"I'll recommend you to everyone I know. I promise. And I'll still pay for your time, for the consultation—"
"That's not necessary."
"Are you sure? I feel awful about this."
"It's fine, Mrs. Patterson. Really. I hope the service is everything your mother deserved."
I hang up before she can say anything else.
The apartment is silent. The dahlia on my kitchen table catches the light, its dark petals gleaming like silk.
A larger company. Very reputable. Offering premium service at no charge.
It could be a coincidence. These things happen in business—competitors undercutting each other, clients lured away by better deals. It doesn't have to mean anything.
But I think about him. About his resources, his connections, his ability to find my phone number and call me in the dark. If he can do that, he can certainly find out who my clients are. He can certainly make a phone call, pull some strings, have someone offer a grieving family an arrangement they can't refuse.
He's taking things from me. Piece by piece. Dismantling the small life I've built until there's nothing left.
First, my sense of safety. Then my sleep. Then, my ability to leave my own apartment.
Now my livelihood.
What will be next? Bea? My mother? Every person and thing I care about, stripped away until I have nowhere to turn except to him?
I sit on my couch for a long time, staring at nothing, feeling the walls close in around me.
Around noon, my phone buzzes. A text from Bea.
Hey, you ok? You've been quiet since the gala. Everything alright?
I pick up the phone, start typing a response, delete it. Start again, delete it again.
What would I even say?Sorry I've been distant, I witnessed a murder, and now a billionaire is stalking me, and I think he just sabotaged my business.
Just a rough week,I type instead.I'll call you soon. Promise.
Her response is immediate.You said that yesterday. I'm starting to worry. Want me to come over?
The thought of Bea here, in this apartment, asking questions I can't answer—it makes my chest tight. But the thought of being alone, of spending another night jumping at shadows with no one to talk to—that's worse.
Maybe tomorrow,I type.I'm not feeling great today.
Ok, but I'm holding you to that. Love you.
Love you too.
I put the phone face-down on the cushion.
I should tell her. I know I should. Bea is my best friend, has been since college, and she would believe me. She would help me figure out what to do.
But what could she do? What could anyone do against a man like Gabriel Ambrose?
And if I tell her, I pull her into this. Make her a target. Give him another piece of my life to dismantle.
I can't do that to her. I won't.
The afternoon crawls by. I try to eat—crackers, half an apple—but everything tastes like cardboard. I try to watch television, but can't follow the plots. I try to read, but the words swim on the page, rearranging themselves into his name.
