She shakes her head as if admonishing Gabriel. “I’ll call a car around.”
“No, just a cab—”
Her lips purse together. “He’ll want to make sure you’re safe.”
“I wouldn’t count on that,” I mutter.
She types something into her phone, clearly as proficient with an iPhone as she is with a rolling pin. “I know he can be a bear, but he does care about you.”
I flinch. He’s just made it abundantly clear that he doesn’t, but I have no desire to spell it out for Mrs. Burchett. That’s a pretty magical cunt you must have. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Oh, but it does,” she insists. “He made sure your father was taken care of. It damn near killed him to wait until that night to send someone to help you.”
“He had to. The auction—”
“Gabriel Miller doesn’t have to do anything. He set the terms because he knew you needed help. That’s why he sent someone to watch over you, once he heard there was someone watching you.” She casts a worried glance into the dark night. “Imagine he’ll do the same now that you’re going back.”
“You’re wrong. That guard was from Damon, protecting his investment.”
She clearly doesn’t believe me. “Well, you be careful regardless. The world is full of dangerous people, Ms. James.”
Headlights flash from the drive.
That’s the story of how I end up in a limo two hours after I lost my virginity.
The driver doesn’t ask any questions, for which I’m grateful. I cross my arms in front of me, holding tight as if I can keep myself from breaking into a thousand different pieces.
I’m not sure what I thought I’d be returning to when I left for the auction. Some chance at a normal life? College? Marriage? It all feels so far removed. Impossible words. I’ve lost the ball of string somewhere along the way. I might be going home, but I’m still in the maze.
All I have with me is my purse. Mrs. Burchett assured me that my clothes and things would be delivered tomorrow. He’ll want to make sure you have everything right away. Or maybe he’d just throw it all into the fire like his father’s moonshine.
I pull out my phone, trying to pretend I’m not looking for his name. I want him to call me, to tell me he’s sorry. But he doesn’t. There are lots of missed calls. None from him.
Almost unthinking I press the last name. Harper.
“Where have you been?” she demands.
“I—” My voice breaks, because I don’t know how to explain. I don’t even understand it myself. Almost every myth references love, betrayal. Heartbreak. Universal truths that I’ve read a thousand times but still can’t comprehend. No story can explain this pain that feels too big for my body.
“Justin is missing.”
Awareness rises like the tide, slow but ineffable. “What do you mean?”
“I mean he never went back to Yale. I know a couple guys over there. One who’s on the sailing team with him. He went AWOL.”
“He came to see me, but…”
Gabriel swore he wouldn’t hurt him. Or did he? I can’t be sure I got the promise from him. Where would Justin have gone if not back to school? He might have stayed at his parents’ house in Tanglewood, but he would have at least texted his teammates. Even with winter creeping up, they continued to sail.
I drop the phone onto the seat. It slides onto the floor as the limo stops.
When the car stops at the gate, I already have the door open.
Lights are on in the house when my father’s evening routine should be finished. No one should be here. A man in a suit emerges from the front door. I run toward the house, my heart pounding with a new fear.
“Ms. James?” he asks.
“That’s me. What’s going on?” I try to push past him, but he’s blocking my path. “Where’s my father?”
“I’m Mr. Stewart. We spoke on the phone.”
That catches my attention. Pushing past the panic, I focus on him—on the solemn expression in his eyes. He looks as kind as he sounded on the phone. And worried.
“Oh God. No.”
“Your father suffered a coronary incident this evening. He’s been taken to Tanglewood Hospital. I don’t have the details yet, but our emergency staff is interfacing with the doctors there to make sure he has the best care.”
He’s been standing in front of the door, and as I turn my head, I see something yellow affixed to the thick wood. It pulls me closer, almost as if I’m hypnotized. Mr. Stewart is still talking, something about complications and interventions, but he’s just background noise.
In bold letters the yellow paper says NOTICE OF CRIMINAL FORFEITURE.
“How is that possible?” I whisper.
The house is owned by my trust, which is owned by me. Uncle Landon said it would be safe. From the very beginning, he told me that. Protected from my father’s crimes. The auction would have covered the real estate taxes, the maintenance—except it’s too late.