful. For everyone around her, I mean. God, she would not stop bitching about everything. When the cast came off, she was a tolerable human again. Art isn’t something she gives up. It’s her opiate. She goes through withdrawal if she misses even one dose. Quitting cold turkey would be bad for her health.

“I haven’t had a chance to set up an art studio in the house yet.” That’s bullshit.

“You’ve been here three months. What do you mean––

“New topic.”

Okay…

I tap the touch screen of my phone. It’s 12:30. “What time can we go back to your house?”

“Two.”

So in one-and-a-half eternities. Wonderful.

Chapter Sixteen

Estlyn

September 8

Ishut the door to Rory’s RAV4 after I slide into the passenger seat.

“What are we doing out here?” Rory asks, his palm still on the steering wheel. “This feels sort of drug-dealish.”

Turning to him, I put my hands together and announce, “We need to go over your decorum.”

“My decorum?” Raising his hands, he slow raps, “Come on, Dil, I’m chill as hell.”

I hold up my finger. “Nope. That,” I say as I point to him. “That right there is what I’m talking about. You don’t talk like that. You have to keep your shit together until we get to the den, okay? And once we’re in the den, you need to keep your fanboying to a reasonable decibel.”

“Is the den the shrine room?”

“No, you fucking weirdo! There is no shrine room! Listen, you invited yourself over to a stranger’s home. Leo was gracious enough to have you over.” I start to tally off demands on my fingers. “So, you will act normal. You will not touch anything outside the den. You will not speak to Leo about Jesse. At all.”

“What if I have to go to the bathroom?”

“What?”

“You said not to touch anything outside the den?”

I sock his arm.

“Ow! Turn your ring around before you do that!”

“Take this seriously, asshead.”

“Alright, alright. I am, okay? I even brought beer and snacks like you asked.” He reaches into the backseat to produce a reusable grocery bag. “Double Stuffed Oreos.”

My fingertips smooth the aggravation from my eyebrows to my temples. “I said no beer.”

“Why not?”

I take the cookies from him. “Do you want to be here or not?”

“Fine. Can I drive up to the house now?”

“Yeah, but I’m going to need your phone.” Within thirty seconds of Rory being in that house, about a dozen selfies of him with the hashtags #JGray #BleedingDodgerBlue #PinchMe #ManCrush #Mantasy would go live on Instagram. I can’t let that happen.

Rory groans as he takes his phone out of the console and surrenders it to me. “All right. Is Cal around?”

I shrug.

Rory shifts the car into gear, then lets it roll down the hill. “You’re fighting.” It’s a statement. Not a question. And not a big deal.

“Yep.”

“Did you have food delivered to him?”

“Picked up his favorite bagel.”

He nods as he parks in the driveway. “He’ll figure out how it works eventually.”

God, I hope not.

As soon as we open the front door to the house, Rory bounces like a shaken-up Sprite bottle on the verge of fizzing over. Instead of following me to the den, he stops in the kitchen.

“What are you doing?”

Rory strides to the refrigerator. “You should offer me a drink since you banned my beer.” Then that turd nugget actually has the balls to open both French doors of the fridge and dig through its contents. “Where are their water bottles?”

“Jesus, Ror! Get out of there!”

He gasps. “J-Gray and I eat the same kind of hummus!” Rory extends his hand my way and frantically waves for me to give him something. “I need my phone.”

“Den. Now.”

“God, unclench, Dil.” He grabs a Pepsi from the fridge before closing the doors. “Hey, someone left you a note,” Rory says as he slips a paper out from under a magnet on the door.

I close the space between us and take the lined legal paper from his hands. Linus’s careful cursive spells my name on the outside. I fold it open.

Estlyn,

This poem reminds me of all your dreams that haven’t come true. I could search forever and never find the right words to show you how sorry I am for throwing the pieces of one of those shattered dreams in your face. You deserve better.

Linus

I’m folding up my little dreams

Within my heart tonight,

And praying I may soon forget

The torture of their sight.

For time’s deft fingers scroll my brow

With fell relentless art—

I’m folding up my little dreams

Tonight, within my heart.

––Georgia Douglas Johnson

Damn. I have to hand it to him. As far as peace offerings go, this one is pretty fucking smooth. Linus deviated from leaving me poems penned by that slutty white guy, instead presenting me with one written by a female mixed-race Harlem Renaissance poet.

Well played, Linus. Well played.

After I refold the note, I pin it between the magnet and the refrigerator door. Tipping my chin toward the direction of the den, I tell Rory, “Game’s about to start.”

Chapter Seventeen

Cal

September 9

Leo’s house is dark when I get home from my shift, but not so dark I can’t see her asleep on the living room couch when I enter the kitchen. She said it’s more comfortable than bed when she’s this pregnant. Something about the back of the couch helping her sleep on her side, I think.

My feet are light as I step toward the refrigerator. I pull my phone out of my pocket before tapping the home screen to illuminate the fridge in front of me.

My note’s still there.

God, did she really not come back? How could she just leave like that? I don’t know what I was expecting. She hasn’t responded to my texts. Her car isn’t in the driveway. Unless…

I head toward the door to the garage, then open it enough to fit my head through. A flick of the light reveals Leo’s Range Rover.

And Estlyn’s Lexus.

All the pent-up breath in my lungs escapes as I shut off the light and close the door. After a quick sweep of the house, I find Estlyn asleep on a couch in the den, her lips ajar against a pillow on the couch.

With Eddie snoozing in a ball at her feet.

I smile as I snap a photo of the two of them before either has the chance to stir. Estlyn’s hatred of Eddie is an act. Has to be. Who wouldn’t like Eddie? Or cats?

I find Rory asleep in the den, too, kicked back in a recliner that is too ugly and too leather for Leo to have picked it out. Clearly a man cave-esque Jesse buy.

Highlights of the Dodger game flash over Estlyn’s and Rory’s faces from the TV. That’s something I’ll never understand: baseball is boring enough, but watching clips of the game after it has already happened? Why? It’s done, and so is what little excitement existed in the anticipation over who would win. I turn off the television.

The abrupt lack of sound and blue light snaps Rory from his slumber. “I’m awake,” he mumbles. “What time is it?”

“Twelve-thirty,” I answer.

Groaning, he kicks the recliner footrest into place as he sits up. “I gotta go.” Rory runs one hand down his face before patting the front pockets of his jeans, then the back ones. Apparently not finding what he was looking for there, his eyes fall to Estlyn. After a long exhale, he points at the phone sticking out of the top of her tank top. “Can you get that for me?”

I chuckle, sure that Rory’s phone ended up in Estlyn’s cleavage after some weird sibling argument in the vein of Sure, you can eat the last piece of pie, but I licked the whole thing, or You can’t get it if it’s in my underwear, or It’s all yours, you just have to hop that fence to get it. There may or may not be a bloodthirsty Doberman behind it. But this isn’t about my sister.

I stoop to slide the phone out of her bra, my fingers grazing the silk skin of her chest as I do. “Here,” I say as I hand it to him. “You okay finding your way out?”

Rory nods and offers a sleepy wave before he heads out the door.

I turn to Estlyn, kneading out the muscles of my neck with one hand as I watch her sleep. If we were at home, I’d carry her to bed. But we’re not at home, and she didn’t sleep in bed with me last night. She did buy me a bagel this morning. But then she never returned my texts today and either didn’t see or refused to read my note.

The right thing to do is cover her with a blanket and give her space while she wants it. If I do that, though, she might not sleep well. She should sleep in a bed. Alone.

I kneel on one knee beside her, holding her close to my chest before lifting her from the couch. As my arm wraps around her slender back, I’m struck by how small she is. It’s not like she has lost weight or that I hadn’t noticed that she’s petite before now. It’s not that I didn’t already know that she wears heels, not only because she likes the intimidating sound they make against hard flooring, but also because she wouldn’t be able to tower over all but tall women without them.

It’s that she feels delicate.

Shatterable.

Powerless.

God, I’ve had the last week all wrong. This flirty shit with that Sterling son of a bitch, it’s not attraction. It’s fear.

She’s not letting him play her because she has finally found a worthy opponent. She’s not drawing him out with her bluff. She’s not playing the game anymore.

She already lost.

Estlyn can’t turn our water back on. Even if she could, that’s not the issue. Sterling has power over her, the means to take away even her most basic needs. We had to leave because she’s afraid to live in a place he controls. She’s afraid of him.

Sure, there’s a part of her that is caught up in the allure of James’s power. That’s what she clings to––that feeling of getting swept up as if in a wave. Because that sensation is more bearable than opening her eyes to the tsunami rising above her.

Estlyn curls against me as I carry her down the hall. In her sleep, her fingers slip between the buttons of my shirt, tugging the fabric closer to her face. I hear her breathe in the scent of it, humming as she nuzzles against my chest.

A smile slips across my face, then falls. I smell like hooch. That’s the smell she’s greedily inhaling.

I push open our bedroom door with my back, then walk to the bed. Shifting her weight to one arm, I rest her head and neck on the pillow she was supposed to sleep on last night. With my free hand, I pull back the covers before letting her hips and legs relax into the sheets. The covers are up to her collarbone when I brush back a few loose curls from her forehead and press my lips to the skin they once hid. As she draws in a deep breath, she turns on her side.

“You can stay, Michael,” she mumbles.

Michael.

His name knocks the wind out of me. My eyes squeeze shut, and a stinging tear slips from one. My stomach twists with her grief, with that cavernous longing she feels for a reality that can never exist.

She feels it even in sleep.

“Don’t leave,” she breathes into her pillow as she hugs it.

Shit, what am I supposed to do? Tell her, Sorry, it’s Linus, the asshole you’re dating who will never be able to give you the life Michael would have. That guy died in your arms five years ago. Remember? I can’t do that. She thinks he’s here. How can I ruin that for her?

But what are my other options? Leave and break her heart? Lie next to her and wake up in the morning to her kicking me in the balls?

I comb my hair back as I stare at her in the dim moonlight. After I unbutton my jeans and slide them off, I leave them crumpled on the floor. My shirt ends up there, too.

Whatever. I’ve been kicked in the balls before.

I round the bed to the opposite side. It’s a king-size bed, so I’ll just leave a bunch of space between us and maybe she won’t get the wrong idea. Not that the right idea of me getting in bed with her because she thinks I am her late boyfriend is any better.

The moment I lift the covers, Estlyn rolls to the middle of the bed, facing me.

Kick in the balls it is.

I slip under the sheet, opening my arm to let her head rest on my chest. Her cheek sinks against my pec, and her hand smooths over my abdomen until she hugs me tight.

“I love you,” she whispers.

My breath stops. When it starts again, my heart races. Holy shit, Estlyn has never said that to me before. I didn’t think she ever would. I was sure those words were reserved only for––

Oh.

She isn’t saying it to me.

I wrap both my arms around her, holding her body even closer to mine than she already is. Into her hair, I whisper, “I love you.” That’s where my lips rest for the night, in the silence after those words spoken against her skin.

When I wake up the next morning, Estlyn is gone.

Along with my note on the fridge.

Chapter Eighteen

Estlyn

September 9

Istep a foot back from the door after knocking. It doesn’t matter that I’ve had a key since high school; it feels weird letting myself in when they aren’t expecting me. Not weird like I’m unfamiliar with the action, with the feel of the key sliding into the lock, with how the deadbolt sticks unless I tug the door toward me before turning the key, with the sound of door grazing the rug that greets everyone inside. Weird like I’m terrified I’d never recover from the trauma of walking in on them doing some naked nonsense a child should never see.

