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I have to tie up several loose ends at work before heading out, and by the time I rip out of the parking garage at the apartments McCrae keeps for us in the city, it’s after six.

Even taking the main highways, it’ll be four hours before I get home. I should have eaten something before leaving, but my favorite café back home, Betsey’s, stays open until midnight. I can already taste their late-night burger and a crisp beer on my tongue as I pull out onto the highway.

I only make it a couple of miles out of the city before my Bluetooth rings in my ear.

I can’t tell who the call is from. Under normal circumstances, I’d ignore it. But it’s not normal circumstances right now. I know Ford’s been doing some digging on Lionel’s money situation. Maybe he has news.

I tap my earpiece. “Yeah.”

But it’s not Ford.

“Griffin?” comes a female voice. “Shit. I should have known this was your number.”

My stomach tightens, and I gear the bike down, pulling into the slow lane. It’s Sasha. She called the emergency number on that card.

“What is it?” I demand, my heart already thumping harder than it was a second before.

“I…I think something’s wrong.”

CHAPTER7

Sasha

Ididn’t realize how relieved I would be for the person on the other end of this call to be Griffin until right this moment. I want to give him shit for suggesting this was some kind of helpline. But now’s not the time.

“Sasha, talk to me.” He sounds concerned.

“It’s probably nothing.”

“It’s not nothing if it feels wrong.”

That relief surges, only this time, it’s at being heard. He’s taking me seriously right away. My default is to expect the opposite.

I look around my apartment—at the keys I just tossed on the counter, the sad, under-watered spider plant hanging from a DIY hanger I made for my sister that turned out too ugly to pass on.

The slinky red dress I wore last night hanging off the side of the easy chair in my living room, waiting to be taken to the cleaners.

As I look around, I wonder if I’m losing my mind. Everything looks normal.

Then that tingling at the back of my neck comes back, and I look at the front door.

“I don’t know—I just got home, and something feels…off.”

“Where are you?” His voice is strangely muffled.

“I’m at home. I just got back from seeing some friends.” It wasn’t a great afternoon, to be honest. The women at the table weren’t how I remembered. They spoke about their partners, who are all Wall Street or trust fund types. They showed off their engagement rings. And aside from my undergrad roommate Hillary asking me a cursory question about London before someone else interrupted with their recent London experience, most of them only seemed interested in whether any of the rumors about Sam were true.

I pretended I wasn’t feeling well and skipped out on our plans to go to a show.

Except now I suddenly wish I stuck with them.

I feel stupid now, explaining it. But I tell Griffin about the jittery feeling in my stomach that came on when I rounded the corner onto my block and how it got more acute when I walked into my building a minute ago. “It felt like someone was watching me, even though I looked back through the door to the street and no one was there.”

“No one?”

“I mean, just my doorman. He was on the phone with his wife. She’s eight months pregnant. He waved at me, but that was it. There wasn’t even anyone on the sidewalk outside. Oh, except Mrs. Bishop, but she lives on my floor. She was just taking her dog for a pee.”

“Sasha, I want you to listen to me carefully.”