When I open my eyes again, I can tell by the way the light has changed that it’s late afternoon. I sit bolt upright in bed, my heart hammering. Then I throw off the covers and run to the door.
I know as soon as I open it that he’s gone.
I walk around my apartment anyway, sniffing the air. Cole’s scent lingers, a ghostly reminder of the man who saved me from disaster.
On the kitchen table, he left a full glass of water. Beside it on a plate is a turkey sandwich on wheat bread, and beside that is a note.
Ms. Sanders,
Please eat the sandwich I made for you and drink the water. Then drink another glass. I’ll see you Monday morning.
Yours,
Mr. McCord
Oh it’s like that, is it? We’ll see.
I crumple up the piece of paper and toss it into the sink. Then I sit at the table and stuff the sandwich in my mouth because I’m starving, all the while thinking about Cole. When I’m done eating, and I’ve polished off the water, I rise and take the crumpled note out of the sink. I flatten it carefully on the counter, smoothing the bent edges. Then I go into my bedroom and stash it in my underwear drawer.
I don’t know why, but it feels important that I keep it.
Then I call Chelsea. She answers on the first ring.
“Hi. You okay?”
“Yes. You?”
“Yes.”
We sit in silence for a moment. Then she says, “Is he still there?”
“No. I went back to sleep, and when I woke up just now, he was gone.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Good. Better than this morning. No more headache, and my stomach’s solid.”
“I meant emotionally.”
I take a moment to think about it, then answer honestly. “Surprisingly steady.”
Her soft exhalation lets me know how worried she’s been about me.
“What about you?”
“Bitch, I’ve have twelve mental breakdowns in the past hour alone. I still can’t wrap my mind around it.”
“I want to know everything that happened on your end since I got to the restaurant last night. Go.”
She draws a slow breath, then spills the tea in one long, uninterrupted monologue, barely pausing to inhale. When she’s done, I have more questions than when she started.
“Who’s this Emiliano character? How does Cole know him?”
“No idea. We didn’t get to that.”
“He told me they were old friends. Said they work together sometimes.”
“Work together,” she repeats, her voice thoughtful. “Interesting.”
“What was he like?”
“Smart. Tough. Looks like somebody who could break all your bones, but talks like Socrates.”
We’re quiet for a moment, until she says, “I think we should agree that whatever Cole told us both about Dylan, we don’t share with each other.”
“Why?”
Her tone darkens. “The less we know, the less we can tell the police if they come asking.”
A chill runs over my body, leaving goose bumps on my skin. “I’m worried about them too. I told him they’d start looking at traffic cameras, interviewing people if…”
I don’t have to say it. She knows what I mean.
“Yes. What was his response?”
“Seemed like he didn’t care. He was too focused on convincing me we can’t have a relationship.”
“That sounds extremely rational.”
“I don’t care if it’s rational.”
“You should.”
“Well, I don’t. And don’t tell me you don’t like him, because I know you do.”
“It’s not about whether or not I like him. It’s about whether or not he’s good for you.”
“So you do like him.”
She sighs. “For fuck’s sake.”
“I like him too, Chelsea. A lot. A really, really lot.”
“You liked Chet a really, really lot too.”
“Please. They’re not even in the same ballpark!”
“I know. But this guy is…complicated.”
That makes me laugh. “You think?”
“Don’t be blasé about this. Whatever kind of ‘work’ he and Emiliano do together, I’ll bet my left arm it isn’t something legal.”
“What, you think he runs drugs or something?”
She thinks for a moment. “No. I think they’re a couple of do-gooders.”
I make a face at the phone. “What does that mean?”
“I don’t know exactly. All I can tell you is the vibe I got. The two of them are tight, that was obvious. Emiliano said he was a former gang member, and a lot of guys who get out of gangs dedicate themselves to helping other people. Community outreach, educating kids about the dangers of the lifestyle, that kind of thing. And Cole knows all about the court system, how it handles guys like Dylan, how abusers don’t usually get the sentences they deserve. I don’t know how the two things are connected, but I bet they are.”
I think about how ashamed Cole was that he followed me and watched me on the restaurant’s cameras. How he apologized and said it was inexcusable.
I think about how much anger he tries to keep bottled up, how it leaks out all over the place despite his best efforts. In his scowls, his arrogance, the slammed doors.
I think about how someone like him—rich, privileged, on top of the world—would know how abusers slip through the system.
And I wonder what would make a man in Cole’s position endanger his entire life to get rid of one.
This is bigger than me and Dylan. This goes back much longer.
Maybe Cole lost someone the way Chelsea has.
“So what do we do now? Investigate? Stake out the restaurant?”
“No, we don’t stake out the restaurant, idiot! We leave it alone!”
I sigh heavily and roll my eyes to the ceiling. “Chelsea. You’re forgetting who you’re talking to.”
Her voice turns dry. “Oh, I know who you are, dumbass. I’m just trying to talk some sense into that thick skull of yours.”
“Yeah, let me know how that goes. In the meantime, I’m going to make a plan.”
“If this plan involves going back to the restaurant, forget it. You can’t be seen there now. Neither of us can.”
“But I want to talk to Emiliano.”
“Do you also want to get arrested for being an accessory to a crime? Use your brain! Whatever Cole did to Dylan, it was bad. You saw the condition he was in. You don’t get someone’s blood all over you by giving them a friendly pat on the cheek. So if anybody asks, we had tacos and a margarita, we never saw Dylan or Cole, and we drove home separately and went to bed. End of story.”
“But the security cameras in the restaurant, the traffic cameras on the street. There’s evidence we were all there if anyone looks.”
“Cole’s a billionaire. His buddy’s a former street thug. They’re men who can get things done. Between the two of them, I’m sure they’ve already gotten rid of the evidence. But just in case they haven’t, we have to be careful.”
A sudden memory assaults me. It was the day I was in Lit Happens, talking to Emery about the job. Something she said made me joke that the person I thought then was her customer was in the Mafia. The way she looked askance at me, the way she hesitated before her unconvincing denial…
Holy shit. Was I right?
But no, that can’t be it. The Mafia isn’t filled with do-gooders. I mean, I don’t think so. Not that I have any experience in the area.
“Promise me you won’t go back to the restaurant, Shay. I mean it.”
“I promise.”
“Promise me you won’t call, either.”
“I promise.”
After a pause, she says, “Why don’t I believe you?”
“I won’t do anything except see if I can get Cole to open up a little.”
Her laugh is dry. “You mean you’re going to make it your life’s mission to interrogate him. Poor bastard.”
“Whose side are you on here?”
“Yours. Always.” She sighs. “So if your billionaire boyfriend does anything to hurt you, I’ll be obligated to make his existence a living hell.”
I smile because calling him my boyfriend is her way of saying she approves. “I love you, Chelsea.”
“I love you too, you nonsensical twat. Now please rest and take care of yourself. I’ll check in with you tomorrow, okay?”
“Okay. Bye.”
After we disconnect, I stand looking out my bedroom window into the golden afternoon beyond and let my mind wander until eventually all thoughts have gone quiet, and there’s only one burning question that remains.
Cole McCord…who are you?