My dad swings open the door––my white dad, not my real one. Wouldn’t that be nice, though? I can see in his eyes he’s hunting through his memory for the reason I could be here, but his voice pretends to be happy to see me. “Sweetheart, hi! It’s not Saturday brunch, right?”

I shake my head. “No, it’s Sunday. And that was last week.”

“Oh, well, come in, come in.” He waves his hands, widening the opening of the door. “Cass,” he shouts up the stairs. “Dil’s here.”

“What?” she hollers.

“Dillon!” he yells louder as I join him inside. “Your daughter.”

“Oh!” As Mom trots down the stairs, she beams, arms outstretched. “Sweetheart, hi! It’s not even Saturday brunch.”

At least one of them knows what day of the week it is.

“What are you doing up here?”

I force a smile as I open my hands. “I got you a present.”

“Yeah?” my dad asks.

“Dillon, you didn’t need to…” My mom trails off when I take a business card from my purse and present it to her. She takes it from me, flipping it over and back. “What is this?”

“Surprise! I got you a whole-house water filter!”

“Wow, umm…” She looks at my dad. “That’s really thoughtful of you, Dil.”

Aw, it’s cute how she’s trying to do that mom thing where she acts excited for the unwanted and, in this case, bizarre gift her kid gives her. It’s as if I’m four and made her one of those god-awful macaroni-and-popsicle-stick picture frames. She’s got that same elevated voice, and a smile that tries so hard to brighten her eyes but can’t. “You didn’t have to, though.”

“The guy’s going to be here in half an hour,” I continue. “I got you the reverse-osmosis one. Top of the line. You know,” I point out with my finger for emphasis, “it’s actually the same kind they use in US embassies. You’re gonna love it.”

My parents glance at each other before studying me. “Dil,” my dad starts. “You should really save your money. We don’t need––”

I nod. Not really nod so much as my face twitches up and down. “Yeah, you do though.”

“How much did this cost you?”

Rude. “You can’t ask that. It’s a gift.”

“What’s the occasion?”

The occasion is that a crazy guy hired me to poison the water in your city. Just because I refused to do it doesn’t mean he’s not going to hire someone else to. “Mom’s birthday.”

“That’s not for two months,” my mom objects.

“Look…” I clap my hands together, then point them at my mom. “You complain all the time about how the hard water makes your hair feel coarse. And Dad…” I swing to him. “You’ve always wanted to install glass shower doors but didn’t like how everything here gets water spots so fast. So, let’s just chalk this up to the fact that you have an amazing and considerate daughter. Okay?”

Dad squints at me a handful of moments before asking, “Sweetie, is this about Flint?”

“Dil, you know we don’t live there.”

Not yet.

“What are you talking about?” I ask.

“Have you thought about going back to therapy? It helped you a lot in high school.”

“Yeah, sweetie,” my dad adds. “This sounds a little…”

“Paranoid.”

Bitch, I’m not paranoid! Everyone is just out to get me.

“Don’t turn the plumber away when he shows up in half an hour. Okay?”

“Dil––”

“I don’t get a refund if he doesn’t install it.” That’s a lie, but they should buy it.

My dad nods. “Okay, then… thank you.”

There’s the response I was looking for. “You’re welcome.”

Chapter Nineteen

Cal

September 9

Iclose the cardboard flaps over the last of the snacks from the pantry cabinet. On the outside of the moving box, I scribble Kitchen, Perishable in Sharpie.

We renewed our lease last month, and I have no idea how we’re going to get out of it if the owner of the building has some sort of vendetta against Estlyn. If the guy won’t turn our water back on, I doubt there’s anything else he will do for us.

I tape a new box together to take to the bedroom where my bookshelf of poetry, novels, and screenwriting-craft books stands. Sighing, I grab a handful of Robert McKee texts I put there only three months ago and stack them in the box. Once I’ve cleared that shelf, I move to the one above it, one that isn’t full enough to keep all the books on it upright. When my hand slips between the books slanted against the edge of the bookcase, my fingertips brush something. Something that is definitely not a book.

Stretching up on my toes, I reach to the back of the case to grab the small object stashed there. It’s a black plastic cube, probably some sort of electronic device. Maybe it’s Estlyn’s. I toss it on the bed to pack later.

The last box from the bookcase isn’t quite full when I’m done packing it. I take it out into the living room to scrounge up any books Estlyn left lying around. There are a couple in the lower shelf of the side table. When I stoop to grab them, I see another one of those little black square things, but this one is plugged into the wall. I pop it out of the socket and examine it. It has a few tiny holes in it like a speaker might have. Maybe it’s some kind of security thing? That sounds like something Estlyn would do. Does that mean I should leave it? Or should I call and make sure it’s hers?

Crap, I have to call her, huh? And get her voicemail because she won’t answer. Groaning, I slide my cell from the pocket of my jeans. I press the phone to my ear and drum my fingers against my thigh as I wait for the ringing to end in an automated voice.

“Hello?”

Oh, shit. She answered. What am I supposed to say? Why did I call again?

“Linus?”

“Hey, uh, how––how are you?”

She snickers. “My mom is plying me with cookies and telling me I need therapy.” In the background, I hear Mrs. Collins’s defensive voice. “It’s Cal,” Estlyn answers her. Mrs. Collins says something else I can’t make out. “Mom wants to know if you want me to bring home any oatmeal chocolate chip cookies.”

“Yeah, sure. Tell her ‘thank you.’ You’re at your mom’s?” We just had Saturday brunch, though.

“Yep. Babysitting them so they accept my present. What’s up?”

“So, I’m at the apartment, and I found these little square things. One on our bookshelf in the bedroom. One plugged into the wall in the living room. They look like speakers or recorders or something. Are those yours?”

“Hang up.”

“What?”

“Now.”

The line goes dead.

Shit. That doesn’t sound good. Should I leave? It sure as hell sounds like it.

I drop the device on the floor, then head toward my wallet and keys on the kitchen counter. My hand is on the doorknob when I hear a phone ring in the apartment.

Not my phone.

The hair on the back of my neck rises. My ears prick. All this stillness in the apartment hasn’t been solitary. Someone else is here.

The phone rings again.

The sound sends a jolt of panic through me. I rush out the door without locking it behind me, trying to look normal as I sprint-walk down the hall. My fingers slam the down button of the elevator until the doors open in front of me. It’s empty.

Maybe the apartment is, too.

I mean, it’s not a big apartment. There aren’t a ton of places for someone to hide. And I was in every part of it––packing up the bedroom closet, the bathroom cabinet, the kitchen pantry. I even looked under our bed to make sure Estlyn took or locked up her gun.

Maybe it’s just a phone.

The elevator doors close as I contemplate doing the one thing all idiots in horror movies do. There’s no way around it. I’m that idiot.

I make my way back down the hall, standing off to the side of the door so whoever in the apartment who plans to murder me can’t see me through the peephole. Though the sound is faint, I hear it. The phone is still ringing.

If I were a murderer, I would have shut that noise off a long time ago or put it on silent like any reasonable human trying to creep up on and kill another.

I ease the door open, peering through the crack between it and the frame before I slip into the apartment again. Whatever phone is chiming is in the bedroom. I head that way, hearing the noise grow louder as I approach Estlyn’s nightstand. Inside the drawer, I find a burner phone dancing as it vibrates to the ringtone.

I flip the phone open. “Hello?”

“Don’t say anything.”

Oh, thank God. It’s Estlyn. Kind of wish I sounded more masculine when I answered the phone just now. Not sure she’s into to the scared-shitless-of-nothing vibe I’m emanating.

“Leave the apartment.”

I nod, obviously, because she can totally see me. Then I do as I’m told.

As I wait for the elevator, I hear what sounds like cars passing her on the street. Where did she go? She was just at her parents’.

“Are you in the parking garage?” she asks as I step off the elevator.

“Yes.”

“Meet me at the end of the pier in forty-five minutes.”

“I’m glad you got my call.” Estlyn’s words fade in and out with the ocean breeze sweeping over the pier as she approaches. She doesn’t even look at me when she’s finally close enough to touch. Instead she leans her crossed forearms on the sun-warmed railing and stares at the glistening sea ahead.

“It scared the shit out of me.”

“Sorry.”

Sure she is. I catch her smirk before I follow her gaze out to the water.

“Why were you at the apartment?”

“I was packing.”

“Yeah?” She finally turns to me. “What changed your mind?”

“I realized that you’re always right.”

“Damn straight.” Estlyn forces a smile behind the words, but there’s no depth to it. “Rory’s looking at them.”

“At the black things?”

She nods.

“Good.”

“I’m a step behind,” she mutters as she taps her nails on the railing.

“What?”

“You know when you play chess––”

“I’ve actually never played chess.”

She flinches, her eyes narrowing on me. “Never?”

“No.”

“Then what did you and Leo do when you read all the books you checked out at the library and your parents wouldn’t take you again that week?”

“What?”

She shakes her head to shake off her question. “You know how the rules work, though, right?”

“Um, there’s check, I want to say. And checkmate. I know there’s checkmate.”

She stoops and groans into the crook of her arm. “So there was no point in telling you I was on the chess team?”

“You actually didn’t say that.”

“Damn it…” The word is muffled against her skin.

I bite back a laugh. “You said you’re a step behind…”

Estlyn straightens up, her fingers wrapping around the railing. “The best chess players don’t plan their next move. They plan their next five. They know how they’re going to win before they start. They don’t play defense.”

“Okay.”

“I never play defense. Not with targets. Never with clients. I’m always five steps ahead because I created the game. This, though…” Her nails drum again on the chipping blue paint of the rail. Three fingers. Two fingers. Index. Beat. Three fingers. Two fingers. Index. Beat. “I’m not just on defense. I can’t even see the whole board.”

Her phone sounds from her purse. She pulls the pay-as-you-go from the outer pocket, then flips it open. “Hey.”

Her fingertips tap again. Three fingers. Two fingers. Index.

“Shit.”

Three fingers. Two fingers. Index. Beat. Three fingers. Two fingers.

“How the hell is that a silver lining? Someone has been––”

Three fingers. Two fingers.

“How long will that take you to install?”

Index. Beat.

“Okay, thanks.” She snaps the phone shut. “They’re cameras.”

Chapter Twenty

Estlyn

September 9

“It’s idiot-proof,” Rory says as he presses his palm onto Leo’s dining table. Leaning over my shoulder, he brushes the touch screen of my laptop with a finger, enlarging the video feed from one of the cameras he set up in my apartment. “Even you should be able to figure it out.”

I roll my eyes. “And you’re sure James’s cameras weren’t live streaming?”

“Positive. It’s kinda smart, actually, because there’s no way we can trace the feed back to him.” God, he’s way too giddy about someone planting spy cameras in his sister’s apartment. “So we wait for him to pick them up. But surprise! They’re erased and turned off.”

“And we get him on unlawful invasion of privacy.” And being a shitty landlord.

“Sure, if that’s the route you want to go.”

I grip the back of the chair as I turn to him. “What do you mean?”

“This guy planted cameras in your home.”

“Yeah, I’m aware.”

“Are you? Then why isn’t the fire of your specific brand of hell raining down on him?”

Linus snickers. I crane my neck to see past Rory, finding Linus pressing his lips together and typing away on his computer in the living room.

“You have something to add?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Nope.”

“I’m with Ror,” Dean pipes up from where he reclines on the couch.

“No one asked you,” I retort. “And what are you even doing here? I don’t remember inviting you.”

“You didn’t. Which you have yet to apologize for, by the way.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Leo invited me.”

The bathroom door opens, the toilet still running after a flush. “It’s true,” Leo says as she pads into the living room.

