Page 26 of Hard Heart

Lake Sterling wasn’t a place; it was a person. An artist. He had a website and an Etsy store, and his originals went for hundreds of dollars. Thousands, for the larger ones. I’d zoomed in on the signature, a stylised LS, and wondered, What the hell?

The big bozo said Levi Sykes was Lake Sterling, but how? How was he running an art business from prison? Were the guards taking a cut to turn a blind eye? Was that what the biker had meant when he said Sykes was their cash cow?

My finger hovered over the “buy” button. Small prints started at fifty bucks, and I wanted to see what would show up. Would the package be postmarked in Wise County? Heidi thought I should absolutely make the investment, and she’d even chipped in twenty bucks, but it was Heidi’s gung-ho attitude that had got me into this position in the first place.

Distracted.

Obsessed.

Chasing ghosts when I should have been studying for the bar exam. On New Year’s Eve. Was I a party animal, or what?

I took another sip of Prosecco and clicked. Fifty bucks down the drain, but at least the cat print was cute. If Heidi didn’t want it, I could send it to Flora as a gift—she’d always begged for a kitten, but Mum hated the idea of claws scratching up the sofa. Dad had compromised and bought her a chinchilla, which ate everything. The furniture, the carpet, the wall, everything.

My phone pinged. Either Heidi had broken her other ankle, or the “Happy New Year” messages were starting early. Tonight, she was back in her skyscraper stripper shoes because, apparently, all those lonely men who had nobody to ring in the new year with tried to ward off loneliness by stuffing twenties into a G-string while getting sloshed on overpriced drinks. One of the doormen at the club had promised to drive her home later.

Rudd

Happy New Year, Sera. I miss you.

What the heck?

A blanket “Happy New Year,” I could understand—he probably sent that to everyone in his contacts. But this was personalised. And he missed me? Clearly not that much since he was still with her. I stared at the message, wondering what on earth had possessed him to send it. Was he drunk already? Horny? Regretful? Did Zara know?

Then my phone rang. Withheld number. Oh no, no, no. Rudd did not get to do this. Not tonight, not ever. He’d sworn Zara was just a friend before dumping me by voicemail, then stood by while his dad sent me packing.

I jabbed at the screen.

“Whatever you have to say, I don’t want to hear it.”

Silence. No music, no laughter, nothing.

Then finally, “Serafina?”

The voice was soft, barely more than a whisper, a caress rather than a question.

“Who is this?”

“Levi Sykes.”

What? I stared at the phone as if it would provide an answer to my unasked question. Is this a joke? Heidi knew I was alone—had she roped in a colleague to play a prank between lap dances?

“This isn’t funny.”

“I’m aware of that. You wrote me a letter?”

“I…I thought you were in prison? But now you’re calling from a regular phone, and I think…I think I just bought one of your cat pictures.”

“There are phones in prison. There aren’t supposed to be, but there are. What do you want from me?”

“I…I’m not sure. This is most unexpected.”

“Let’s start with an easy question: are you a journalist, a podcaster, or a hybristophile? Because I know you’re not a lawyer.”

“A what? I don’t even know what that means.”

“A prison groupie. A lonely woman who gets off on talking with criminals.”

“Ugh, no. Don’t flatter yourself. Are you inappropriate with every woman who tries to help you?”