He didn’t respond. He just turned back to the road.
The drive was silent. I stared out the window at the city lights blurring past.
He had come for me.
Why?
The question pounded in my head like a heartbeat.What do you want from me?
We reached my apartment building. Jack pulled to the curb and put the car in park.
I should thank him. I knew I should thank him. He had saved my life tonight, whatever else was between us.
Instead, I got out of the car without speaking.
I walked to my door without looking back. Ignoring his gaze which I felt with every step I took.
I let myself inside and closed the door behind me, leaning against it, breathing hard.
After a long moment, I heard the sound of his car door. The engine starting, then fading as he drove away.
Then I sat on the floor of my bathroom, wrapped in a towel, and cried.
Not because I was scared. But because I realized anger would no longer protect me from Jack Specter.
He’d breached those walls and let himself in.
CHAPTER 9
Pauline
I woketo sunlight streaming through my curtains and the distant sound of Meatball howling at something—probably a squirrel, possibly a leaf, potentially his own reflection. The dog had opinions about everything and wasn’t shy about sharing them.
For a moment I just lay there, staring at the ceiling, letting the events of last night reassemble themselves in my head. The abandoned building. The men. Jack’s face when he came through that door.
I pressed my palms against my eyes and groaned.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. Then again. Then a third time in rapid succession, which meant either the world was ending or Claudette had seen something on social media that required immediate discussion. I still hadn’t fully forgiven her for setting me up with Jack—but after last night, my grudge had dropped by another one percent.
I grabbed it.
Three texts from Aunt Callista.
My heart lurched. I sat up so fast the room spun, thumbing open the messages with fingers that had gone clumsy with fear.
Your grandmother had a good night. Doctor says her speech therapy is progressing.
She asked about you this morning. I told her you were working hard and making her proud.
Call when you can. She wants to hear your voice.
Relief hit me so hard I had to put my head between my knees for a second.
I called Aunt Callista immediately. “There’s my girl.” Her voice was warm, that particular tone she used when she was trying to be cheerful despite everything. “I was just about to make your grandmother some of that oatmeal she loves.”
“How is she?”
A pause. I heard the sound of a spoon clinking against a bowl, the soft hum of a hospital room in the background. “She’s tired, baby. But she’s stubborn as a mule and twice as ornery, so I’d say the prognosis is good.”