“I thought you found him inconsiderate and abrasive?”

She runs her hand over her belly as she lowers herself to the couch where Dean just kicked his feet clear. “Dean’s like cheap tequila. He stings the first shot. But after five, he makes everything sort of… warm and funny. Then you’re like, ‘Hey, this isn’t the worst drink I’ve tried.’”

Dean beams. “That shit’s some high praise.”

He and Leo watch me as they fist bump.

Dean sits up, leaning his elbows into his thighs as he combs back his perfect head of semi-Latin hair. “Est, this guy could have gotten some life-ruining shit on us if Linus hadn’t found those cameras.”

“Life-ruining?” I ask. “How?”

“I mean…” Dean gets really awkward, switching which hand rakes his dark locks back. “The cameras probably recorded you and Linus… together.” Together? Why has the word sex suddenly fallen out of his brain?

“Yeah, it’s possible. But how is that life-ruining for you?”

He shakes his head. “You’re right. I’m being dramatic.” Dramatic? Dean would never own up to his melodrama. Unless…

I cringe. “Ew! Did you have sex in my apartment?”

“Rory did, too!” he shouts and points to my brother, who is suddenly engrossed in the spy system he set up on my computer.

I rise from the table. “Ror!”

His hands fly up in defense. “It was Liv’s idea. She’s in that slutty, second-trimester phase.”

“Mmm…” Leo hums. “That was a fun three months.” All four of our heads snap to hers. “What? Don’t look at me.” Both her hands form an aggressive V in the direction of her pregnant belly. “I’m on pelvic rest.”

“Hon…” Dean wags his finger at her. “Don’t pretend like you didn’t get crazy with a vibrator when everyone was gone.”

Leo’s shoulders sink as she relents. “Yeah, okay.”

“God.” Linus groans into both his hands.

“The point is,” Dean whips the subject back around, “let’s fuck this guy up.”

“I agree,” Rory says.

“It’s not that simple,” Linus interjects.

Huh, this should be interesting. He’s going to defend me?

“She’s got a crush on him.”

Crossing my arms, I settle against the edge of the table. “Really? We’re gonna do this again?”

“Est…” Dean rebukes and shakes his head.

“Dude…” Rory’s voice drips with judgment. “Not cool.”

“Ah, so it was a guilt bagel,” Leo mumbles.

“No,” I raise a finger in her direction. “Not a guilt bagel.” I wave my finger past the rest of them. “I don’t have a crush on James.”

“Oh?” Linus’s eyes challenge me. “Then what’s the delay? Didn’t you once tell me the only justice is that served swiftly?”

“I’ve heard her say that.” Ugh. Dean again.

“What do you expect me to do, huh?” On my hand, I count off, “James owns my apartment. He smoked me out of it within minutes of me turning down his job. He’s got more money than Satan himself. And I have what, a couple of misdemeanor charges I can pin on him? You think that’s leverage? Are you forgetting that of the thousand DDAs in Los Angeles County, 999 of them want my blood?”

“So don’t use the law,” Dean suggests. “It never bothered you before.”

I shake my head. “I’m too hot after what happened with Young to risk that. And I can’t go around getting every prosecutor who charges me with something disbarred and put in prison so I can walk free. Just because it worked once doesn’t mean it’s going to work again.”

The room hushes. I watch as thoughtful eyes wander to the floor, the ceiling, the windows, searching for a way I haven’t found yet.

They won’t find one.

“We wait for him to pick up the cameras,” I say. “Then we go from there.”

Four heads nod as okays and sounds goods bounce between the living and dining rooms.

No one has anything to add in the silence that follows. Nobody but Rory.

“We did it on your kitchen counter.”

“Gross!” I shriek.

Linus chucks a pillow at Rory as Dean shouts, “Come on! I eat there!”

Chapter Twenty-One

Estlyn

September 11

The visitor-processing line is shorter than it is most days. Instead of the usual fifty people in front of me, there are three. It takes less than five minutes to get to the front desk. Maybe it’s because I’m not normally here on a Tuesday, and it’s a brand-new day the prison opened for visitors. The woman behind the desk accepts my visitor pass, mumbling “Hayes,” as she types my dad’s inmate number into the computer. “He’s not here.”

Well, that’s an anvil down the throat. I wish my first thought was, Hell, yeah! He’s on the lam! James will get us to Dr. Dre’s Caribbean island where we’ll live forever with Tupac. I’m sure Dr. Dre has no extradition agreement with the US government.

But he’s not on the lam. My dad could only leave Lancaster State Prison before the year 2029 in a body bag or an ambulance. I’m not a fan of either.

“What do you mean he’s not here?”

“His case worker should have called you,” she glances up at me briefly.

“Well, she didn’t.”

“They’ve all been swamped.” Her eyes return to the computer. “They transferred him to Loma Linda Medical Center yesterday.”

“Why? Where is that, even?”

“It’s by San Bernardino.”

Really? That’s the first question she answers?

I slap my fist on the laminate counter. “Why is he in the hospital?”

“Miss, I’m going to need you to lower your voice.”

“Bitch, Imma need you to tell me why my dad is in the hospital and why no one called me.”

“Miss, calm down.”

Clenching my jaw, I drum my fingers on the counter calmly.

“He was transferred yesterday afternoon, looks like for that flu thing all the inmates are getting.”

“I want to put in a request with the warden to visit him there.”

She nods, “Okay, let me grab the form.”

“Fine,” I huff.

As she sifts through the file cabinet, I scan the office behind her. “Must be getting short-staffed around here with that flu.”

She shakes her head and hands me the document with a clipboard, one of those kinds where the pen is attached to the top with a curly black cord so you don’t steal the pen and sneak it into the visiting room so the inmate you love can stab whomever has been fucking with him in the carotid. “No, we’ve been lucky,” she answers.

Lucky. I guess this is a virus that only infects prisoners.

I fill out the form, giving the warden all the reasons I should be allowed to visit my ailing father in the hospital, all the while doing my best to restrain myself from scribbling in any of the following:

Remember when he was in the hospital for valley fever? That was y’all’s fault, asshole. Is this too? ‘Cause I will sic the vilest, dirtiest lawyers I can find on you if I find out you had even one signature involved in this.

You know how my dad is innocent? I shouldn’t have to fill out this fucking form to get the chance to maybe see my dad chained up and miserable in a hospital hours away!

Fuck you and your white-ass privilege. I hope you get Shawshank-ed or Silence of the Lambs-ed.

But I don’t write any of that because the part of my brain that is emotionless and logical is still intact. That part knows my dad’s situation is not—directly—the warden’s fault. Therefore, half of me does not want him to commit suicide in his prison office or get eaten by a cannibal while he’s on vacation.

There’s no line of visitors when I turn in the form. Now I know why. How many inmates are too sick to see anyone? How many are hospitalized?

How many have died?

Don’t think like that. He’s fine.

“Here.” I say as I slide the clipboard back to her. “I want to talk to his caseworker.”

She responds, “Like I said––”

I wave my hand to dismiss her words. “Yeah, yeah, she’s busy. But I’m not. And I’m going to call her over and over and over––”

“Miss, I get it.” She nods toward the door, a silent gesture of get the hell out of my office. As I turn to leave, I catch a glimpse of something I hadn’t noticed before.

Behind the desk, in the mess of documents and computers, stands a water cooler.

“I’m here to visit a patient,” I tell the obviously overworked woman in red, white, and blue-starred scrubs. This, by the way is the fourth person behind a desk I’ve approached at this hospital that’s basically a labyrinth I’m convinced is designed to make visitors so lost and demoralized that they give up and leave. Evidence to support my position: the only clearly marked directions here are to the exits. Plus, the place is under construction. That’s just mean. “I was told he’s in this wing.”

“Name?”

“Alexander Hayes.”

Her acrylic nails click against the computer keys. “Inmate from California State Prison in Lancaster?”

“That’s the one.”

“He’s here.”

All the air whooshes from my lungs. “Thank God. When are visiting hours?”

“All the time.”

“Great.” I pick up the pen on the counter and print my name on the sign-in sheet.”

“But he’s not allowed visitors.”

I let the pen topple to the clipboard. “I filled out the form hours ago.” Then took two hours to drive to this shithole, plus another hour trying to find the right department. “The warden should have––”

“I’m sorry, I don’t have any note from the warden.”

My fingers pinch the bridge of my nose, propping my head up with my elbow on the desk. “Can I at least talk to his doctor about his condition?”

“What’s your name?”

“Dillon Hayes. I’m his daughter.” I slide my nearly expired driver’s license out of my wallet to prove my identity.

She nods. “You’re his emergency contact, so that’s fine. The waiting room is down the hall on the right. Sit tight, and I’ll have someone with you soon.”

Soon. Could there be a more ambiguous word for some time in the future? Why doesn’t she just say, They’ll be with you before the new year? Hopefully. We’ll see how it all shakes out.

I slouch into a waiting room chair, resting my head against the wall to my right before shutting my eyes.

How many feet am I from Dad? A couple of hundred? No more than five hundred, I’m sure. A few walls away, and I can’t see him.

He won’t even know I’m here.

“Ms. Hayes?” The unfamiliar voice snaps me out of my nap. My eyes open to a lanky, blue-eyed guy in teal scrubs.

I sit up, my neck aching from the position I forced it into. “That’s me.”

He reaches his hand out, and I stand as I shake it. “I’m Dr. Douglas, one of the residents treating your dad.”

“Is he okay?”

“He’s stable, but we don’t know his prognosis yet.”

“What does that mean?”

“Your dad is suffering from acute arsenic poisoning.”

Fuck, that can’t be good.

“We assume, with the number of infected inmates, that it’s a systemic problem. It could be the food or water, but usually these kinds of cases are caused by pesticides in groundwater.”

I nod, doing my best to digest this information. By the pace it’s coming at me, it’s clear Dr. Douglas has perfected this speech with a dozen other families before me.

“The arsenic caused vomiting and diarrhea, which your dad was trying to treat by staying hydrated. While that would have been the right thing to do, the water he drank was making his condition worse.”

“What are you going to do?” the words gush out. “You’re not going to let him die, right?”

“I promise you, Ms. Hayes,” Douglas says with his hand out, “he has the best care we can offer him. Right now, the only thing we can do is wait and see how he responds to treatment.”

I nod and catch a glimpse of his name badge. His first name is Michael. That’s a great name.

Or a fucking bad omen.

“I wish I could tell you more, but it’s impossible to know how much he was exposed to and for how long. Usually symptoms occur within an hour or two after this level of exposure. Did he tell you when he got sick?”

“Uh, yeah. The day before I went to see him, I think. That was Friday.”

“Friday was the seventh. So he was showing symptoms on the sixth?”

“Yeah, or maybe as early as the fifth. Said he had a stomach bug.”

“Thanks,” he says as he pivots toward the door.

“Have any of the other inmates died?”

He stops and turns toward me. “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you that. Physician––”

“Please,” my eyes sting as I plead. “It’s only breaking the law if you give a name.”

He looks up, takes a deep breath, and sighs. “Three that I know of.”

A tear burns the skin of my cheek. I choke out, “Okay.”

“Is your number in his file?”

I nod.

“I’ll make sure you get a call if his condition changes, okay?”

“Thanks,” I whisper as I brush the tear from my cheek. “And can you make sure the attending approves me as a visitor?”

“Of course. Do you need help finding your way out?”

“No, thanks. The exits are…” I sigh. “Never mind.”

