Chapter One Isla
Chapter One
Isla
Six Months Later, Present Day
Isla Thorne had had a long day. She was still wearing her uniform of black slacks, a crisp white shirt now wrinkled from a full day of work, and a gold-plated name tag with Isla etched in black.
She adjusted the strap of her cross-body tote over her shoulder.
It held her wallet, a pair of black-and-white All Stars, and a clean black waist apron used when she was on back-of-the-house duty during one of the posh events the events planner booked her for.
It really had been a long day, but the reward would be worth the effort.
Expensive cars filled the parking spots of the open-air shopping center she passed, a multicolor showcase of privilege on display as she trudged to the bus stop, intending to catch the incoming bus so she wouldn’t be forced to wait another forty-five minutes for the next one.
Isla’s stride slowed as she and a girl, late teens, crossed paths.
The girl was dressed comfortably in sporty athleisure.
Her thick, dark hair was pulled back with a headband and twisted into a messy braid that hung over her left shoulder, her natural beauty glowing even in the fading light.
She looked as if she’d just stepped out of a commercial, which Isla wished she could be in as well instead of the stain-marked work clothes from the catering job she’d just left.
The girl exuded an air of wealth none of them had.
Maybe it was the sparkling green BMW M4—the latest model—that the girl was heading toward.
Any other time, Isla would have passed by, continuing toward her bus stop.
Today was not one of those times.
The girl was moving at a pretty good clip but still unrushed, not paying attention to her surroundings, either, especially since she had parked so far out from the cluster of cars in the parking lot. The car chirped, unlocking.
“Hey,” Isla called out impatiently.
The girl barely glanced up as she balanced her tan leather backpack on her shoulder and typed away on her iPhone with lightning-speed thumb action.
The girl slowed.
Isla said, “You can’t drive on that.”
The girl stopped, confusion clouding over. Her key hand dropped like deadweight to her side, but her phone hand remained steady.
“What do you mean?” She said it the way young people did these days, with an uptick into a whine at the end of their questions, which older people could find annoying.
“Your car has a flat,” Isla said, pointing toward the sparkling car.
The girl’s expression was still confused, as if she had no concept of car trouble. She stared at her car as if it had betrayed her.
Isla stepped off the sidewalk, and the girl shuffled slowly to meet her. She stared at the flattened rear tire on the passenger side.
“Are you serious right now?” she moaned. “My dad just got it for me, and it’s my first time taking it out. How?”
She followed Isla toward the rear. She turned to Isla as if she expected Isla to pull a jack from behind and fix it. Her large brown eyes implored Isla to do something.
Isla waved her hands, warding off any expectation of physical labor. “Oh, I don’t . . . do that. Can’t you call someone? AAA? Your car insurance?”
“How long would it take for them to come and fix it? My mother will freak out if I’m late.”
“Uber, then? Lyft?”
The girl shook her head. She hesitated. “I’ve never used one of those before.”
Isla was truly surprised. Who hasn’t used . . . she started to say but buried her judgment when she noticed how the girl’s head dropped in shame at the revelation.
“We have drivers. Usually.” The girl looked away like having drivers was taboo. A rich-people problem that Isla could not relate to.
“Drivers. What are you, the president’s daughter or something?” If she had drivers, she’d never get behind the wheel or have to take public transportation ever again.
The girl fiddled with the thin chain around her neck. “More like the chairman,” she mumbled.
Isla had heard her crystal clear but pretended she hadn’t.
“I begged to drive myself to school and practice today. Now look. My mom will never let me drive again.” She stretched again out to three syllables and ended it with an ah. Isla prayed for patience.
“A flat’s not your fault, and you’re not five.”
“You don’t know my mother,” she retorted. “Consider yourself lucky.”
Isla left that one alone. If she’d known her mother growing up, she might have been able to grumble to others about her.
Seeing it was going to be a while, she made their meeting formal, gesturing to herself. “I’m Isla Thorne.”
“Holland Corrigan.” Holland seemed to be waiting for a reaction. When there was none, she visibly relaxed.
Isla replied with an unimpressed hmm. “As in the Corrigan Group? I know the name.” Isla’s gaze slid toward the bus stop.
“Your mom will probably have a heart attack if you come home on the bus, and since you’re in a rush, I can use one of my rideshare accounts, but I’ll need your address to order the car. ”
“Address?” Holland repeated hesitantly, suddenly on guard.
Holland was maybe nineteen, stranded and with a complete stranger.
Her sudden change gave Isla pause. Holland wasn’t comfortable sharing her address with a stranger she’d met five minutes ago, even though Holland had been acting as if they were a step away from swearing eternal friendship and braiding each other’s hair in sisterhood.
Instead, Holland was squirming as she tried to make a decision.
“If I was going to kidnap you, I’d have done it by now,” Isla reminded Holland and put her phone away. “How about we use your phone, huh? We’ll set you up so you don’t have to tell me anything private. Sound good?”
Holland produced her phone quickly and waited expectantly. Isla could barely contain her disbelief. She thought people Holland’s age came out of the womb tech savvy.
Isla asked, “Can I see?”
Holland held her phone in Isla’s direction, and Isla went to reach for it. The phone slipped through her fingers when Holland released too early and Isla grabbed for it too late.
“No!” Holland screamed. The phone hit the ground hard with a sickening smack and immediately went black. Holland dove after it. Isla winced at the thick crack snaking the length of the screen.
Holland attempted every resuscitation effort she could. She groaned “No” over and over. She tapped hopelessly at her spiderwebbed screen in disbelief. Isla didn’t point out the tiny specks of glass on the ground where the phone had landed. That would be rubbing salt on an open wound.
“I can’t see anything. Nothing’s coming up, and it’s so hot,” Holland said. “Maybe if we call my phone, it’ll wake up from its coma? Right?”
“More like from the dead,” Isla said dubiously. But she handed Holland her phone anyway. “Don’t drop this one, or we’re both screwed.”
The call went straight to voicemail. Isla could hear Holland’s teeny, bubbly voice telling them to leave a message.
“I’m gonna die,” Holland moaned, her eyes watery again. This time the tears were well earned and very real. “What am I gonna do?”
Isla had no time for histrionics, already pulling up the rideshare app. She stopped, matching Holland’s sorrowful gaze with a pragmatic one. “Address?” she said again.
This time, Holland gave it up without a fight.