Page 125 of Hard Heart

Not orgasms. If a man was paying, he most likely didn’t care a hoot about a woman’s pleasure. It wasn’t impossible—Brax ran a chain of private members’ clubs where all kinds of debauchery happened in the basement, and some of those rich assholes saw making a woman come as a personal challenge—but it was unlikely.

Ditto for the money. The rent at Blackstone House had been fifty bucks a week plus a share of utilities, and they had to help with fixing the place up. Three hundred bucks a month was doable on a bartender’s salary. Jez had been proof of that. And in the first year, they’d worked overtime on the DIY, so year two had been more “let’s build a home cinema” and less “the roof needs fixing.”

Ruby must have gotten a kick out of her sideline.

“If she needed money, I could have given it to her,” Echo said.

“Sweetie, when you moved in, you had, like, seventeen bucks to your name.”

“Yes, but two months later, I collected twenty thousand bucks when I found that bug in Reyzbank’s app, and then I kept finding more bugs, and making more money, and also my investments did surprisingly well considering I learned about the stock market from Reddit.”

“Two months later? I thought you still were moderating chat rooms back then?”

“Sure, I did that too, for one night a week. Friday night was hacker night. We all talked shit and finagled our way into places we weren’t supposed to be.”

“Call me petty, but isn’t the point of moderation to avoid illegal activity?”

“I operated a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy. Don’t judge—I was learning a lot from them.”

“Honey, I’m the last person to judge.” Because Jez had been doing the same, albeit with people. The bar she’d worked in was all kinds of rough. One old vet had drawn her pipe bomb instructions on a napkin after she poured him a free beer and asked the right questions. “But Ruby was too proud to ask for money, and I’m not sure that was her motivator anyway.”

“Who told you about the prostitute thing? Serafina? She could be lying.”

“She could be, but I don’t think she is.” And Jez had a good idea who might be able to confirm. “I need to speak with Grey. Do you want me to call Nolan?”

“Why would you call Nolan?”

“Because you’re upset and he cares about you?”

“Ugh, no, because he’ll do something dumb like put Teo in charge of the grapes and the dog and the chickens and fly back to Virginia. I can take care of myself.”

Jez patted her on the back. “Attagirl.”

She went into the yard to call Grey. Blackstone House wasn’t in as bad a shape as she’d thought it would be, but the place still smelled musty, and she needed fresh air. Fresh air and space to think.

Everything had changed.

Her life had been a lie.

Ruby’s murder had driven Jez for the past ten years, Ruby’s murder and her father’s absence. She’d come to Virginia to find him, a wild goose chase with her mom’s unreliable memories as her only clues and a strong feeling that the story didn’t add up.

Jeremy Pope had crashed into Britta Knight’s life after a traffic accident, although the only victim had been a stray pit bull. The car that hit the dog drove off, and Jez’s mom had dragged it out of the road because that was the kind of woman she’d been—sweet and warmhearted. Jez sure hadn’t inherited those genes. Jeremy was the only person who stopped to help that night, and he’d driven them both to the veterinarian. The dog went home with Jez’s mom, minus a leg, and in the weeks that followed, Jeremy started coming into the diner she worked in near Manassas. Their brief affair had resulted in one daughter and a whole lot of heartache.

Jeremy had left.

Jez’s mom had spent the rest of her life waiting for him to return.

Because he didn’t just walk out like a regular deadbeat asshole, oh no. Jeremy had sent money every month until Jez reached adulthood, when her birthday gift had been a vintage Porsche with a short “I’ll always believe in you” note left on the driver’s seat. It wasn’t until the car broke down for the first time that she’d found the second note, the longer one, tucked away in a hidden cavity beneath the carpet in the front trunk. She’d never told anyone about the other note, not even Echo.

My dearest girl,

By the time you read this, you’ll be eighteen, and I need you to know something that has always mattered more to me than distance: I didn’t leave because I stopped loving your mother, or because I didn’t want to be a parent. Choices are never simple. Some responsibilities are bigger than one man. There were things I couldn’t explain then, and still can’t explain now, but none of them were you. You were always the reason I hoped to come home to a better world.

I’ve watched from afar in the only way I could. I’ve seen your courage, your stubbornness, the way you stand up for yourself and others. I know you’ve worked hard, fallen down, gotten back up, and kept going even when it would have been easier not to. Every milestone you reached felt like a quiet victory I carried with me. You became who you are through strength that was already inside you, not because of my presence, but I am endlessly proud to be your father all the same.

If there were a single gift I could give you today, it would be certainty: certainty that you were always loved, always chosen, and never forgotten. Live boldly, ask questions, trust your instincts, and know that there is a man somewhere who measures time not by years or missions or borders crossed, but by you. Happy eighteenth birthday. Wherever I am, my heart is with you.

Dad.