Against my better judgment, I feel a protective, sisterly instinct kick in as I hand her a brush and some makeup remover, then pull a scrunchie out of the backpack I use on assignments—used to use, anyway.
“He’s got this hold over me,” she says quietly, unwilling to lift her head enough to glance at her reflection in the mirror. “He will ruin my son’s life. I know he will.”
I manage to press my lips shut before the next logical question can burst out of me:Does she have a child with that man?
“I just don’t know how we will ever extricate ourselves from that man,” she whispers.
That makes two of us, I want to say.
A loud bang rips through the silence we’ve fallen into. It’s followed by a violent rattling of the door handle. “Please open this door,” a man’s booming voice orders from the hallway.
“I can’t even drive myself home,” Holly says, her voice exhausted.
I decide to ignore theOpen this door right now!command and try my luck with a door at the far end of the room.
“That’s the service door,” Holly remarks, dejected. She rests one elbow on the counter, then squeezes her temples between her thumb and index finger. “I’m so screwed. Everyone will know.”
I peer out the door, which seems to shoot into a hallway near the kitchen. “Can you get us to the parking lot?” I ask, collecting our bags, then pulling Holly up to stand. She nods.
We make our way through the kitchen, dodging cooks and waiters. I only slow down at the sight of those buttery crackers, wishing I had time to ask for the recipe. Within seconds, we burst out of the service exit and into the pollen-covered parking lot, a by-product of the neighboring park’s hundreds of April-blooming dogwoods.
“Thank God,” Holly exclaims, swallowing a gulp of fresh air.
“Come on—” I force her to keep moving, away from this place. “I’ll drive you home.”
In the car, Holly pulls up her home address and gives me her phone. It takes precisely two minutes after we leave the Dogwood Hills Country Club for her to pass out.
I wind through the tree-lined streets of the Midtown Garden District, driving by a few 1970s-style brick apartment complexes, left over from Atlanta’s brief period of white flight to the suburbs, and pull up to her address. The house is one of those slightly run-down Penn Avenue craftsman bungalows, split into four apartments. The property is surrounded by fully renovated American foursquares—tasteful, bespoke, ungodly expensive. Old Money meets Garden District meets Gay District in all its cultured, sophisticated, fabulous glory.
I pull over, then save my contact information in her phone, and nudge her awake.
“I saved my number in your contacts,” I say, handing her the phone. “Griggs Johnson has a few other secrets I think you should know.”
“Other secrets?” she mutters, still half-asleep.
I sigh. “Aside from—”You, I want to say. “He has some… business secrets,” I tell her instead. “I may be able to help you and your son. Let’s talk when you’re—you know, not drunk.”
Holly nods, her cheeks burning red.
“Call me when you’re ready.”
CHAPTER 8Holly
My phone dings with the sound I’ve reserved just for Aidan’s texts. Against my body’s will, I roll over in bed and fumble to pick it up.
Hippopotamus?
I smile, scrolling down to see the photo Aidan’s attached. It’s of the foam on his morning latte, which I know he made in his dorm room with the fancy espresso machine my co-workers pitched in to buy him as a high school graduation gift.
ME
Hmmm. I’m feeling rhino. Note the pointy horn. Or maybe, actually, jackhammer on second glance?
Aidan
I see it! Def jackhammer.
Ugh. Like my pounding head.