It’s dark by the time I get to the parking garage across the street from the hospital. Not because I get lost. I don’t this time. I must have taken a longer nap in the windowless waiting room than I realized. Once in my car, I search for a nearby hotel on my new phone, one hopefully James hasn’t had a chance to tap.

My key in the ignition, I look down at the cupholder, at the half-empty water bottle in it.

Huh.

James hired me to poison a city. Would he poison a prison?

Nah, he subsidizes housing for felons. Murdering a bunch of men trapped in cages––the same men he helps upon release from prison––has to be outside the scope of his character. Besides, what would the point be? The people who supply water to the prison don’t have any control over Santa Clarita’s water or his townhouse complex.

I turn over the ignition, back out of the spot, and then follow the directions of the Australian lady who narrates my maps. She takes me to a DoubleTree hotel less than two miles away in San Bernardino.

At the front desk, the guy checking me in asks in that overly-cheery voice hotel workers have, “And to what date will you be staying?”

“I don’t–– Wait, what’s the date today?”

“It’s the eleventh, ma’am.”

I set my phone on the counter and open my calendar. My first meeting with James was last Tuesday. My dad got sick two, maybe three days later. Suppose James did this. Suppose he tainted the water supply to Lancaster State Prison when I turned him down for the job. That would give him two days. Is two days long enough to pull that off?

“Ma’am?”

My attention flicks from my phone to the man behind the hotel counter. “I don’t know.”

I can’t take in my surroundings as I walk to my hotel room. I’m sure there is an elevator. Likely a carpeted hallway lined with dozens of identical doors. The card key may beep when it unlocks the one to my room, but my mind doesn’t absorb any of it—even when the heavy door slams behind me. In the hollow hush of that dim room, one thought itches every inch of my mind:

Is the world crumbling beneath my feet because it’s made of plates that shift and quake and wreck those who stand on it? Or is someone taking a sledgehammer to it?

I guess I could ask.

I drop my purse on the bed, then sift through it for my phones. A phone in each hand, I find James’s cell number stored in my iPhone contacts and dial the number into my burner. Only one ring delays the call.

“Hello?”

“Did you do this?” Anger drives the first three words, but fear breaks my voice on the fourth.

“Dillon, how wonderful to hear from you! Though, I thought I’d be hearing from you sooner.”

My jaw clenches until my throat cramps. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“I’m not sure I have one.”

“Why is my dad in the hospital?”

He sighs, but nothing about even the oxygen he breathes is genuine. “I understand you’re upset. But these things happen in prisons all the time.”

Holy shit. He knows. How could he know and not have done this? “Motherfucker, you know this didn’t just happen.”

“Maybe, maybe not. It could be a travesty of inmate neglect not even the most liberal of news outlets will report on. Or it could be damn cheap insurance on a business relationship. Either way, no prosecutor is going to risk his career pressing charges against someone who solved prison overcrowding at no charge to the state.”

Holy shit. This guy’s a psychopath. That’s why I couldn’t read between his lies.

He is a lie.

Of course I couldn’t predict his next move. His goal isn’t to get clean water for his tenants. It’s not even to get Santa Clarita to pay for it. If those were his goals, I would have never heard from him again after that first meeting. He could have hired someone else. But he didn’t. It has to be me. Because I’m the one thing beyond his control.

When the goal of the game is power, a piece like me can’t remain on the board.

It’s all in view now that I know what game we’re playing. But that knowledge doesn’t untie the knots in my stomach.

I still have to play.

“My father is not your insurance.”

“Maybe not. But Rory could be.”

Fuck.

“His wife is pregnant, right? Sees Dr. Geddes over in Sherman Oaks?”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! “You know what happened to the last guy who blackmailed me?”

He chuckles. “I’m not some peon local politician.”

“No. You got a lot more to lose, and if you think I’m not comin’ after all of it––”

“Dillon, you’re the only one losing here.”

“Listen, motherfucker,” I suck a breath in through my nose and hiss the words slowly, each counted, each measured. “You betta stay woke, ‘cause I’m not just comin’ for you, I’m comin’ for everybody you ever loved, and every fuckin’ thing you have.”

“Interesting.” I can almost hear the supercilious strokes his fingers make against the stubble on his jaw. “Will you do that before or after your father dies a slow, agonizing death?”

I mirror his tone when I ask, “Would you like me to dismember and disembowel you before or after your heart stops?”

“Don’t forget your father will face death alone.”

“But your daughter won’t.” Yes! His daughter. He’s gotta care about her at least a little. He might be a mass murderer, but even they have pressure points. This one has to be his. “Nah, wouldn’t want you to miss that.”

“Alone and handcuffed like a wild animal.”

“That’s not a bad idea, actually.”

“Even Michael died with more dignity.”

Michael. Nope. Don’t engage. He’s just trying to get a rise out of you.

“You’re going to risk Adaline’s life just to prove your dick is bigger than mine? Hon, it’s not.”

“You and I both know you don’t have the balls to touch her.”

“Stay woke, fucker. Because you’ll weep when you realize what I have the balls to do.”

I take the burner in both my hands and snap it in half at the hinge. My gut surrenders a scream as I chuck the pieces at the wall then stomp on the remains, grunting and shrieking as they crack under the soles of my shoes.

I snatch my iPhone from the bed, unsure who to call first. He’s after them all.

I select the contact for Rory’s burner, praying silently that he has it on him. Voicemail.

I hang up and try another number. With each ring, I mutter, “Pick up-pick up-pick up.”

“Est?”

At the sound of Linus’s voice, I collapse into sobs.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Cal

September 12

Three taps. Two taps. One.

After I knock, I step back from the door and rub the five o’clock shadow on my jaw. When Estlyn answers, my eyes scan her, taking in her loose curls pulled back, the cheap hotel bathrobe hugging her body.

Her red-rimmed eyes skip past me. “Hey? What are you––”

“Bitch,” Dean raises his finger beside me, “I love you, but if my bare ass isn’t between cool sheets in thirty seconds, I’m going to set this whole place on fire.”

Leo opens the door to the room on the right of Estlyn’s. In that quiet, condescending voice parents use to explain children’s tantrums to non-parents, he says, “Dean didn’t sleep in the car.”

“I would have,” Dean snaps, “but it wasn’t until Pasadena that I found out this was not an impromptu trip to Palm Springs.”

“Dean…” Estlyn’s head whips toward Rory’s voice at the open door to my left. “Did you really think Liv looked excited about getting in the car to leave town at eleven PM? She was already wearing her old-lady mask.”

“It’s a balm,” Olivia hollers from inside their room

“Fine. Old-lady balm.”

“Yeah,” added Leo, “and Rory made us all leave our phones at home. You didn’t think that was weird?”

“Why are you all here?” Estlyn asks.

“For you,” I answer, but by the way her head cocks to the side, I can tell she doesn’t buy it. “Fine.” I put my hand on my chest. “I’m here for you. But I didn’t want to leave Leo.” I point to the door closing behind Dean. “Dean’s an alternate for when I can’t be there for her.”

Our attentions snap to the door slamming in Leo’s face. She points her thumb toward it. “We’re sharing a suite.”

“Lucky,” Estlyn teases.

“Rory’s here,” I continue, “because we figure, well, safety in numbers, right?”

Rory takes Estlyn’s arm in his hand and leans in to kiss her cheek. “I’m sorry about your dad,” he says.

Her eyes gloss as she nods. “I’m sorry you guys got dragged––”

“Don’t worry about it,” he interrupts. “Liv and I love it out here. It’s hot. It’s dusty. There’s a barbed-wire fence around Target.”

“You can head up to Lake Arrowhead,” Estlyn suggests. “You might be safer up there anyway.”

He shakes his head and waves her off. “Nah, we only took Leo’s car. Besides, I heard Redlands, that city just east of here, is crunchy as fuck. We finally have a chance to discuss politics topless over some locally-sourced, organic weed.”

“Right, but then everyone will see your nipple rings.”

“Yes! I’ve been dying to show those hoops off.” Rory squeezes her hand, then steps toward his room. “Get some sleep, okay?”

“Night,” Estlyn says, then backs up to invite me into her room. “Where’s the cat?”

Really? In all this, she remembers Eddie? I fight a smile when I answer, “In a crate in Leo’s room.” I lift our suitcase onto the built-in desk and, for the second time in a week, unzip it in a new place. “You okay?”

I straighten to standing before she answers. It’s at that moment I realize I haven’t hugged or kissed her since I got here. I’m not sure I have a right to after throwing her under the bus in front of our respective siblings. And Dean, who was there for some reason I can’t remember. Oh, and accusing her of having a crush on the man who tried to murder her father.

Holy shit, how has she had the self-control not to rearrange my face by now?

I’m still facing the wall when warm fingers slip under my T-shirt. Her chest rises and falls against my back as her slender arms wrap around me. I feel her face bury in the hollow beneath my shoulder blades, her fingers spreading over my abs.

“I’m sorry.” Her words are just whispers—not because she doesn’t think they deserve the full force of her voice, but because whispers are all she has left.

I cover her hands with mine. “Me too.”

“You weren’t wrong.” The cotton between my skin and her cheek dampens as her voice breaks. “James and I have something you and I don’t.”

My eyes close to hear her better, to feel her voice echo in my ribs. “What?”

“We’re vile.”

My head shakes. My hand squeezes hers. “No, Est––”

“The waters of our souls run deep and toxic.”

“Est––

“And now you’re all poisoned.”

After I spin, I drop my eyes to hers. “Stop.”

“I did this,” she mouths.

Both her hands between mine, I shake my head with soft objections. “No. No, you didn’t. He did.”

Her gaze stills on mine. “You told me not to meet with him.”

Well… that is true. But this isn’t about who was right and who made a disastrous decision because her lady parts were under the spell of a creepy, young Idris Elba.

“It could have been you.” Her lip quivers, stopping only so her throat can roll with a swallow. “You could’ve been in the hospital or wor––”

“I wish it would have been me.”

“What?”

“If that meant you could have him. If that meant your dad would be safe.” Her silk cheeks are warm between my hands as both my thumbs clear the rivers of tears flowing down her face. “God, Est, I can’t watch you lose another––”

Her lips snatch the rest of the sentence from mine. She interrupts any train of thought I had by pressing my body into the desk behind me. Her hand smoothes over my T-shirt before she clutches it in her fist, raising it as her hands heat a path of goose bumps over my skin. My shirt hits the floor.

Then her robe.

I lift her so she can wrap around me, so her muscles can shiver when my lips meet her neck, so I can hear her lungs rush to inhale when I suck her nipple between my tongue and teeth.

Her arms tangled around my head, she tugs my hair back so I can look at her. “Did you mean it?” Her breath pulses over the words.

“Of course.” I walk her back against the wall beside the bed, easing her down until her toes touch the carpet.

My hands grip the wall above her when she unzips my fly, but when her delicate fingers massage the bulge beneath my boxers, I can’t keep them off her, can’t keep them from grabbing her round ass or sliding between her smooth thighs or feeling how wet she is. How fucking perfect she is.

“The other night when you told me you loved me,” she clarifies.

Oh, that. She heard that? How much of the rest of that conversation was she awake for? I tip her chin up to see her dark eyes. “Did you?”

She nods.

I smile and lean in to kiss her, but her two fingers intercept my lips.

“I’m going to hell, you know?”

“Is there room for me there?”

Her lips purse, and her eyes screw up to their corner as if she’s actually contemplating her answer. “Probably.”

“Then let’s go.”

I flick her hand out of my way so our lips can crash together. She pushes my pants to the floor, then my body to the bed beneath hers.

The realization soaks through me––those three words, the words I thought would only ever be Michael’s—are mine now, too.

