Thirty
Sadie
B y the time my faithful rideshare is driving me back toward Ginny’s, the sun is low in the sky, casting long shadows across the fields. I did what I could. I showed up. I smiled. I tried.
And yet all I feel is defeat.
I miss the rhythm of Paradise Hill. I miss knowing the vintage before the cork even pops, knowing which couples will ask for the rosé flight and which want the reserve reds. I miss the way it felt to walk into work with purpose, like I belonged somewhere.
Now, I’m just floating.
And trying not to sink.
Ginny’s place is quiet when I let myself in. The air smells like dust and whatever coffee she left i n the French press for me this morning. It’s cold and bitter now.
The couch looks smaller tonight. Or maybe I just feel bigger, heavier, like I’m carrying the weight of every decision I’ve made in the last forty-eight hours. I toss my purse on the coffee table and toe off my shoes, flexing my sore feet against the cool floor.
It’s strange, the way something that felt like a safe haven yesterday can already feel cramped.
I can’t stretch out without knocking into something.
There’s no door to close, no corner to claim as mine.
Just borrowed space. It’s better than sleeping on the street, of course.
And I’m not going to put any pressure on Ginny to clean out her guest room. A quick check tells me she hasn’t yet.
I sit down with a sigh and reach for my bag, unzipping it slowly, not really sure what I’m doing. I tell myself I’m reorganizing, but really, I just want to feel in control of something. Anything.
I pull out a crumpled hoodie, a pair of jeans, a book I haven’t touched since I moved out of Alex’s, and then, there they are.
Alex’s jeans. I didn’t mean to pick them up when I left his place. I just scooped up everything in the room. Now, they’re wadded and shoved in the bottom of my suitcase.
I hold them up by the waistband, the denim stiff from being worn and not washed. What makes these so important?
I sigh and decide to wash them, if only to get them out of my bag and out of my life. As I check the pockets—mostly out of habit—my fingers brush something hard, small, and plastic.
I pull it out slowly, like I’m unearthing a bug I don’t want to touch.
A jump drive.
Unlabeled. Basic. The kind you buy in a three-pack at an office supply store.
What the hell, Alex?
I hold it between my fingers. It could be nothing. Or it could be the reason he and Simon have threatened me and accuse d me of taking something. Of stealing.
I set it on the coffee table like it’s radioactive and go back to the laundry pile, trying to ignore it. But my eyes are drawn to it again and again, like it’s whispering my name.
Eventually, I gather up the clothes and take them down the hall to the washer and dryer. The machine groans to life as I start the first load.
When I return, the jump drive still sits where I left it. I sit on the edge of the couch, staring at it.
It’s ridiculous, really, how something so small can hold so much weight.
It doesn’t look like trouble. It looks like a school project or a forgotten set of family photos.
Harmless. Nothing of consequence. Maybe it’s his porn stash.
I caught him more than once beating off to two guys with a girl.
He always told me it was my fault. Whatever . I know better now.
But something about the drive feels wrong because Alex doesn’t have a computer. After his laptop got stolen, he used his phone, and if he needed a desktop, they had one at the shop.
I reach for it, then pull my hand back.
Alex has been obsessed with something he lost. I’m guessing this is it.
And he wants it back badly.
I glance at my laptop.
I shouldn’t look.
I tell myself that once, then again. But my curiosity is relentless, and ignoring the drive now feels more dangerous than knowing what’s on it.
I set my laptop on the coffee table. The screen lights up when I open it, and I plug in the drive with slow, cautious fingers, half expecting sparks to fly.
It asks for a password. Alex uses the same password for everything. I type Password1234*, and it opens up. What a moron.
There is one folder with a single spreadsheet file titled results_78-21 .
I hesitate.
What am I doing ?
I click.
The spreadsheet opens, the cursor blinking in the first cell. Rows of data stretch out across the screen, dozens, maybe hundreds of entries.
At first, it’s just a mess of code names, dates, dollar amounts, and strings of numbers that mean nothing to me.
Blinky | SF -3.5 | $200 | $190
TP | O 223.5 | $50
Vet | U 223.5 | $200
I frown as I scroll down. The names repeat—some regularly, some only once or twice. A few columns are highlighted in yellow. Others are bolded like someone was tracking patterns.
None of it makes sense. Is it a budget? A weird file from the shop?
I’m still puzzling when I hear the front door open.
“Sadie? You here?”
I tear my eyes away in time to smile at Ginny as she enters.
“Guess who texted me today?”
