“Just make sure,” Evan added, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “that if you leave, you’re leaving for the right reasons. Because the audience down here?” He pointed to Wes. “That’s a once-in-a-lifetime standing ovation.”
Jake opened his mouth to respond, but his phone buzzed in his pocket. Not a text. A call.
He pulled it out. The screen lit up with a name he didn’t want to see on a Saturday night.
Harrison - Asset Recovery Mgr.
The mood in the bar didn’t shift, but the temperature in Jake’s blood dropped ten degrees.
“Everything okay?” Evan asked.
“I have to take this,” Jake said, sliding off the stool.
He wove through the crowd, stepping out the back door into the alley. The cold air slapped him in the face. It smelled distinct tonight—metallic and sharp. Like pennies and snow.
“Marley,” he answered.
“Jake. Sorry to call,” Harrison said, sounding not sorry at all. “We have a problem with the Candler property. The regulators found a lien from 1998 on the eastern acreage. If we don’t have a signature on the waiver by noon Monday, the buyout is void. The deal collapses.”
Jake closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cold brick of the tavern. The Candler property was in Atlanta, DeKalb County. “Can’t I DocuSign?”
“No. County clerk requires wet ink and a notary present in the Atlanta office. Nine AM, Monday, or Liam loses his retirement.”
Jake looked up at the sky. No stars. Just a thick ceiling of clouds.
“I’m three hours away,” Jake said. “And there’s an ice storm coming.”
“Then you'd better leave tomorrow,” Harrison said. “We need you here, Jake. No excuses.”
The line went dead.
Jake stood in the alley, listening to the muffled bass of Black Hole Sun bleeding through the walls. He had just decided he wanted to stay. He had just decidedthe editwas worth it.
And now, to save the future of someone else, he had to leave.
The Hawthorne House
Sunday, December 21
The air smelled like metal.
It was a scent Wes knew in his bones. It was the smell of damp ozone and freezing pine needles. The temperature had dropped fifteen degrees since breakfast that morning, the mercury plunging past freezing.
Wes stood in the driveway of the Hawthorne House. Jake’s rental car was running, white exhaust puffing into the gray air.
“You have everything?” Wes asked. His voice sounded calm, but his hands were shoved deep into his Carhartt jacket pockets, forming fists.
Jake tossed his leather weekender into the trunk. He looked frantic—not chaotic, exactly, but tight with tension. His eyeswere bloodshot. “I have the files on the laptop. If I leave now, I'll beat traffic on the perimeter. I can prep tonight, meet the regulators at nine, get Liam’s signature.”
“And then?” Wes asked.
Jake slammed the trunk. The sound cracked like a whip. He turned, stepping close to Wes. “And then I drive back. Immediately.”
“They’re saying Macon is going to get precipitation by noon tomorrow,” Wes said. “That’s an hour east. If that turns to ice...”
“I’ll beat it,” Jake said. “I’ll take back roads if I have to.”
“Jake.” Wes pulled his hand from his pocket and grabbed Jake’s forearm. The wool of his coat was cold. “Don’t be a hero. If it’s bad, you stay. I can handle the farm.”