I feel those words in the way Estlyn’s fingers tangle and grasp at my hair. In the way she moans when I taste her. In the way her breath catches when I move inside her.

Everything about this time is different. Every inch of flesh is like ground to be claimed. Every kiss, every touch, possessing until I’m inescapably hers. Until she’s irrevocably mine. It’s desperate. It’s determined. It’s greedy. It’s clinging to each other when everything else is slipping away. It’s my swearing not to let her slip through my fingers. And her breathless screams of my name are her promise I won’t slip through hers.

We’re surrounded by sheets when I wake. I raise the one covering my face in search of Estlyn in the pile of bedding we collapsed beneath. Her head isn’t even on the pillow as she lies face down on the mattress. Her cheek rests on crossed arms, Michael’s ring in front of her forehead.

I sneak out of bed, each step I take soft on the carpet on my way to the bathroom. When I return, I see what I couldn’t while I was inside Estlyn. The wall adjacent to the window is covered in sticky notes. At the center is a note with James Sterling written in angry font. From that spins a circle of notes describing, apparently, stuff Estlyn knows about him.

Luxury Apartments

Low-Income Housing

Water Problem

Tense Relationship with City of Santa Clarita

Nonprofit Mortgage Assistant Startup

Connection to High-Profile Influencers

Prison Poisoning

Sterling Agrochemical

Engineering License

Adaline

Around each note is its own circle of stickies with what looks like scribbles from a brainstorming session. For instance, around Luxury Apartments, are the notes:

Tank Property Value

Force Foreclosure

Drive out Tenants

Some notes have arrows drawn between them, like Nonprofit Mortgage Assistant Startup and Connection to High-Profile Influencers. I guess those are related.

Oh, I get it. Estlyn is going to Mean Girls his ass. Just swap out Regina George with James Sterling, and this is nothing more than that classic work of Tina Fey. That’s the only reason I saw the movie, by the way: for the writing. Same goes for why I saw the play. And think October third should be a national holiday.

I scan the wall again. In the mess of paper, I notice only one note lacks its own orbit of sub-notes: Adaline. Under that name, Estlyn placed only one word: Shit.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Estlyn

September 13

“Ihave a question.” Rory raises his hand from the front table in the classroom where he and Olivia are sitting. Linus is beside them, Dean and Leo in the second table back as not to be mistaken for nerds who sit in the front. This academic building is two blocks––or two university lawns––from the hospital in which my dad is still in stable but critical condition. “Who did you blackmail to get access to this classroom?”

“No one,” I answer. “You’re on their internet, right?”

He nods, tapping the keys of his laptop.

“Okay,” I announce as I place my fingertips on the whiteboard I already marked up. “Listen up. We only have four days to pull this off.” I snap my fingers Dean’s direction. “Sunglasses off.”

Still slouching, he whips them off like a kid in a fucking high school movie from the nineties. “Then you’re going to have to dim the lights.”

“Where’d you even go last night?”

“I don’t know. This bar that had a trivia night.” He shades his eyes with his hand and adds, “We did not do well.”

“You’re supposed to be with Leo.”

“I took her with me. I needed a DD.”

He took the pregnant, should-be-on-bedrest alcoholic to a bar? I glance at Linus sitting with his arms crossed. He’s shaking his head.

I sigh but get back to it. “Our target is James Sterling, an equal partner with his father, and soon-to-be sole owner of Sterling Agrochemical, the largest supplier of pesticides and GMO seeds to farmers on the West Coast. Their business office is in Los Angeles, but they have a handful of manufacturing plants all over California. Most are in the Central Valley. One, though, is in Lancaster.”

“Damn,” Olivia mutters. She was the only one I expected to pick up on the significance of that, being a nurse and all.

“Yeah,” I agree. “Dad’s doctor said that pesticide-tainted groundwater was likely the cause of the outbreak of arsenic poisoning at the prison. Usually, arsenic poisoning from water isn’t acute. It doesn’t kill people off within days like this. It’s chronic, causing cancer, heart problems, stuff like that. Which suggests this event,” I tap my finger on the board behind me, “isn’t some long-standing malfunction of the plant or failure to keep it up to EPA standards. This is intentional. And lucky for us…” I lean on the table in front of Linus. “It’s sloppy.”

“So, what you’re saying is,” Rory asks with his hand raised. Why raise his hand? He already started talking. “Now it’s time to fuck him up?”

“Correct.”

His hand still up, he continues, “I would still like to know how you got this classroom.”

Huffing, I push off the table and rush through the answer, “We made a donation to the hospital.”

Linus squints, cocking his head at me. His words drag out, “How big of a donation?”

“Enough to get my dad a private room and have no medical students screwing up his treatment.”

“Estlyn…”

“Look, his life is at stake. No one is going to treat him like an inmate.”

“Babe, I know, but where is this money coming from?”

Oh, he’s confused. “Not we as in you and me.” My eyes float to Leo, who winks at me.

Dean snaps his eyes to her. “Holy Jesus, how much did you give her?”

“Not ‘give’. It was a loan,” I correct.

“Was it enough to let you see him?” Liv asks.

I shake my head. “Warden’s dragging his feet. As I was saying, we’re slicing into two of Sterling’s exposed arteries: his wealth and his reputation. Bleeding out the latter won’t be all that difficult since he’s already stuck his neck out and handed us the scalpel.

“Besides his thriving bug-killing, corn-altering business, he is a self-proclaimed philanthropist supporting those who have been historically robbed of their civil rights or denied equality under the law. The fact that he used Sterling Agrochemical to willfully poison a prison, whether or not we can prove it was intentional, shatters the facade he wears in front of his investors.

“Suppose we can’t prove intent.” I tap my knuckle on the board. “What we can prove is that waste from his plant is what tainted the prison’s water supply and he has been withholding clean water from his low-income tenants just outside Santa Clarita Valley. Olivia,” Her eyebrows flinch to acknowledge me. “I’ve requested the records of Sterling’s request for Santa Clarita municipal water for his townhouse complex and the city’s response. Your job is to go to Santa Clarita City Hall tomorrow morning and make copies of those documents.”

“On it.”

“Linus,” I look his way, “you’ll go with her. Buddy system.”

“Of course,” he answers.

My line of sight boomerangs to Dean. “That, plus my dad’s medical records and an interview of some of the medical staff, should be enough to start your story, right?”

“Uh-huh,” Dean murmurs.

“You still have connections at Vox? Because I don’t think TMZ will be interested in this.”

He shuts his eyes, rubbing his forehead. “Bitch, just get me the damn story. I’ll get it out.”

“Also, if you could reach out to his friends Melina Abdullah, Michelle Alexander, and Bryan Stevens for comment, that would really piss him off.”

Dean offers a half-hearted salute, then sinks deeper into his seat.

“These,” I drop five flip phones on a front table, “are your new burners. Keep the ones you have if you got them, but these are exclusively for Sterling-related contact. Got it?”

A few yeahs and yeps echo in the near-empty classroom.

“And that’s it.”

Leo raises her hand. “I don’t have a job.”

I point at her. “Stay pregnant until your due date.”

Her eyes roll.

Rory’s hand is in the air again. “That only destroys his reputation. How are we going after his money?”

My eyes meet the challenge in his hazel ones. “Linus, can you guys pick up some lunch? Ror and I have to work.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Leo objects, “I want to stick around to hear the answer.”

Dean shakes his head, his hand still a visor to his eyes. “No, you don’t.”

“Why not?”

Rory’s gaze still hasn’t broken from mine when he answers, “Unless you want to get charged with aiding and abetting.”

“Pft,” Leo scoffs. “That’ll never happen. You’re a lawyer, aren’t you?”

“Well, yeah.”

“Can’t you make anything go away?”

“She sort of can, actually,” Linus chimes in.

My teeth sink into my lower lip when I look at him, at his arched eyebrow and arms crossed over his reclining chest. It’s like he’s… proud of me. No, that can’t be right.

Holy shit, he’s proud of me and my slimy lawyering.

We might actually make it.

“So, what’s the problem?” Leo asks.

“Leo’s right.” That’s Liv. “Besides, you need our help.”

“Fuck, yeah,” Dean sits up to add, his voice holding back vomit. “Do your worst, bitch.”

My eyes lock on Linus’s, waiting for his support. He shrugs. His voice is silk when he answers, “If there’s room in hell…”

“Okay,” I exhale. Turning to the whiteboard, I release another slow breath as I write and circle the two words that glue the plan together. When I face the class again, not a single mouth is closed.

“Holy shit,” Leo whispers.

“We shouldn’t have asked,” Dean mumbles, head in hands.

“You sure this is the best way?” Linus asks.

“No.” I shake my head. “It’s the only way.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Estlyn

September 17

It looks more like a sprawling estate than an eating disorder treatment center, what with its mansions, man-made lake, and pool surrounded by lounge chairs and gardens. Inside the largest building feels a bit more sterile, somewhere between a hospital and a therapist’s office. Stopping in front of the reception desk, I tell the plump woman behind it, “Hi, I’m here to visit Adaline Sterling.”

She smiles. “Name?”

“Keely Phelps.”

She nods and, I assume, sifts through Adaline’s approved visitors in the computer. Keely Phelps was added this morning by an authorized Loma Vista Healing Center employee named Elizabeth Markle who has an embarrassingly easy-to-decipher password. That’s what Rory said, at least.

“Okay, Keely.” She stands to see me better, “I’ll need to search your bag.”

“Oh, I can just leave it here.” I drop it on the raised half of the desk before lifting my arms to form a T so the security officer can wand me with a metal detector. The uniformed man pushes open the door behind him, gesturing me into a warm, multi-purpose space filled with fresh flowers and clusters of couches surrounding coffee tables. Generic, wannabe inspirational quotes decorate the taupe walls.

As I scan the room for Adaline, I remove the Women’s Health Consultant badge from where it was hidden on my dress shirt and clip it to my blazer.

I have to applaud the bastard. Admitting Adaline to a mental health treatment facility the day after I threatened Sterling is the modern-day equivalent to locking his little princess up in an ivory tower. She’s in a remote location, under supervision twenty-four/seven, with no reason to suspect she’s in any sort of danger.

It’s fucking brilliant.

I spot the little princess curled up in a wingback chair with a copy of Wuthering Heights, her T-shirt draped over her skeleton, her skin beneath it stretched taut over her bones. Poor girl still has to do homework while dietitians force her body to a weight she obsessed over never achieving. I strut toward her, then drop my round ass into the squishy chair opposite her. “Adaline?”

Her weary eyes rise to mine. “Yeah?”

I extend my hand. “I’m Ms. Phelps, but you can call me Keely if you want. I’m the women’s health consultant here. Do you have a minute to talk?”

Adaline shuts her book over a scrap of paper, then kicks her feet to the floor. “Sure.”

“Before I get started, do you have any questions for me?”

“Like what?”

“Well, according to your records, you haven’t had your first period yet. Is that still true?”

Her cheeks heat as she nods.

I lower my voice, “In your intake, you also mentioned you’re sexually active.”

“Not, like, real…” Her eyes fall. “Nothing more than…”

“Shh-shh-shh…” I pat her knee. “You don’t have to tell me anything you’re not comfortable with. It’s just that some girls your age with such low body fat don’t have a period. That’s okay, but what a lot of them don’t know is they can still get pregnant.”

“Really?”

I nod. “All I’m here to do is offer to take you to a clinic for an exam and contraception if you’re interested.”

“Won’t my dad find out?”

I shake my head. “By law, you’re allowed access to care at a women’s clinic without parental consent.”

