“Miles,” she says, surprised, then gives me a flirty, practice smile. “You lost or something?”
“Just passing through.”
She tilts her head, studying me. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Not now, Bella.”
“Oh, come on,” she teases, stepping closer. “You always disappear when things get interesting. You and Jamie. I have been looking for you to tell you that your precious cheerleader quit. What’s the deal with that girl anyway? You both—”
“I don’t have time for this.”
Her smile falters at my tone. I step around her, fast. My pulse is thudding in my ears. I can feel her watching me go, confused, maybe even hurt, but I can’t afford to care.
Outside, the sun hits hard. Rico’s leaning against the car, tapping ashes off another cigarette.
“Took your time,” he says. “Find her?”
I shake my head. “No sign of her anywhere. Might’ve skipped classes.”
“Fuck.” He flicks the cigarette into the gravel and climbs into the passenger seat. “Guess we wait.”
We sit there in silence, both smoking, both watching the entrance. My stomach twists every time someone walks by. I keep imagining her face appearing through those doors, her hair catching the light, and Rico noticing first.
Don’t show up, Chloe. Please don’t.
The minutes stretch. Rico hums tunelessly, tapping his foot on the dashboard. I stare out at the students, watching their ordinary lives play out like a movie I’m not part of. Every laugh, every careless step reminds me what I’ve lost.
Rico glances over. “You nervous or something?”
“Just tired,” I say.
He smirks. “You’ll feel better when this is over. Victor’s gonna reward us big for this one.”
I nod, pretending to agree, but my insides are rotting. Because I know this isn’t going to end clean. No matter what happens, whether Jamie finds her or not, something inside me has already snapped.
I flick the cigarette out the window and force a laugh. “Yeah,” I say. “Big reward.”
But all I can think about is that she’s running out of time.
And so am I.
26
Chloe
Thevoiceontheother end of the call is polite, measured, and utterly useless.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Ashford,” the man says again, for what feels like the hundredth time. “Without your father’s explicit authorization, or a court order granting you access, there’s simply nothing we can do.”
I pace across the length of my apartment, bare feet against cool wooden floorboards, the phone pressed tight to my ear. The blinds are drawn halfway, stripes of afternoon light cutting through the dust and landing on the stack of unopened bills on my table.
“He’s in prison,” I say, trying not to sound as desperate as I feel. “I can’t exactly get his authorization.”
“Yes, but the trust was designed with his oversight in mind. You’ll need to wait until the trial concludes, or until the next of kin is legally reassigned as—”
“Next of kin,” I interrupt. “He doesn’t have anyone else. It’s just me.”
There’s a pause, and then the same rehearsed sympathy. “I’m sorry, Miss Ashford. I truly am.”
