“It’s been a while.I think we should meet. I’ll send you thedetailsof my new fantasy.”
“I already told you where you could go. To hell, Scarlett.” I said. “ And that hasn’t changed.”
She laughed —light, and genuine, and completely untrustworthy. “Oh, Jason. You’re still sorighteous.You little puppy dog.” A pause. “You think she’s safe, don’t you? Far away from all of this. Living her little life, thinking the worst thing thatever happened to her was an asshole of a husband. You think we couldn’t reach her, huh, Jason? You innocent little bastard.”
Something tightened in my chest. “Don’t.”
“She thinks she’s free.” Scarlett’s voice was almost sympathetic. “Starting over in her friend’s cute little bookshop. Finding paradise in Paradise Island. That’s sweet, isn’t it? She has absolutely no idea who she’s dealing with.”
“Scarlett—”
“You put my boss behind bars, Jason. Did you think that debt expired? Did you think we just — forgot?” Another laugh, shorter this time. “We found her. It wasn’t even difficult.”
I was already standing. “If you touch her—”
“You’ll what?” Her voice sharpened for just a moment, the pleasantness dropping. “You signed the papers. She’s not even your wife anymore. What exactly are you going to do, Jason?”
“I will personally make sure,” I said, very quietly, “that the grave of every single person connected to you is dug, and that person is rightfully laid to rest. And then I’ll start on the ones who aren’t connected to you yet. Touch Camila, and I will burn everything Quintero built to the ground.”
A silence.
“Oh Jason, you have no idea whatwe’lldo. We’ll put her in a very very dark place.Think about that.”
The line went dead.
I stood in the middle of my home office for approximately four seconds.
Then I opened my phone and typed:Paradise Island.
The Bahamas. The results loaded — tourism pages and resort listings, and the promise of a beautiful town at the shore.
Then I did another search:bookstore Paradise Island Bahamas.
Seven results. I opened each one, scanning owner names, scanning details.
Then I opened Camila’s Facebook and went to her friends list.
I compared names.
Six bookstores. Seven names. And there, on the fourth search result, a name that stopped me cold.
Dog-Eared Books & Café. Owner: Audrey Coleman.
I went to Camila’s friends list and searched:Audrey.
Audrey Coleman. High school friend. Last active eight months ago, a photo of a Great Pyrenees on a beach with the caption:paradise island mornings with Luna.
I looked at the photo for a moment — the turquoise water, the white sand, the small black and white dog squinting happily into the sun.
Then I closed the app, went upstairs, and started packing.
Brownie followed me to the bedroom door and sat there watching, his chin lifted, his tail making one slow sweep across the floor.
“I’m going to find her,” I told him.
He put his head down on his paws.
I packed faster.