She cringes. “What are they going to do to me?”

“Only what you consent to. If you want free birth control, they can give you that in whatever form works best for you. If you just want to ask questions, they’ll be happy to answer them.” A warm smile spreads across my face. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

She nods. “Okay.” Wow, that was easier than I thought it would be. I forget how trusting kids are.

“Perfect. Give me a few minutes to arrange your transportation. I’ll be right back.”

I pivot toward the door through which I entered, tucking the forged name badge back into my jacket. Once in the front office, I press my elbows into the counter. “Hi, Adaline just confided in me that she needs to visit a women’s clinic.” I string tense the muscles of my neck as I wince. “Like today,” I mouth.

“Oh.” She nods several times as if she’s unsure how to respond to Adaline’s lady crisis. “I’ll arrange for a medical transport.”

I lean closer to whisper, “Planned Parenthood is only open for another couple of hours, so…”

She scoops the phone to her ear. “I’ll tell them it’s urgent.”

I sigh in exaggerated relief. “Thank you.” My hand on the counter, I ask, “Could I have my purse, please?”

She returns it to me. After I flash her a quick smile, I step out onto the deck and dial Olivia’s number into my burner. After half a ring, she answers. “Status?”

“Ivory tower climbed. Rapunzel fell for Prince Charming. Chariot currently en route.”

“How long until it arrives?”

“Not sure. They told them it was urgent.”

“I’d anticipate within the hour.”

“Good to know.”

“I’ll alert Robin Hood and Little John.”

I am aware we’re mixing a lot of fairytales, but none of those Disney movies supplied enough layers to properly parallel this sting. Plus, Linus insisted on being Robin Hood. He literally raised his hand and yelled “Called it!” during our planning meeting. We as a group may not adhere to a lot of laws, but we are all bound by the code of dibs.

I snap the flip phone shut just as flashing red-and-white lights flicker in the distance. Lights? Really? Damn, those paramedics must be having a slow day.

In the back of the ambulance, Adaline sits up with her legs pretzeled on the inclined gurney. An EMT and I sit on either side of her until the driver parks us in front of the Santa Monica Planned Parenthood. When the EMT pushes open the back door, he tells Adaline, “We have to wheel you into your room.”

I pat her hand. “It’s policy.”

And it’s an awkward policy. In the dim waiting room, Adaline stares at the ceiling, clearly wishing she were invisible and not a technical virgin on display in a women’s clinic. Just when the girl couldn’t get more embarrassed, the EMT tells the man behind the glass, “Checking in Adaline Sterling from Loma Vista Healing Center.” All eyes in the waiting room strain to see Adaline like they’ve never seen someone with a mental health problem before.

The guy checking her in hits a few computer keys. After handing the EMT a clipboard, he presses the button that unlocks the door to patient rooms. “Room Four.”

The EMT rolls Adaline to the open door of her room, where she lets herself inside.

“Would you like me to wait in the lobby?” I ask.

She shyly ducks her head in agreement, and I offer a gentle grin before following the EMT out.

I’m holding the door open for the gurney when I hear Olivia’s voice in the hall behind me. Liv nods my direction before entering Room Four.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Linus

September 17

Rapunzel secure in chariot.

That’s the text we all receive from Estlyn’s burner while I sit in the lobby of Sterling Agrochemical.

But that text isn’t my cue.

Ivory Tower escape video delivered.

That one is from Rory. Attached to the message is security video footage he swiped from the treatment center lobby. In it, Estlyn walks Adaline to the door, then winks up at the camera when the girl has safely crossed the threshold.

Damn. My girlfriend has fucking ice in her veins.

So, now the countdown starts. I wait two minutes for James to check his email from Rory before I call him from Estlyn’s iPhone. Best-case scenario, he calls first.

The phone buzzes in my hand. Best-case scenario it is.

“After Twelve. How may I help you?”

“Where the fuck is my daughter?”

“Who am I speaking with?”

“James Sterling, you cocksucker. My assistant is already calling the police. I’ll have Dillon––”

“I’d have him hang up if I were you.” Jesus, how does Estlyn do this without shitting herself? What if he doesn’t hang up with the cops? We’re all going to prison.

In the background, I hear frantic snapping of fingers, likely in the direction of his assistant. “Why?”

“Check your email again.”

“What?”

“I’ll give you a minute.” Please, don’t call the cops. Please, don’t call the cops.

He growls into the phone as he, probably, reads the emails Rory sent him moments ago. “What is this?”

“Before we proceed, can we confirm we are not involving the authorities?”

“Not yet,” he spits.

“First, would you like to call the treatment center to confirm that Adaline is, in fact, no longer there? Or do you take our word for it?”

“Just get the fuck on with it!”

Okay, moving on then.

Estlyn said to respond to outbursts of emotion with none, so I stick to the script––the literal script. If any of this sounds rehearsed, it’s because Estlyn made me. This whole confrontation or extortion or scale-tipping thing as she calls it, is her favorite part of the job. It took no small effort getting her to surrender it to me. But we all agreed, timing in this is everything, especially if we wanted to protect Adaline from the trauma of knowing she’d been kidnapped and held hostage. Also, on the off-chance James could track Estlyn’s phone, she had no business calling him.

“The first email contains links to all of your personal bank accounts––all your liquid assets. We have taken the liberty of moving those funds to an offshore account. Feel free to see for yourself.”

After I hear his gruff sigh, I add, “We’ll return the money to you by the end of the day if you don’t bother the police with this.”

“And…” he hisses through gritted teeth.

“And the second email contains a thorough news tip that we have ready to submit to every liberal news outlet our media correspondent has a connection to. If you read through it, you’ll find it contains enough evidence to link Sterling Agrochemical to the water contamination at Lancaster State Prison. We also got copies of Santa Clarita City records that show you were offered clean water from the city and turned it down. Our journalist was even able to get Michelle Alexander and Bryan Stevens to comment on your business’s indiscretions.”

“So your leverage is you have my checking account and a conspiracy theory about how my plant accidentally killed some men who were a threat to society? You don’t think everyone is thinking that we’re better off without those violent criminals?”

“No, sir. Our leverage is that we have your daughter.” I get chills saying that. How does Estlyn do this? I guess she’s never done this whole abduction, holding a minor hostage thing before. But still. That was in the script. “We’d be happy to return her to Loma Vista immediately if you can comply with our two reasonable requests.”

“And those are?”

“First, you’re going to switch your low-income tenants from their lead-ridden water to Santa Clarita’s water.”

“Fine.”

“Second, you’re going to sign the deed to the Ocean Avenue apartments over to Dillon Collins.”

He cackles. “You said your requests were reasonable.”

“You’re right. I lied. These are demands. And Estlyn demands she get paid ‘everything Young took from her, plus interest.’”

“Then I demand to see my daughter.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because I’m not with her. But I can assure you that Adaline is safe. In fact, if we get through this quick enough, she doesn’t even have to know she was kidnapped.”

“What? How?”

“Well, sir, I’m at your office. Invite me back so you can sign these papers, and Adaline can tell you what she did today herself.”

The line goes dead. The notary we hired is sitting next me, eyes and mouth wide. For his sake, Little John was not clued into this part of the plan. I stand and wave for him to join me as I approach the front desk. “Cal from After Twelve,” I tell the receptionist. “I’m here to see James Sterling. He’s expecting us.”

He speaks into his headset before saying, “The door at the end of the hall.”

“Thanks.”

Chapter Twenty-Six

Estlyn

September 17

Adaline steps into the waiting room after just thirty minutes. Really? Liv couldn’t have dragged that out a little longer? There’s gotta be a book of STDs she could have showed Adaline. Maybe gone through the symptom list of each infection? That would have taken hours.

Worse, the ambulance never left. Apparently, they are having a slow day. The EMTs have been kicking rocks in the parking lot. Unless something catastrophic happens on the 405, we’ll be back at the treatment center in twenty minutes.

I have no way of knowing if Linus will have what we need from James by then. He’s been dark since we left Loma Vista.

“Ready to head back?” I ask Adaline as I coerce my face to smile.

“Yep.”

Damn it.

The EMT closes us in the back of the ambulance before my burner finally buzzes.

Prince’s castle pillaged and plundered, Linus texts. Rapunzel’s status?

Oh, thank God.

Rapunzel in chariot. En route to Ivory Tower, I reply. Rendezvous protocol.

In other words, ditch your burner phones at the scene and get in your car to meet up at Leo’s. Dean and Leo are already hanging out there.

“Have any of them run it yet?” I ask Dean before I’m even across the threshold of Leo’s front door.

“Vox’s story is live,” he replies, raising a glass of champagne to me. “CNN and The Times are working on it.”

Please… I wasn’t going to let James kill all those men and still make millions killing bugs. Though, I did give him his money back. I know better than anyone that those embezzlement charges are sticky as hell.

“Where’s Cal?” Dean asks.

I look over my shoulder into the driveway. “He just pulled up… with Ror it looks like.”

“What about Olivia?” Leo asks as she waddles down the hall from the bathroom.

“She has to finish her shift at the clinic.”

“Ugh!” Leo groans, craning her neck to see her shorts. Well, she tries. Her belly is in the way. “I swear, I can’t stop pissing my pants today.” She pivots around and pads her way toward her bedroom, giving us a view of the dark puddle on the back of her maternity cut-offs.

My eyes flick to Rory’s, then to Dean’s. “Leo…?” I ask.

“Yeah?” she calls, hands on what are left of her hips.

“Do your pants smell like pee?”

“Ew, I don’t know. Why?”

“Because you probably don’t just piss your pants, right?”

“Not usually.”

“Do you think your water broke?”

Dean jumps up from the table. “We’re having a baby?”

I hold my hand out to shut him up. “Go smell your shorts and get back to us.”

“Alright,” Leo says before she continues down the hall.

“Does she have a go-bag?” Dean asks.

I pour myself a glass of champagne. “I doubt it. She’s not even full term.”

“What?”

As I take a sip from the flute, I shrug. I flinch when I hear Linus shut the front door, then turn toward him. “Hey, how––”

But I can’t finish my sentence because Linus’s lips are smothering mine, his hands on both my cheeks. When he pulls away, he searches my eyes. “You are fuckin’ fearless.”

“So are you,” I whisper.

He presses his lips into my forehead, retreating just enough to whisper, “And I’ll never, ever do anything to piss you off.”

Chuckling, I let him tuck me against his chest. “Tell me everything. Did he shit himself? Did he call Loma Vista? What did he say when he saw his bank––”

“It smells like nothing,” Leo shouts from the back.

At that, Dean bolts down the hall. “Baby time! Baby time! Where’s your hospital bag? Did you pack onesies? Christ, Leo! Put some pants on!”

“What the fuck? Get out of my room!”

Linus’s chest shakes against me at Leo slamming the door in Dean’s face. “Is she in labor?”

“Probably.” I let Linus go, then head to Leo’s door. “Leo? Can we help you with anything?”

Leo opens the door, now in dry leggings with a duffle bag slung over her shoulder. She pushes the stuffed bag into Dean’s abdomen in answer to his earlier question. “Can someone drive me to the hospital?”

Dean raises his hand. “Me! Please, let me! I have five Catholic Puerto Rican sisters. I’m more qualified than anyone here.”

Leo and I look at each other. “Qualified to drive her to the hospital.”

She raises an eyebrow at me with her hand on my shoulder. “It seems really important to him.”

“Yes! Vamonos!” Dean takes off toward the garage, leaving us behind.

“You realize you just told him he was qualified to be in the delivery room.”

