The line was quiet for a moment before Busy Mazzello responded, “You’re closer.”
Cordelia’s mouth hinged open like a broken doll’s. She felt like she was trapped in a bad eighties movie.
“Thirty-one days,” he reiterated. “Don’t find me; I’ll find you.”
Cordelia swallowed. “Wait! You haven’t even told me how much.”
“Fifty thousand” came the reply, and then the click of a dead line.
She sank to the floor, eyes tracing over the mildewed blotch like it was a giant Rorschach test. She pulled a small prescription bottle out of her purse and swallowed one of the pills dry, grateful that she would get some relief from the headache at least. The way the pattern of the mold fitted itself precisely to the width of their headboard seemed like an omen she’d failed to heed. As if the house itself had been trying to tell her what a liar John was. She wanted to pretend she saw something optimistic in it, like a butterfly or a maple leaf, but as the pain in her head radiated down the back of her skull, Cordelia had to be brutally honest with herself.
She saw nothing but ruin before her.
Ruin… and death.
CHAPTER TWOTHEHOUSE
DISTANCE SHOULD HAVEmade Cordelia feel better, but every mile only made her feel worse. She was no longer the “closer” one, and she didn’t know if or when John’s mob contact would realize she left the state or how he might react. It shouldn’t matter; he’d given her thirty-one days to come up with the money. How and where she spent that time, what she did to get it, should be of little concern to a man who liked to go byBusy.But she didn’t ask permission first.
Still, if all went as planned, she should be back home in Texas with a suitcase full of cash inside of a week. All they had to do was bury the old lady, sign a few papers, and get the house listed. At the right price, it would sell itself practically overnight. She just hoped it would be enough. John may have been the one who doused her life in kerosene and struck a match, but it was stillherlife, shambles and all, and she wanted to live the rest of it.
Cordelia wheeled her bag through the throngs of milling people in the Hartford airport until she spotted her sister in the distance. But as Eustace came into focus, the fuzzy borders of her silhouette shrinking against the wall of glass doors, she cycled through a series of emotions, from uncertainty to recognition to concern. Her sister wasmuchthinner than when she’d last seenher. On another woman, it might not be alarming, but Eustace lived a kind of fullness other women openlytsked and secretly envied. She usually radiated health, but she wasn’t radiating now.
Cordelia wrapped her arms around Eustace in a hug, certain her shoulders had not been that bony before, and pulled back. “Have you lost weight?”
Eustace’s smile faltered. “Five years and that’s what you want to lead with?”
She softened. “No, of course not. You’re beautiful as ever.” She tugged at a strand of her sister’s graying curls. “I’ve missed you,” she admitted.
“Likewise,” Eustace said.
But Cordelia couldn’t shake her concern. The wrinkles around Eustace’s eyes had deepened, and her hair didn’t glow with the luster she recollected. Perhaps she’d built her sister up in her mind into an idol. Perhaps that’s what family members did when they became alienated from each other. Perhaps if she’d made a greater effort, this reunion wouldn’t have been such a shock.
“They sent a car,” Eustace told her, abruptly switching topics. “The attorney’s office.”
Cordelia raised an eyebrow. “What kind of car?”
Eustace shrugged. “Let’s go see.”
She felt unusually suspicious of this gesture, though she couldn’t pinpoint why. A strange buzz was building at the base of her spine, an electric tingle she couldn’t identify. Cordelia pressed her lips together, swallowing her inexplicable misgivings as she followed her sister outside. She would have to trust Eustace’s superior people skills. Maybe if she had before, she wouldn’t be wading through a minefield of debt and divorce right now.
At the curb, they spotted a boxy Mercedes sedan in charcoal gray, a relic of bygone decades with hubcaps painted to match and unforgiving lines. The pomegranate interior glistened throughthe windows like raw organ meat. The combination reminded Cordelia of something rescued from a fire, and the buzz in her spine spiked at the car’s hearse-like appearance.
Beside it waited a tall, thin man looking uneasy with his post. Young, with a pasty complexion, he had a weak chin and a shock of white-blond hair, as if he hadn’t been allowed to see the sun in years. Sharp shoulders and arms like pool noodles made the blazer he wore look painfully misshapen. Something about him left Cordelia unsettled. He wasn’t exactly threatening, but he did little to instill confidence. His absurd height and general lack of color might have been attractive on someone else, but he carried them so uncomfortably she found herself wondering if he was ill.
Seeing them, he opened the trunk and reached for their bags without a word, as if he’d known what to expect.
“Thisis it?” Cordelia asked.
“Looks like it,” Eustace said, handing the young man her duffel and a second weekender bag.
Cordelia left her carry-on for the driver. She opened the rear door and leaned down to peer inside the car, searching for anything that might explain the wave of apprehension she was feeling. Both the exterior and the interior of the Mercedes were immaculate, though dated. Chrome accents along the body were polished to a high shine. Inside, the lurid, stitched-leather seating had seen many years, but it was supple and conditioned. The car itself looked to be in good shape, if a little macabre in its taste. And even if it weren’t, she could hardly decline. One quick flash of Busy Mazzello’s handwriting reminded her of what she stood to lose if she didn’t get in—I’ll find you.She shuddered convulsively.
“Did you lose a contact or are you gonna take a seat?” Eustace asked from behind.
Cordelia shot her a look and slid inside. She preferred not toride shotgun to the silent, skinny kid who had yet to introduce himself. Eustace slid in beside her.
The drive into the hills was a couple of hours. They tried out some small talk in the beginning. Eustace asked after John, and Cordelia deflected by giving a noncommittal sound and asking about Eustace’s business. Legitimizing cannabis was harder than most would believe, cutthroat and expensive. She’d never understood the pull to the industry, but Eustace had a way with plants. And pets. She was always growing or nursing something when they were kids, forever dragging in one stray or another—a puppy with mange, a cat bleeding from its nose, a geranium covered in aphids—only for their mother to immediately turn it out. Even Cordelia found Maggie’s rebuttals cruel.
