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I feel the heat creep up my neck. All those months I didn’t know what he was doing; when I thought our conversations were polite interactions between patron and librarian, he’d been coming home to talk about me.
“Can I ask you something, maybe a bit weird?”
He nods as he gets back to kneading the pile of dough in front of him.
“What do you think of Preston? I’m still trying to figure him out.”
“He’s a good man. Thoughtful and generous. I’ve worked for a lot of wealthy people in my time as a chef, and most of them treat their workers like absolute shit. But Preston? He remembers birthdays, asks about our families, and gives bonuses when times are tough. I’ve never, not once, heard him raise his voice when things go wrong, and believe me, plenty of things do in a house this size.” He pauses his kneading, looking around before he speaks. “You did not hear this story from me—she still feels bad and doesn’t enjoy talking about it, but last year, one of the housekeepers tripped while carrying some expensive dishes. A mug went flying, hit the fucking glass wall, and cracked it. The whole panel needed to be replaced. Now me? I would’ve flipped my shit if I’m being honest, but he just asked her if she was okay and told her not to worry about it. Not many men in his position remember the people around him are human beings as well.”
I nod slowly, a small smile unwillingly cast. Preston, being a kind employer, doesn’t fit into the narrative I’ve built about him. My image of a cold, calculated criminal is crumbling every time he presents himself as a little more human.
“He takes care of us, Wynnie. Whatever else he has going on in his life, and I’m not naive; I know he struggles, but he never lets it affect how he treats people in his care.”
“Thank you, Blayze. That’s actually really good to know.”
I give him a small wave, letting him go back to whatever he’s making, and I return to the dining room. I slide the door open, stepping out into the morning. The patio view is straight into an elaborate garden that probably requires its own team of people to maintain it. All carefully manicured hedges and seasonal flowers.
For a moment, I let myself relax. I let myself imagine that maybe, just maybe, I could forgive and forget and have a future here. Is that even possible? I’m not sure yet, but I know I can picture myself having coffee out here, enjoying a book, and freshly picked flowers every day, delivered by Preston. I could learn to navigate the staff’s kindness and Preston’s complicated love. The fantasy is seductive in its simplicity, and I allow myself to float in it for several precious minutes.
Footsteps slam through the house, echoing in the large area, snapping me out of my thoughts and shattering the peaceful moment instantly. I feel my body tense, screaming danger.
I turn just as Preston emerges through the doors; he’s panting loudly, and each one sounds restricted and hurried. His hair is disheveled, his usually perfect composure completely in shambles.
“We have a serious fucking problem,” he tells me through ragged breaths.
“What?”
“Robert’s girlfriend, Amelia, she’s at your house. She has the police there.”
It feels like I’ve gotten shot straight through the head. I suddenly disconnect from my body, my ears ringing loudly. This is it. The moment I thought I’d be okay with, but now that it’s here, I’m not so sure.
“What—What do we do?”
“We go now.”
Panic rises in my throat as I think about how I don’t have anywhere to hide, any clothes, or even a toothbrush. My whole life is at my house, my pictures, my books, my everything.
Preston grabs my hand and drags me behind him to his room. He moves with military precision, yanking two bags from his walk-in closet and tossing one in my hands, ordering me to unzip it. I watch as he’s already pulling clothes from his drawers, and I try to unzip the bag, but my hands are too shaky, and I can barely pull the zipper.
My eyes widen as he walks back out from his closet, hands filled with stacks of cash, rubber-banded as they would be in a movie. He places them in my hands; the weight of them is surprising and obscene.
“How much money is this?” I ask, overwhelmed as I drop it into the bag.
“Enough,” he says as he returns with more. I cradle the new load of money, tossing it into the bag with the rest. “When we’re far enough away, we’ll get you what you need.”
“I don’t understand—how did they find him already? I thought I was going to be okay with going to prison, but I don’t think I actually am. Preston, I don’t think I can do this, I—”
“Can you shut the fuck up?” He snaps, his eyes locking on me with laser focus. “With love, darling, shut the fuck up for a second. You’re going to be fine. I promise. It. Is. Fine.”
But it’s not fine. I’m not fine, and neither is he. The control he has over himself is cracking, and underneath it is the scared boy.
I’m bone-deep terrified, yet he’s all I have to rely on.
19
Darling
Once we secure all the money, a handful of license plates, and several handguns along with their ammo, we throw it all in the back of a black blazer. I don’t ask where we’re going; I’m not sure I really want to know, or if he even has an answer. All I know is we’re moving before the police can figure out where we are or connect us to the others. We’re chasing a phantom idea of safety that feels as distant as the horizon.