“Yeah…” She sighs.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Cal

September 19

Jack Lawrence Gray is four pounds, six ounces. Born four weeks early, he’s underdeveloped for a newborn. Being fed alcohol in utero, he’s underdeveloped for a preemie. But for all the tiny peanut went through before he was born, he’s doing better than any of us could have hoped.

Leo hasn’t held Jack yet, but she should get to tomorrow. Since the contractions started, she hasn’t stopped crying and asking for Jesse.

“He’s getting on the first flight he can,” I told her on the way to the hospital.

“He just has a layover in Denver,” Estlyn told her when they let her start pushing.

“He’s on his way from LAX,” I said as I hugged her outside the NICU.

Estlyn and I stare as Leo collapses, weeping, into Jesse’s arms. There is no anger or resentment between them. Nothing but hushed whispers of comfort as he strokes her hair. And between the two of them, the one who sobs out the words I’m sorry is Leo.

Not Jesse.

Shouldn’t he be the one on his knees begging for forgiveness? Begging for her not to leave him or press charges or ruin his career? Why the fuck is my baby sister apologizing to the man who beat her?

My fist clenches against my thigh, my other hand furiously kneading my neck.

“Let it be,” Estlyn whispers. “We won’t let him hurt her again.” She unwinds my fingers so she can lace them between hers, then tugs me back to Leo’s recovery room.

“I don’t get it,” I whisper as Estlyn starts cleaning up––tossing away snack wrappers and folding Leo’s clothes. “How can she apologize to that asshole?”

Estlyn opens Leo’s bag, then tucks the clothes away. “I don’t know, babe.” She glances up at me as I massage my neck. “You need some ibuprofen? You slept kinda funny last night.”

“Sure. They have to get divorced, right?”

“I think so…” Estlyn freezes her rummaging through Leo’s duffle bag. Her back eases straight, her eyes trained on something in her hand.

“What? What’s that?”

She holds up what looks like a small microphone, the kind that clips onto someone’s shirt or jacket or…

Estlyn drops it on the floor. Smashes it under her foot. “It was on Leo’s bra.”

“What? Why?” My eyes snap to Leo when I hear her sniffle at the doorway. I stoop to pick up the crushed wire. “What the hell is this, Leo?”

Leo shakes her head, the tears flowing in serpentine rivers down her cheeks. “I––” Her eyes dart to Estlyn. “I’m so sorry. I––I didn’t know you, and I didn’t have a choice. Please––”

“She did it for Jack,” Jesse interrupts as he rubs circles on her back.

Dread drains the blood from Estlyn’s face. “Did what?”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Leo

September 3

1:47 AM

When she locked me in the interrogation room, the officer gave me a bag to wretch in. She offered me coffee and a ginger ale. I accepted the latter with a straw.

I rest my cheek on the cold metal tabletop, my eyes zeroed in on the corner of it to keep the room from spinning. My lips wrap around the straw as I take sips of the sweet soda, focusing on the bubbles popping between my tongue and the roof of my mouth instead of the lurching in my gut.

God, I want to go home already. Last time this happened, I was home by now, not in a windowless room. I don’t know what there is to interrogate. My first DUI, they just put me in a holding cell until Cal posted my bail. What has changed between when I was nineteen and now?

Like last time, I asked for my phone call. This time, the cop told me I’d have to wait until I was processed. But I was processed an hour ago.

I asked for my lawyer. The same officer said that would be a mistake.

I asked to be taken to the hospital. She told me, “Not yet.”

I asked what I was waiting for. She said, “For a Get Out of Jail Free card.”

That card better be with the guy who walked in just now. “Ms. Gray, I apologize for the wait,” the salt-and-peppered man says as he takes a seat at my table. He’s not in uniform, but his clothes are understated and professional. Plus, he’s carrying a file folder. Definitely not a lawyer. Maybe a detective. “There was construction on the 405.”

“Okay?”

He opens the file on the table in front of us and scans the contents, which include the mugshot I just took and the one from four years back. “Eleanor.” His blue eyes reach up to mine. “Can I call you Leo? That’s what you go by, isn’t it?”

“Sure.” I shrug.

“I see this is your second DUI. How far along are you in your pregnancy?”

“Thirty-four weeks.”

He rests his elbows on the table. “Because this is your second offense, I’m going to recommend our DDA charge you with everything he’s got.”

“What?”

“He’s going to enhance your charges from a DUI to reckless endangerment. I’m going to also suggest he tack on child endangerment.”

“Child endangerment?”

“There was a minor under the age of fourteen in the car with you.”

“There was no kid––”

“You’re looking at misdemeanor and felony charges, plus up to six years in prison.”

“What minor?”

“Miss, by law, your child is considered a viable life on its own after twenty weeks gestation. DDA Ramirez will have no issue putting you away until your child is six. A jury will clearly see you are an unfit mother.”

My eyes flood, my body convulsing with sobs. I know I’m an unfit mother. I know only a mom as shitty as mine would get drunk while pregnant. Only a shittier mom would get behind the wheel that way.

And just like my mom, I’m going to lose my family.

Through the sounds of my choking on tears, I catch a few words of the man’s sentence. “Does… husband… can he take… custody?”

I shake my head. “I can’t,” sob, “go to,” sniff, “jail,” pulsing inhale. “Please!”

There’s a silence I can’t explain until I’ve cleared my eyes of mascara and tears. He’s smirking at me. The piece of shit is actually smiling at a pregnant lady desperate not to be taken away from her child.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

“What?” I cry.

“I have your Get Out of Jail Free card.”

The nausea in my stomach rises like a wave. “What do you want me to do?”

“Your brother, Linus Calloway, is in a relationship with a woman who goes by the name Estlyn Collins.”

Goes by? That sounds sketchy.

“She runs an illegal operation called After Twelve,” he continues, “and, despite the LAPD’s attempts to apprehend her, they have not yet been able to make any charges stick.”

They? What the hell? This guy isn’t with the LAPD? “Who are you?”

“I have credible intel that within the next few days, a man named James Sterling will offer Collins a job. You’re going to be there, wearing a wire, when he does.”

“Wait, what? How?”

“I’ll set you up with it and her address.”

“Um, okay.” I stare at him a moment longer, waiting for more, but he doesn’t add to his demand. “Wait, that’s it? I just stay with my brother so you can eavesdrop on his girlfriend?” That’s not the worst he could force me to do.

He grins. “That’s it. Now, let’s work on your story.”

“Story?”

“You need a reason to stay with your brother and Estlyn long enough to catch her in an illegal act. Acts, plural, would be better. A felony or three would be incredible. Once I have the evidence I need to charge her, you’ll be free to go.” He inclines in his chair, then parts his hands. “Now… why are you going to stay with them?”

God, I’m too drunk for this. I gently clear off a scab forming under my eye before I answer. “Maybe my house flooded?”

“Your husband is an MLB player, correct?”

I nod.

“So, you can afford a hotel. No reason to squish into Ms. Collins’s one-bedroom apartment.”

“Maybe I got in a car accident and need to stay with family as I recover.”

He shakes his head. “No, again, because they could just come to you, right? And it wouldn’t be twenty-four/seven. And maybe it would only be Linus.”

I drop my forehead into my palm, propping it on the table with my elbow. “Why don’t you pitch some ideas since you’re putting me in this shitty position?”

“Leo, you put yourself in this position. I’m trying to help you out of it.”

“Yeah, you’re a real fucking knight in shining armor.”

“What if your husband assaulted you?”

“What? No. Hell, no.”

His fingers spread on the steel table one at a time as he counts off his reasons. “It would explain your injuries. It would create a rational reason for you to stay with Ms. Collins in her apartment for an extended period of time. If we’re lucky, she may even try to avenge your assault by committing a crime against your husband.”

“Fuck you! You have a badge, don’t you? You have a gun? Go after this Collins girl yourself, you cock-sucking coward.”

“Ma’am, you can pick whatever story you like, but if this doesn’t work, you’re the one going to prison. You’re the one who will miss your child’s first six birthdays, understand?” His hands open toward me. “That’s no skin off my back.”

His hand reaches into the pocket of his unbuttoned coat. My eyes follow the object in it until it lands on the tabletop. A burner phone.

“If this is the route you want to go, take this. It has two numbers in it: mine and my private investigator’s. His name is Alec Reid. One of his clients is Mr. Sterling, who I mentioned earlier. Reid helped him track down Collins, whom Sterling has told Reid he wants to hire. Sterling could reach out to Collins as soon as tomorrow, and it would be ideal for us to have evidence from the start of one of her cases to the end. This opportunity might not come again.”

“This opportunity for you,” I correct. I have zero interest in being part of a police sting when I’m seven months pregnant. Or ever, really.

“We’ll fit you with a wire to wear on your person. Within hours of your being planted in Ms. Collins’s home, you will need to get them out of the apartment and ensure they are away while we bug the place.”

God, this asshole isn’t messing around.

“Text Reid and me when they’re gone.”

“Do I need to be there to let you in?”

A slimy smile spreads across his face. “No.”

He pushes off the table as he stands from his chair. “Your bail’s been posted. Your hearing is set for the sixth if you want to choose prison. It’ll be cancelled if you choose to assist law enforcement.” He reaches his hand out to shake mine. “I hope you let me give you that clean slate you deserve, Leo.”

After a brief handshake, he buttons his coat and opens the door, leaving me alone with the burner phone.

After I pick it up, I flip it open. I select the contacts to find those two numbers he promised.

Alec Reid, PI

Ted Monroe

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Cal

September 19

“So the cameras––” I ask.

“That cop had them installed,” Leo answers, “not James.”

“What about when we went to your house?”

“Remember when we went out to lunch because the security company had to work on the house?”

I nod.

“Yeah.” She exhales.

“But you loaned Estlyn money and––”

“She wanted me to let her in on the plan,” Estlyn finally says. “She was the one who pushed me to tell everyone we were going to abduct Adaline.”

I bury my face in my hands. “Fuck, we’re all going to prison.”

I wait for Estlyn to join me in panicking like a healthy person, but she doesn’t. She’s still. She’s silent.

Until her iPhone buzzes in her pocket. She scans the number on the screen before answering. “Dillon.”

Less than thirty seconds goes by before she says, “I’ll be there in a couple of hours.” Without another word, she hangs up, grabs her purse, and sprints out of the room.

“Hang on,” I mumble, then chase after her. I would call out, but I think that would piss off a lot of exhausted new moms with sleepless newborns. I catch up to her at the elevator, grabbing her arm to spin her to face me. “What happened?”

She pulls away, jamming the elevator button a hundred times a second. “The warden granted me permission to visit my dad.”

“That’s great!”

“Because he slipped into a coma and is finally in critical enough condition that the prison feels comfortable allowing visitors.”

“God, Est––”

Her eyes cut through mine. “They gave him hours.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you think, fucker?” she hisses. “He’s going to die.”

When the elevator doors start to open, Estlyn slips between them before they’ve parted all the way. I step in with her, but she shoves me back by my chest. “Stay the hell away from me. You and your backstabbing bitch of a sister.”

I stand in the hall, watching as she jabs the lobby button. “I’m sorry, Estlyn.”

She shakes her head as the doors shut between us.

Chapter Thirty

Estlyn

September 19

The fear is familiar. This time, it’s just slower, more sinister. It’s drawn out like torture, and like all torture, its greatest sin is hope.

By the fourth bullet, by the time I saw the blood I couldn’t stop flowing from Michael’s neck, I knew there was no hope. There’s a peace in that, in that certainty of loss. For hope makes fools of us where death has already conquered.

Now that I see my dad cuffed to his hospital bed, I realize that death has already been here. He’s staked his claim.

