Twenty-two
Ellory
T he minute I walk into Bar Go To, I see Sophie. She waves the server over like she’s barely keeping her head above water. She smiles and waves back, but when she sinks into her chair, her face tells the truth—eyes swollen, cheeks blotchy. She’s been crying.
I slide into the seat beside her, Patrice taking the one across. “Sophie, what happened?”
Her lip trembles before the words tumble out. “I came home and found Joshua in bed with another woman.”
My heart twists.
“She’s everything I’m not,” Sophie rushes on, tears spilling freely now. “Petite. Huge boobs. Gorgeous dark hair. He didn’t even look guilty. Just…smug. We’ve been together since we were sixteen, and this is how it ends?”
Patrice leans forward, voice soft but fierce. “Oh, Soph…”
Sophie wipes at her face, humiliation sharp. “He told me, ‘What did you expect? We hardly ever have sex. We’ve been living like roommates for years.’” Her voice cracks, each word another wound.
I reach for her hand, squeezing tight. Patrice covers the other, grounding her between us.
“You don’t deserve this,” I whisper.
“Not even close,” Patrice adds firmly.
Sophie shakes her head, her shoulders trembling. “I don’t even know who I am without him. We’ve been us for so long…and now? What if that was it? What if I already wasted the best years of my life on Josh, and no one else wants me?”
The words tumble out like she’s been holding them back for years, not hours.
Patrice leans in closer, her eyes wet. “Listen to me. You are not wasted years. You are the best years. Any man worth his salt will see that.”
I squeeze Sophie’s hand harder. “You’re scared right now, but fear lies. You’re not too old, too broken, too anything. You’re Sophie Haywood—funny, beautiful, brilliant—and the right man will thank God every day you didn’t end up with Joshua.”
Sophie laughs through a sob, shaking her head. “Then why does it feel like I’m the one who lost everything?”
“Because right now you can’t see the gain,” Patrice says softly. “But you will. Until then—” she lifts her hand to flag the bartender “—you’ve got us. And peach margaritas.”
Sophie sniffles, her mouth trembling into the ghost of a smile. “Then start with the margaritas.”
We don’t let go of her hands, not even when the drinks arrive. Because no matter how afraid she is of being alone, she never will be.
Eventually, the conversation moves to Olivier.
“Heather totally qualifies as the C-word,” Sophie announces, halfway through her second peach margarita.
I laugh, just a little buzzed. “You should’ve seen her try to eye-fuck Matteo.”
Patrice’s eyes narrow. “Did he eye-fuck her back? Because if he did, I will personally remove his balls.”
I giggle. “No. He told her I was his girlfriend and that he was happy.”
Okay, maybe not in that exact order, but close enough.
“No way! That’s amazing.” Patrice leans in. “At least you know he’s not after your money.”
I finish my drink. “Please. His money makes mine look like tip jar change. Not that it matters. He’s dealing with enough right now thanks to Amelia’s mother. But tonight, no drama. We’re not talking about either of them.”
“Why not?” Sophie’s voice is a little too loud, drawing a few glances.
I lower mine. “They think Willow has someone following me. I’m supposed to keep a low profile.”
Patrice nods, then smirks. “Fine. Let’s talk about your lunch with your dad instead.”
“I’d rather be a fly on the wall at his dinner with Heather.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Oh my God. She’s going to lose her mind.”
I sigh. “I need to believe she loves him. Because the alternative? It’s too cruel. He deserves that. He’s brilliant and kind and passionate. He deserves someone who sees him.”
“He does,” Patrice agrees. “But that’s not her. She’s after his money. This dinner will show us exactly who she is.”
I hope she’s right. I need clarity—for both of us.
I stand. “I’ve gotta use the little girls’ room.”
“Want another round?”
I shake my head. “Two’s my limit.”
As I head toward the bathroom, I realize I’m wobblier than I should be. My legs feel weird—heavy—and my vision swims.
What the hell was in that margarita? I didn’t drink that much. I never drink that much. Something’s wrong. Really wrong.
I push into the restroom, blinking hard, trying to steady myself.
And then, I’m shoved.
Hard.
My shoulder slams into the tiled wall. Pain explodes through me, sharp and blinding. The crack of impact echoes in my skull like a gunshot.
The floor tilts. Spins.
My legs give out. The tile rushes up to meet me, cold against my palms, against my cheek. I try to open my eyes, but they’re heavy, glued shut.
A shrill beeping drills into my ears—over and over—like a car alarm I can’t shut off.
Turn it off.
God, please, turn it off.
Voices blur together. Sophie? Matteo? I can’t hold onto them. They fade, slipping through me like a dream I’m not ready to wake from.
Pain pulses behind my eyes, every throb a hammer blow.
And then—
My dad. His voice, ragged. Is he…crying? He never cries. Why is he crying?
