Page 54

FIFTY-THREE

NATALIE

Paranoid is an understatement. I already know that Rosenberg doesn’t have anything on his phone. Not just any work info but anything any normal individual has, so that’s suspicious. This stalker guy acts like a classic psycho, but his words start making sense.

“Go to Central and Manhattan Avenue. There’s a Colombian coffee shop on the corner,” he says, typing away on his phone while I’m driving. “My name is Rich, by the way.”

Rich doesn’t look quite like a crazy man, though he might be dangerous. But let me tell you something about Jersey City—it’s hard to get kidnapped when the heavy traffic doesn’t let you move faster than one mile per hour and there are cameras on every intersection and business building.

From time to time, Rich glances up from his phone, and when we approach the destination, he points at the empty parking spot. “Here is good.”

Inside the café, he orders a cappuccino, I order an espresso, and we take seats at a table by the window. While he’s typing away on his phone, I study his shaggy black hair under the baseball hat, his several-day stubble, and his worn-out clothes—he’s just an average guy in the city.

He finally sets the phone aside, looks over his shoulder, out the window, then returns his cocky stare to me.

“So…?” I prompt. “I didn’t come here for coffee.”

He leans forward with his elbows on the table. “So, your boss is a thief,” he says with a satisfied smug face.

“And you know that how?”

“The asshole owes me money but avoids me like the plague.”

“Rosenberg?” I chuckle. “Owes you ?”

“Uh-huh.” His expression gets even more arrogant.

I give him a backward nod. “Owes you for what?”

“Gambling debt.”

I snort. “That’s ridiculous. He has more money than god. Why would he owe for gambling?”

“That’s the problem. He knows that, but I can’t seem to get ahold of him. He’s like a weasel. That gig got into his head.”

“A gig?”

I should probably walk out right now, considering this psycho calls the crypto millionaire’s career a gig , but Rich continues.

“He won’t talk to me. Won’t see me. Won’t pay me back. Except now, his debt has grown interest.”

“How much are we talking about?”

“It’s not a matter of how much he owes me, but how much I’m asking for.”

“And that is?”

“Twenty million.”

I choke in shock. “Holy crap!”

Rich smirks and leans back in his chair.

“And why would Geoffrey Rosenberg pay you that?” I ask.

“Because otherwise, I’ll tell everyone about Phil Crain.”

I scrunch up my brows. “Who is Phil Crain?”

Rich drapes his arm behind the chair back and runs his tongue inside his bottom lip, then sucks his teeth loudly and with visible satisfaction.

“All right.” I roll my eyes in annoyance. “Are you talking in parables? Clues? I don’t have time for freaking Jeopardy.”

Rich leans on the table to bring his face closer to mine.

“Phil Crain,” he says slowly, “is an alcoholic and a gambler.”

“I still don’t understand.”

Rich’s lopsided grin grows when he adds, “Who is now pretending to be Geoffrey Rosenberg.”