Icringe when the number flashes across my screen.
Drake’s lawyer.
This can’t be good. It never is.
I let it go to voicemail, since I’m positive I know what he’s going to say. Just another attempt to convince me to work with them instead of against them.
I wonder how much his lawyer knows. Is he an innocent messenger, ignorant of what’s occurring under his nose? Or is he an active participant? Was he involved with the break-in at my place?
I’ll never know the answers.
At least my cabin is in one piece again.
Mike and the guys did a great job. They installed a new steel door, far more secure than what I had before. A new double-pane window replaced the one they shattered. And free of charge, a new security system to hold the demons at bay.
Not that it makes me feel safe. Nothing does anymore.
They even painted the porch, desperate to hide the slurs written in red across the wood slats, and collected the majorityof the mess from inside, placing it into small piles so I might at least be aware of what had been destroyed.
I’m pretty sure my heart and future laid buried in those piles too, but I didn’t bother to look before sending it all to the dumpster.
I thanked Mike for all his help and swore I was fine staying in my cabin, despite his arguments to the contrary. And I was, too, for a whole five minutes. Then I packed a few more bags and hauled my ass back to the job site.
Look, I don’t need the man babysitting me. He has a life of his own, along with a brewing romance to occupy his time.
At this point, I’ve collected all important documents and photos from the cabin, so if Drake’s buddy makes good on his word to torch it, all that will burn are memories I don’t care to keep.
Besides, it looks like I’m relocating across the country to a fully furnished guest cottage. No need to schlep my tired couch along with me.
Do I want to go to Los Angeles? No, but I don’t have a choice. Even if Drake somehow called off his goons, the town of Sparkwood loathes me. I have no future here, no opportunity to grow my design business. Sure, Eddie will continue to toss me jobs, but let’s get real. It’s too painful to work alongside him knowing he’ll never be mine.
And he made that obvious when he told me to leave.
It’s easier to go. That’s what I keep telling myself.
My phone rings again. Seems Drake’s lawyer isn’t taking silence as an answer.
“Hello?”
“Hello, Kiki. It’s Mr. McGuinnes.”
“Yeah, I know. I saw the caller ID. What do you want?” This man’s client, and his hoodlum friends, are single-handedly destroying my fucking life. I’m done being cordial.
“I wanted to make you aware that Drake is giving an interview with Danielle Mercer.”
My breath catches. “The investigative reporter?”
“Yes. It’s going to be airing on Channel 4 at eight o’clock this evening.”
My legs give out and I crash to the floor, missing the edge of the futon. Sharp pain shoots through my knee, but I ignore it. “Why is Drake giving an interview now? He’s refused all of them.”
“I don’t know all the details.”
Liar. Of course he knows all the details. He’s his fucking lawyer.
“I just wanted to make you aware.”
That’s like telling someone their brake lines are cut moments after they start rolling downhill.
