Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106090 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
I freeze with the mug halfway to my lips. Set it down carefully, like sudden movements might trigger something. Cross to where my coat hangs by the door and fish out the cheap Nokia Liam gave me at the bar.
One text.
Timeline moved up. They’re closer than I thought—I’ll explain when I see you. We need to get to it before they do. Don’t tell anyone.
My stomach drops.
Now. He wants to do this now. Not tomorrow, not next week—now, while I’m standing in Knox’s kitchen wearing yesterday’s clothes and still feeling the phantom press of his mouth between my thighs.
I don’t fully trust it. I don’t fully trust Liam. But if someone really is closing in on the diamond’s location, and I’m the only one who knows where it is, then sitting in Knox’s apartment waiting for trouble to find me isn’t an option either.
I should tell Knox. The thought rises up immediate and obvious, because that’s what you do when you’re trying to build something real with someone. You tell them the truth, even when it’s ugly. Especially when it’s ugly.
But what would I even say?
Hey, so remember when I said I’d done bad things? Funny story. My ex-partner and I stole a twenty-million-dollar diamond from a Russian tech billionaire five years ago, and I buried it in the Canadian wilderness, and now someone’s hunting us for it, so I need to fly to the Arctic with Liam to dig it up. Cool? Cool.
He’d stop me. Or worse, he’d insist on coming, and then I’d be dragging a man who works in private security into the middle of an international theft recovery. Knox is law enforcement adjacent. He has contacts, connections, a reputation to protect. If this goes sideways—and things with Liam have a way of going sideways—I’d be destroying his career along with my own.
I can’t do that to him. Not after last night. Not after the way he held me like he never wanted to let go.
My fingers hover over the phone. I should call him. I should at least leave a note, something better than the lie I’m about to tell.
Instead, I type back: Where do I meet you?
The response comes instantly, like he’s been waiting. JFK. Terminal for private charters. Two hours.
Two hours. That’s barely enough time to get home, pack a bag, and make it to JFK. No time for second thoughts. No time for goodbyes.
Maybe that’s the point.
I switch to my real phone and pull up Sloane’s contact. My thumbs hover over the keyboard for too long before I type: Hey! Since we’re closing the studio for the holidays, I decided to take a last-minute trip. Getting out of the city for a bit. I’ll see you in the new year! Happy holidays xo
It’s vague enough to be true. Specific enough to not raise alarm bells. She’ll assume I’m visiting family I’ve never mentioned or taking some spontaneous solo vacation. She won’t think to worry until it’s too late to do anything about it.
I don’t text Knox. I tell myself it’s because I don’t know what to say. The truth is I’m afraid that if I open that door, even a crack, I won’t be able to walk out of his apartment.
I wash my coffee mug and leave it in the drying rack. Straighten the pillows on the couch. Small acts of domesticity that feel like penance for what I’m about to do.
At the door, I pause. Look back at his apartment one more time. The morning light makes everything look golden, warm, like a place I could belong if I were someone else.
Then I leave, and I don’t let myself look back again.
* * *
Liam is waiting at the private charter terminal, a duffel bag at his feet and two cups of coffee in his hands.
“You came.” He holds one out to me. “Wasn’t sure you would.”
“Neither was I.” I take the coffee but don’t drink it. “I’m still not sure. Convince me this isn’t you dragging me back into something I can’t get out of.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he pulls a manila envelope from the duffel and hands it to me.
Inside: photographs. My building, taken from across the street. Sloane’s studio entrance. Me walking home last Tuesday in the green coat I bought at that place on Atlantic. And the last one—my apartment door, shot from the hallway. Close enough to read my unit number.
“The photos aren’t mine,” Liam says. “I pulled them off a guy who was surveilling your block. He had your schedule, Hailey. Your routes. He knew where you work, where you shop, what time you lock your door at night.”
My hands are shaking. Not from the cold.
So Liam didn’t lead them to me. They were already there.
“This is why I couldn’t explain over a phone,” he says quietly. “I needed you to see it.”