The smaller one—mustache, hard eyes that have seen too much—grabs my arm before I can react. Suddenly I’m being dragged through the kitchen door, which nearly clips another waitress carrying a tray of steaming plates.
“Watch it, Nina!” she snaps, but I can’t answer. I’m too busy trying to pull free from the grip that’s already leaving bruises.
This is too familiar. The helplessness, the rough hands, the way everyone around me suddenly goes quiet and avoids eye contact. My ex-husband might as well be in the room.
“What the hell is going on?” Marco, the kitchen manager, rushes toward us. For a split second, hope flares in my chest—maybe he’ll put a stop to whatever this is.
But Jess intercepts him, whispers something that makes his face go white and his mouth snap shut. My hope dies as quickly as it sparked.
“What’s wrong?” The frantic edge in my voice is getting harder to hide as I’m pulled into the dry storage closet. My arm throbs where the guy’s fingers dug in, and the familiar taste of fear coats my tongue.
The big guy closes the door behind us with a soft click that sounds like a gunshot in the cramped space. Canned vegetables and bags of rice surround us, and the fluorescent light overheadbuzzes like an angry wasp. I’m trapped between shelves and two men who look like they eat glass for breakfast.
“What’s this about?” I manage, rubbing my arm where he finally released me. My voice doesn’t shake, which is a small miracle considering my hands are trembling.
I’ve never been this scared in my life, and that’s saying something. Eric put me in the hospital twice before I finally worked up the courage to leave him.
“We’re looking for Eric Newell,” Mustache says. “The bastard thinks he can hide from us, and you’re going to help us find him.”
Of course.Of fucking courseit’s about Eric.
My fear crystallizes into something sharper—rage. Even several months after our divorce, that worthless piece of shit is still finding ways to drag me into his messes. When we were married, it was bar fights, unpaid debts, nights when he’d disappear for days and come home reeking of cheap perfume and cheaper whiskey. I thought divorce papers would finally cut the cord.
Apparently, I was wrong.
“I don’t know why you’d come to me for that,” I say, folding my arms in a gesture that feels braver than I am. “Eric and I are divorced. Have been for months.”
“We know.” The big guy sneers. “But you’re the closest connection he has in this city. You’re going to help us find him, he repeats.”
The way he says it makes it clear this isn’t a request. My throat goes dry as I weigh my options, which seem to be somewhere between slim and none. I’m cornered in a closet with two menwho could snap me like a twig, surrounded by canned corn and industrial-sized bags of flour. Hardly an arsenal.
“Okay,” I say, deciding cooperation is my best bet for survival. “I’ll call him.”
“Do it. I want a location now.”
“My phone’s in my purse. I need to go to my locker.”
They stare at me like I might be trying to pull something, and yes—I am mentally cataloging escape routes. But Big Guy nods to his partner, who stays glued to my side as we leave the closet.
“I’m going to give Dario an update,” Big Guy says, stepping away with his phone pressed to his ear.
That leaves me alone with Mustache, who follows me to the tiny locker room where we clock in and out. He stays in the doorway, watching as I fumble with my combination lock. My hands are shaking badly enough that it takes two tries.
“Don’t think of trying anything funny,” he warns. “You can get out of this easy. Just tell us how to find him.”
Easy.Right. Because anything involving my ex-husband has ever been easy.
I pull up Eric’s contact and hit call, my heart sinking with each ring. At last I hear his familiar slur: “Hello?”
That one word tells me everything I need to know. He’s drunk. Of course he’s drunk—it’s a day ending in ‘y.’
“Eric, where are you?”
Long pause. “Nina?”
I want to scream. “You know it’s me. My name’s right there on your screen.”
“Naw, from my end just says ‘bitch.’” His laughter is too loud, ending in that wet cough that’s been getting worse. “Didn’t think you’d be calling.”