I fight, clawing against the darkness, forcing my eyes open.
Light slashes into me. Matteo’s face swims into view, shadowed, distorted. His eyes shine wet, frantic, pulling me back when everything else wants to let me go.
“You’re okay,” he whispers, voice breaking. “You’re safe.”
I want to believe him. My throat feels like sandpaper, every swallow a scrape of glass. My head pounds. Antiseptic. Latex. Hospital. Nothing smells like home.
“Where…am I?” My voice is raw, foreign.
“San Francisco General.” His tone softens, like he’s afraid I’ll shatter. “Hang on. I’ll get your dad.”
Suddenly, I’m surrounded. Bright lights, too white, too harsh. The shuffle of scrubs, the sharp scent of alcohol wipes. Too many people. Too many voices barking questions.
A penlight stabs into my eyes.
“Do you know where you are?”
I blink, my lashes heavy. “I…was told…hospital.”
“Tell us what hurts.”
“My head,” I croak, my hand trembling as I lift it. My fingers brush a bandage, and I flinch. “My neck’s stiff.”
Gentle hands press at the base of my skull, and pain radiates down my spine, pulling a gasp from me.
“Do you remember what happened?”
I search for pieces of the night, but everything’s fractured. “I was with Sophie and Patrice. Peach margaritas…stronger than I thought. I felt drunk walking to the bathroom.”
The memory slams into me. The shove. The wall. The tile.
“I remember…” My throat tightens. “The wall. I hit the wall. I must’ve…stumbled.”
The words scrape out of me, but even as I say them, doubt curls cold and certain in my chest.
My father’s voice cracks, a sound I’ve almost never heard. “No, sweetheart. You didn’t stumble. You were pushed. And robbed.”
The words land like blows. Pushed? Robbed? My stomach lurches, bile clawing up my throat. No. That can’t be right. I would’ve remembered. I should remember. Wouldn’t I?
The room tilts again. My pulse stutters. Images flicker—tile, cold and sharp against my skin, but nothing else. Nothing solid.
I swallow hard. “Don’t blame Duane or Richard. It’s not their fault.” My voice comes out small, desperate, like if I can just defend them maybe this whole nightmare will shrink back into something ordinary.
“Shhh.” My father leans closer, his whisper ragged. “You’re safe now. That’s what matters.”
Safe. The word should soothe me, but it scrapes across my nerves instead. Safe doesn’t feel real. Not when my memories are jagged shards, not when my own body betrayed me.
I force my eyes around the room. Doctors. Nurses. My father. And Matteo. Standing just beyond the bed, watching me like he’s afraid I’ll vanish if he looks away. The intensity in his eyes pins me down, makes my chest ache with both comfort and shame.
I’m mortified. I hate that he’s seeing me like this—weak, broken, helpless.
A sudden sting pricks my toe. I jerk.
“She felt that,” a doctor says. “That’s good.”
Their words swirl, distant, like they’re talking about someone else’s body. Not mine. Not me.
“We’re seeing positive signs,” the lead physician says, addressing the team. “What’s next?”
“We’re waiting on the tox screen, but my guess is ketamine,” another doctor says, too brisk, too clinical, like we’re discussing the weather instead of my blood.
“Ketamine?” The word rips from me, foreign, terrifying. I push up on my elbows, but Matteo is there instantly, gentle but unyielding, pressing me back into the bed.
“Sophie and Patrice were dosed too,” he says quietly, like he’s trying to soften the blow.
“Are they okay?” My friends? Who would do this to them?
“They’re monitoring the effects, but yes, they’re fine.”
My chest tightens. “But the drinks came straight from the bar to our server. Duane would’ve noticed.”
“We think it was the bartender,” Matteo says. His voice is tight, controlled, but I can hear the anger underneath. “She’s missing.”
“No.” I shake my head, the movement sending another jolt of pain through my skull. “Lydia? She’s been there forever. That makes no sense.”
“We’re still piecing it together,” Matteo says.
The door opens again, and everything feels too bright, too loud. A man in a trench coat enters with Jim at his side.
The lead doctor frowns. “Too many people. Let’s clear the room and give her space.”
One by one, the medical team files out. Their absence leaves the room feeling cavernous, the silence heavier than the noise was.
The man in the coat flashes a badge. “Inspector Eric Lenning, SFPD. Ms. Matisse, I’ll need a few minutes of your time.”
My chest seizes. The police. This is real. Not a dream. Not a stumble. Real.
Matteo moves closer, sliding his fingers through mine. His grip is warm, steady, unshakable. Anchoring me. Keeping me from drifting back into the dark.
The doctor leans down, his voice gentler now. “We’re going to keep you for observation for a little bit longer just to make sure you’re doing okay.”
I nod, though my body feels like it belongs to someone else. A knot of dread twists in my chest. “Sure.”