I sit on the bed beside my dad, then take his hand in mine. It’s cold. I rub it between my hands, then raise it to my lips to breathe warmth back into it.

“Hi, Daddy.” I clear my throat, a vain attempt to dislodge the sob stuck there. “I’m sorry you’re not feeling so good.” I glance out the window, shoulders drooping. “I tried to get you a room with a view of the mountains, but you can barely see them, huh?”

My thumb strokes his hand, the other his unshaven chin. “I know it’s not much, and that you wouldn’t have wanted me to do it, but… the man who did this…” I sniff and force a smile. “I got him back. His business stock tanked. All his celebrity connections disowned him. And he signed the deed to my apartment building over to me.”

My lungs quiver as I inhale. “You can live in my building when you’re out, Daddy.” I wipe my nose and add, “Nah, I know. You don’t want to live in the city or an apartment. You’ve spent too much time in a box.”

I look up at the ceiling. “We could sell it, buy two houses on the beach, one for you, one for me. You could teach a couple of English classes at a community college. Watch your light-ass grandkids grow up.” Chuckling, I swipe a tear away. “Every Sunday, you could watch football with Rory. And Dean would find a reason to be over, like, all the time.

“That’s where you’ll get old and grey, Daddy––at home, with me. And I know you say you took everything away from me, but you didn’t. You gave me everything you had, and that was always enough.” I dab a tear away with my shoulder. “You were always enough.

“So, when you come home with me, all this darkness, all this pain, we don’t never have to look at it again, okay?”

I watch him, waiting for him to respond, knowing he’ll only answer with closed eyes and weak breaths.

I kiss his cheek and lie down next to him, between his arm cuffed to the bed and his side. My hand on his chest, I feel each rise and fall until those breaths cease.

Chapter Thirty-One

Cal

September 20

It’s nearly two AM when I spot Estlyn from the waiting room. In her hand is a hospital belongings bag. It dangles, nearly empty, from two of her fingers. But I guess even the clothes on Mr. Hayes’s back didn’t belong to him. I watch through the window in the door as she signs one last form and receives a final, consoling touch from a nurse.

Estlyn’s eyes are swollen with exhaustion when she finally pushes through the door. I stand to meet her, but she almost passes by me. “Est?”

She flinches when she sees me, her eyes flooding over with what few tears remain. Without words, she sinks against my chest. I hold her tighter than I ever have. She lost the person she trusted the most. And she’s trusting me in that loss.

Even after Leo.

I soften my lips against her curls and hug her, stroking her back until her crying slows to silence.

“I brought you something,” I say before I press a stuffed lion into her hand. It’s like Lioness, but larger and plusher, its mane less wild, and its appearance a bit more steady. Into her other hand, I rest Lioness.

Against my chest, she sniffs an annoyed, “I don’t get it.”

“You’re fearless.”

She shakes her head, but I continue. “Your dad is that lion heart within you, that fearlessness innate to you. As long as you’re his cub,” I kiss her forehead, “you’re going to be okay.”

She sniffs and barely utters, “He’s gone.”

I shake my head. “No, he’s not.”

She nods against my chest.

“No, he’s not, babe,” I whisper. Over and over, I repeat, “No, he’s not.”

“I killed him,” she sobs. “After Twelve killed him.”

Cupping her face in my hands, I lean back. “No, no, you didn’t. A psychopath did.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t do it anymore, Linus. After Twelve, it’s––”

Oh, no, no, no, no. She can’t quit. What would people do? Accept the hand they’re dealt? That’s bullshit. I was the first to disapprove of her work, and even I can’t imagine a world without it. “Is that what your dad would want? You think he’d want you to quit getting justice for people who can’t get it from anyone but you?”

“I can’t get people justice. No one can, Linus. It’s rigged. All of––”

“Yeah. That’s why we need you.”

Estlyn disentangles from me to run her hands over her face. “Whatever. I just need to go home. See my lawyer.”

No shit. Four of us need to do that.

Taking her hand in mine, I lead her out the door.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Estlyn

October 1

Iwouldn’t describe this bridge as burned. Maybe it’s been through fire, but it’s not a pile of ash. It’s still intact enough for me to walk across, but I’ll likely meet a handful of I told you so’s on the other side.

I drop into a seat in the lobby I haven’t stepped into a single time in the last three years. Colburn’s wife must have insisted they redecorate again, because not only are these chairs new, but the walls are also painted toothpaste-teal instead of that warm neutral they used to be. There’s a thin brunette behind the desk where I used to sit, where Michael sat before me. That Mrs. Colburn didn’t change since my last year of law school.

My fourth year of interning for Bishop and Colburn Law Associates, Michael’s uncle bumped into me at a coffee shop in Culver City where I was meeting with an After Twelve client. She had been his client just weeks before.

Yeah, I know. It looked pretty bad.

And not just because I was caught running an outside-the-law legal firm. I was stealing their cases to do so. While I waited until their cases closed with a loss or a shitty settlement, Colburn’s and Bishop’s blood was bubbling when they told me this conflict of interests could incentivize me to sabotage their cases for my gain, and had I ever done that? If so, how many times? Was I willing to lose my career over this?

They dismissed me immediately.

About a week later, Bishop called me to ask where I bought those Fair Trade coffee cups for the Keurig since the office was almost out. Costco, obviously. Before he hung up, he said, “I trust you, kid. You gotta understand, we had no choice. But if you need anything, I’m here.”

So here I am, in a shitload of trouble, hoping he’ll make good on that promise.

The door to my left opens, flashing the autumn sun behind the couple walking in. My eyes adjust to the slender-but-curvy Latina combing her sunglasses into her dark, cascading locks. She glances my way just long enough for me to catch a glimpse of her sharp green eyes.

My gaze trails up to the familiar face beside her. Cash pushes up the rolled sleeves of his flannel before leaning his bare forearms on the elevated part of the reception desk. “Is Uncle Stephen back from lunch yet? He said we could meet him here around two.”

The redhead behind the computer answers with a grin, “Should be back any minute. Have a seat.”

Once he sees me, Cash’s eyes light up. “Dillon!” He invites me in for a hug, and I stand to accept. Besides Dean, Cash gives the best hugs. I think it’s partly because he’s gotta be over six feet tall, making my head sink against his chest so I can smell the laundry detergent of whatever flannel he’s wearing that day. It’s partly that, and partly that his embrace is flawlessly genuine––like he really does believe seeing me is the best part of his day even when I know otherwise. “How’ve you been?” he asks as he lets me go.

“Doing okay,” I lie. “You?”

“Great,” he lies back. He’s too good to be good at lying. “Dillon, this is Sawyer,” he adds, turning to the stunning, shell-shocked girl next to him.

Oh, so this is Sawyer. I shake her hand as if I don’t know who she is, who Delilah is. I look into her emerald eyes as if I haven’t heard their story, as if Cash didn’t hire me to have a hand in it.

As she turns to sit beside Cash, I spot a ring on her left hand. Something in my chest unravels. If they’re here and she’s wearing his ring, After Twelve wasn’t a total mistake. It wasn’t a complete fuck up. At least it didn’t used to be.

Sawyer pulls her knees to her chest, then wraps her arms around them as if she’s a child buying into the If I can’t see you, you can’t see me hypothesis. Cash runs his hand back and forth between her shoulder blades, but says nothing as he stares at the phone in his lap.

My messenger bag buzzes. When I pull out my cell, I find a text from Cash on my work number. Sawyer needs help. You available to take on a case?

I turn his way, but he doesn’t look up from his phone.

My first thought: Does it look like I have time to take a case? I just hosted my dad’s memorial, and I’m still sorting through all the legal shit that comes with dying. I’m going to be arrested at any moment, and the fact I haven’t already can only mean the cops are rounding up every final nail for my coffin. Oh, and I’m trying to sell off James’s luxury apartments to pay my upcoming legal fees, the ex-cop who murdered my boyfriend wants to put me in prison for life, and my boyfriend’s sister gave him the evidence he needed to do it. Not to mention, I have a cat now who wants to sleep at my feet every night.

It’s a shit show, Cash. No, I don’t have time.

My second thought: After Twelve doesn’t exist anymore.

My gaze cuts over again. This time, Cash raises his dumbass blue eyes to me.

Damn it. God, I hate them. They’re so innocent and panty-melting at the same time. And Cash is asking for Sawyer. The guy’s selfless. How do I say no to that?

Sucking in a deep breath, I slowly start to release it as I text back two words.

Of course.

For more Sawyer and Cash, read Never Touched before continuing The After Twelve Series.

What if you woke up from your worst nightmare, only to find the world watching it? On repeat . With relish.

What if those viewers found you? Cornered you until you performed the nightmare live?

Would you run? Fight?

Or charge admittance?

This is Sawyer's reality. She's a survivor—gritty and determined—but the struggle to put it all behind her is something that's with her every second of every day. Her abuser is in jail now, but he'll never truly let her go. When she tries to shelter in something good, the darkness inevitably follows. The effects of the abuse flow through her life like ripples of pain in this raw, at times darkly comedic, coming-of-age saga that explores what it means to survive the unthinkable—and find the courage to rise up and keep fighting.

Sure to satisfy fans of SILVER LININGS PLAYBOOK and 13 REASONS WHY, Never Touched is a New Adult contemporary drama by breakout author Laney Wylde. Richly written with complex characters and a compelling storyline, it's perfect for fans of Colleen Hoover's HOPELESS, Rebecca Donovan's REASON TO BREATHE, and Jessica Sorensen's THE COINCIDENCE OF CALLIE & KAYDEN.

Please Note: Story contains graphic sexual content, including mentions of abuse. Strong language throughout.

Get your copy today!

Acknowledgments

If you're reading this, YOU made this book happen. Thank you for stepping into my imaginary world where the line between revenge for hire and vigilante justice is fudged, for rooting for Estlyn, Cal, Dean, Rory, and Mr. Hayes and for those they represent, and for tolerating my attempt at writing thrillers around social justice issues. I am overwhelmed by your reception of this series so far and am grateful for every single one of you.

As usual, I chose to write about something way outside my comfort zone. Thank you Lizzie, Cameron, and Kelly for answering my racially insensitive questions. My MoFos: Stacey, Sarah, Whitney, and Lizzie, thank you for your encouragement, faith in me, and style advice. You guys keep me going.

My hubby, thank you for the countless hours you sacrificed so I could pursue this dream. All you do does not go unseen. None of this would be possible without you.

Lastly, I'm grateful to God for this wild opportunity to write stories and for my publisher who finds people to actually read them.

About the Author

Growing up with poor reading comprehension, Laney Wylde avoided books at all costs. But after reading Francine River’s Redeeming Love for the first time in high school, she fell in love with literature. It was then she realized broken anti-heroines and impossible love stories were the stuff of heart-wrenching, binge-worthy novels.

Afraid her slow reading pace and lack of writing skill would inhibit her from becoming a successful English major, Laney pursued her B.S. in Mathematics from Biola University, graduating in 2014.

Laney gathered the courage to write honestly and diligently in 2017, producing Never Touched, a passion project that sheds light on the uphill battle that is healing from sexual abuse.

She lives in Southern California with her dashing husband and precocious little boy.

Thank you for reading If He’s Watching; I hope you enjoyed my book!

Want to be the first to know when I release new books? Here are some ways to stay updated:

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Visit my website: https://laneywylde.com/

If you loved If He’s Watching, please tell your friends about my book and consider leaving a review . Reviews are like romance novels; you can't ever have enough of them. Thanks for reading my book!" ~Laney Wylde