"Where are you?"
"Outside the coffee shop. The one on PCH."
"Don't move. I'm coming to get you."
The line goes dead.
I stand on the sidewalk, hugging myself against the cold that has nothing to do with the weather. The fog continues to roll in, thick and gray, erasing the world around me piece by piece.
I think about the card in my pocket. Dominic Webb's name and number, a direct line to the man who holds our future in his hands.
I think about the recording. Marcus's voice, Phoenix's voice, my own screams echoing in some server somewhere, waiting to be used against us.
Phoenix's car appears through the fog five minutes later, pulling up to the curb with a screech of tires. He's out of the driver's seat before the engine even stops, crossing the sidewalk in three long strides and pulling me into his arms.
"Are you okay? Did he hurt you?"
"I'm fine." The lie tastes bitter on my tongue. "Just scared."
He look at my face. Whatever he sees there makes his face tight.
"Tell me everything. Every word he said."
Standing there in the fog, wrapped in his arms, I tell him everything.
When I finish, Phoenix is silent for a long moment.
"Get in the car," he says finally. "We need to talk to my father."
I climb into the passenger seat, and Phoenix pulls away from the curb, the car screeching.
For the first time since the cabin, I wonder if we're going to survive this.
CHAPTER 24- JADE
The Crawford estate looks different in daylight.
When I was here for the cocktail party, the house glowed with warm light from every window, the gardens illuminated by lanterns that made everything feel magical and slightly unreal. Now, with fog pressing in from the ocean and gray light filtering through the clouds, the place reveals itself for what it really is. Old money, the kind that builds fortresses and passes down secrets through generations. White stucco walls rising three stories high, terracotta tiles weathered by decades of California sun, Italian cypress trees standing like sentinels along the driveway.
The last time I was here, Phoenix had his hand up my dress in the library and his mother walked in on us.
I try not to think about that as we pull up to the entrance.
Phoenix reaches over and takes my hand. "It's going to be okay."
"You keep saying that."
“And I mean it.” He squeezes my fingers gently. "My father will know what to do. He's handled situations like this before."
I don't ask what situations. I don't want to know.
The front door opens before we even reach it, and a woman in a gray uniform ushers us inside. The foyer looks the same as it did that night, all marble floors and vaulted ceilings, though without the crowd of elegant guests it feels colder somehow. Emptier. Fresh flowers bloom from crystal vases on antique tables, and the air smells like furniture polish and something floral I can't quite identify.
Nicholas Crawford appears from a hallway to our left. He's wearing charcoal slacks and a white button-down, casual for him, though he still radiates the kind of authority that makes everyone around him feel smaller. He looks nothing like the gracious host who greeted guests at the cocktail party. This version of Nicholas Crawford is all business.
"Phoenix. Jade." He nods at each of us in turn. "Thank you for coming."
As if we had a choice.
