“Then I’d be lying, just like the woman barreling through the gate.” Another curse word follows.
When he repeats the full address, I offer, “Maybe they know each other from a previous life?”
“Sure.” He adds disparagingly, “Except in our current reality, she’s at his house at eight in the morning.”
“What the hell is she doing there?” I seethe. There has to be a reasonable explanation, except none comes to mind.
“I’ve done work for your firm for years. I told you I’d never get involved in a dispute between the two of you.” He pauses for a beat. “But this is fucked.”
“I can’t deal with this right now,” I mutter under my breath. “But I’m on my way over there.”
“Sib.” He begs me to go home and take care of my own shit, but I respond by disconnecting. When he calls again, I decline, my focus on the next exit, where I get off and speed in the direction I’ve just come from.
Chuck sends me a text telling me not to bother; the gate is locked, so I can’t see anything, and he’s already got pictures of Christine Marcona heading in. I wish it were enough, but coupled with my job instability and the recent turn of events, I need an outlet for my frustration and anger.
Stopping at a gas station, I grab a bottle of Tito’s Vodka and then make my way to the address that Chuck just left, careful not to stop and draw attention to my movements, a camera peering intently from the iron gate.
I’m familiar with the compound, a large main house built next to a smaller guest one, a circular driveway wrapping around and between the two properties. A relatively empty parking lot is across the street in front of a flower shop and café, so I take my chances and idle, determined to wait until the woman leaves.
I have all day, literally, to sit here, and I must follow this through to the end.
Yanking the Tito’s from the paper bag, I unscrew the red cap and start taking small sips. It isn’t long before they become longer swallows, and the metal fortress blurs before my eyes.
An incoming call interrupts my pity party, and my colleague Tanner starts rambling before I can even say hello.
Picturing his dark, slicked-back hair, the result of expensive pomade, and the equally exorbitant Italian loafers perched on his desk, I’m anesthetized to his seemingly innocent reaction. “I’m just sick about what happened.” Glibly, he says, “I never would’ve agreed to that type of a deal.”
“What deal?”
“Come on, Sib. Cut the shit.”
“Roger told you guys already?” I act surprised. “And here I signed an NDA.”
“I ran into Leslie in the hallway after I passed you.” He sighs. “This is just a sorry excuse for them to push you out.”
I don’t point out Leslie wasn’t in the office before I left.
“I’ll do my penance,” I say. “Maybe it’ll be a good disconnect from the world.”
“If you say so, but I don’t think you’ve done anything wrong,” he says nimbly. “As long as we’ve been friends, I’d tell you the truth.”
“Thanks for suggesting I take the stairs today.”
“No problem, Sib.” He softens his tone. “It wasn’t fair for you to run into the other attorneys like that.”
We end our call, and between the sun and the liquor, I end up shutting my eyes, forgetting about my mission. A full-on throttle startles me from my hours-long nap, and I see five missed calls from Chuck. The roaring engine is a dead giveaway for the homeowner’s Porsche 911 Turbo. I would know, considering I’ve been in that very vehicle more times than I can count.
With mounting apprehension, I watch as the gate slowly opens, and the sports car is carefully finessed up the small incline to avoid a collision with the concrete underneath the low chassis.
Hurt by his actions and feeling careless, I try the alleyway, thinking I might get a different vantage point of the two of them. I’m fuming and want nothing more than to catch them in the act.
It’s a tight fit, and when I make it through the narrow entrance, a block wall prevents me from viewing anything on the premises, him or her. It’s pointless to climb the concrete, since it’s so smooth I wouldn’t be able to find a foothold.
Disappointed, I gun the engine, and in my haste, I take the corner too fast. Instead of making a smooth entrance onto the road, I end up on the sidewalk, clipping a bright-yellow fire hydrant. As I swerve to avoid more damage, the nose of my Tesla slams into a retaining wall behind it. The hood crumples instantly, and smoke fills the air as the sound of metal scrapes into the unforgiving cement.
Startled by both the impact and my airbag deploying, I manage to toss the bottle in the back seat before I lose consciousness.
CHAPTER 9
Sibley
When my eyes flicker open, it takes a moment to convince myself there’s not a football helmet situated on my head. An excruciating pain squeezes like a tight fist around my skull. My hand moves to my forehead, where I connect with gauze instead of my skin.
My throat is parched, as if coated in a solid layer of cotton.
Troubled, I stare down at the watercolor-print duvet covering me. “How did I wind up in my bed?” I murmur, bewildered at the pain that radiates from my clavicle. It feels like I sat in the sun for too long and burned one particular area of my body to a crisp.
Coughing, I struggle to sit up and adjust my position comfortably—it’s made difficult by the razor-sharp pain searing from my left side when I twist toward the bottled water on the nightstand.
What in the world happened to me?
“Holden,” I call out hoarsely, my voice barely making a dent in the cavernous master.
My eyes dart around the room for my purse, but I don’t see the tan leather in its usual spot on the dresser.
“Holden,”
