My phone buzzes when I’m halfway back to the house. It’s sitting, facing away from me, in the cupholder. I snatch it up, knowing that it’s not James. He wouldn’t call me in the middle of the night. Not when he’s with someone else.
And he always,alwaysis with someone else. I’ve done nothing. Never called him out. Never told him that it’s wrong, that it’s hurtful, that it’s slowly destroying me. He knows. He’s done it anyway. I’ve let him.
I pull over quickly and tilt the phone to me.
Private Caller.
At nearly three in the morning?
I don’t answer. I let it go to voicemail, but of course, whoever was calling doesn’t leave one. I sit there in my seat, the air conditioning blasting from earlier in the day, my bare, sandy feet like ice, my pants sodden and filthy.
The hysterical urge to laugh bubbles up my throat. I almost give in.
My phone rings again. The same display flashes across the top.
My heart kicks so hard that my chest aches. What if it’s the police? Something could have happened to James. I know something is wrong. Sense it with a deep certainty in my bones before I pick up the phone and answer.
“Hello?”
“Esme Bly.”
My name in that cold, hard voice shakes me.
“Y—yes?” My pulse spikes. Goosebumps pebble my skin under my thin blouse.
“Your fiancé owes us. He seems to have disappeared, which means that you’re on the hook. He has three days to pay us back. You find him or we will. If we get to him first…” A sick laugh crackles into the absolute stillness of my car. “I’m going to send you an address. Money or Avery by Friday at midnight, or I can promise that he has no chance for an open casket funeral. Should one or the other fail to appear, the debt will become your responsibility.”
He hangs up before I can ask a single question.
A second later, a text lights up my screen. A local address. In Seattle.
As if that should be reassuring that whatever James has done, whoever he owes money to, aren’t international thugs. That man didn’t have an accent, but organizations like the Bratva and Mafia still exist in Seattle. My mind spins as my heart hammers at the same bone crushing, frantic pace. That would be the worst-case scenario, but there are plenty of other bad ones. Gangs. Organized crime. Loan sharks. Even legal ventures like casinos must have some kind of measures for people who don’t pay.
I don’t know why I think of casinos immediately. It could be something else. Drugs. Illegal substances. Stolen goods.
The weight of my ring in my pocket feels as though it’s going to drag me right through my car down to the pavement beneath.
Gemstones?
There’s a small chance that I’ve seen one too many crime thrillers. I don’t read them, but I do watch them. James never did. He calls it a sick obsession of mine. He bugs me ruthlessly about them.
Maybe if he’d watched a few, he wouldn’t have been so fucking stupid.
That’s not true. James has always done whatever he wanted. He’s always been entitled. He thought the world belonged to him. Since he was thirteen and became nothing less than Hart’s football savior, he’s believed he was untouchable.
A second text lights up my screen.
The whole world grinds to a standstill at the amount.
Two point three million dollars.
I power off my phone immediately. Likethat’sgoing to help.
It might be shock, but my brain is already running quick calculations. The ring. The house. The car. My savings. Even if I was able to sell everything on short notice, the car would maybe have a couple of grand left over after the loan is paid back. The house is fully mortgaged. There’d be ten or twenty grand of profit, that’s if we got lucky. The ring, maybe I could get twenty thousand for it—half of what James spent.
My stomach clenches and a wave of nausea climbs up my throat. I swallow it back down, forcing myself to breathe. My blouse clings damply to my body. Beads of sweat trickle down my temples. The car is stiflingly hot and frigid all at once.
A thousand questions want to shatter my brain apart. A thousand feelings want to gnaw at my flesh and dig their way down into my bones.