I take a wild guess. “God?”
She laughs. “Not so much.”
“Beckett?”
She nods and walks her phone over. I read the message.
Beckett: Hey, it’s Beckett Paradise. Do you know how to reach Sadie? I need to find her. Please.
I hand her back her phone.
“You okay?” she asks, setting her bag down on the kitchen counter.
“You didn’t respond.”
“I didn’t know if you wanted him to know you’re here.”
“Zach fired me for being late. I’m sure Beckett wanted to tell me he recommended he move me along.”
She makes a face. “You think he’s so petty he asked for th at?”
I shrug. I didn’t think so, but it happened.
“That doesn’t seem right, but I’ll say whatever you tell me,” Ginny says. “I can tell him to fuck off. Or come over and get you right now. Or I can just ignore it.”
I look up. “You can tell him I’m at your place for now and I’m fine.”
“That’s it?”
I nod. “Thanks. And listen, I found something.”
She raises a brow. “Define something.”
I tap the jump drive where it’s currently attached to my laptop. “This was in Alex’s jeans. I think he thinks I stole it when I left.”
Her face tightens. “And you’re looking at it?”
“Yep,” I admit. “Maybe I shouldn’t. But after everything—and the way he’s been acting—I just…I had to.”
She doesn’t scold me or offer an opinion. She just leans closer and gestures to the laptop. “What did you find?”
“I’m not sure.”
I tilt the screen toward her. Ginny squints as she reads.
Blinky | SF -3.5 | $200 | $190
TP | O 223.5 | $50
Vet | U 223.5 | $200
“What am I looking at?”
“I don’t know. It’s all in some kind of code.”
She looks at it. “There are over two thousand lines. I can’t figure it out either.” She holds up a bottle of cabernet. “I brought a bottle from the vineyard.”
“Oh, that looks great.”
Ginny opens the bottle and pours two generous glasses.
She returns to the couch, and we swap stories of our day. I tell her I’m worried about Rosie. She admits she is too. She says she stopped by this afternoon to see her and just missed Beckett doing his rounds.
“What did he tell her?”
Ginny shrugs. “Not much. Just that he’d like to see her increase her food intake. He’s giving her fluids by IV. ”
“Did she tell him I’d been by earlier?”
She shakes her head. “He didn’t ask, and as far as I know, she kept your secret.”
I take a sip of my wine. Caleb must have told him. That’s good . “I left resumes at several winery tasting rooms today. Everyone seems to want a certified sommelier.”
“They’re foolish to not want you.”
“Thank you.”
Ginny looks back at my computer screen.
I highlight a line in the spread sheet and copy it into a search engine. SF -3.5. O 223.5. U 223.5.
The results first give me something about kidney disease, but that doesn’t seem a likely fit. Then I see the next line. The NFL Betting Pros website.
Maybe it’s some kind of fantasy sports thing?
I open the website and see the team abbreviations—LAL, BOS, PHI—and something clicks.
Wait.
Lines.
Odds.
These aren’t random numbers. They’re bets. Big bets. Lots of them.
My breath catches.
I scroll faster now, the pattern revealing itself with each new row. The names are probably code for bettors. The numbers—wagers, spreads, over/under totals. It’s all here. Names, amounts, odds, payouts. Organized. Tracked. Updated.
“That asshole. He left his gambling operation on a jump drive on the floor of our bedroom.”
Ginny stares at the numbers. “Yes. It makes sense now.”
But then my stomach sinks. Alex didn’t make this.
He couldn’t have. This file is clean, methodical, too detailed for someone who can barely keep a doctor’s appointment without forgetting where he parked.
And this isn’t just something he stumbled across.
It’s something he was involved in, likely working for someone else .
If this is what he’s been trying to get back, if this is what he’s been threatening me about, I might be in more trouble than I thought.
My heart pounds. The screen glows at me like a warning.
Ginny leans back against the couch and crosses her arms. “You think this is what he’s been freaking out about?”
“It has to be.”
We sit in silence for a beat.
“How do you think he’s involved in it?” she finally asks.
“I don’t know.” My voice cracks. “He was hanging out with sketchy guys, and I figured he was up to no good. He couldn’t have managed this by himself.”
Ginny nods. “You need to take this seriously.”
“I am.”
“Then the next question is, what do you do with it?”
“I don’t know.”
“You could give it to the cops.”
“The police already talked to me, and I didn’t tell them the truth. If I turn this over, they’ll want to know how I got it. What if they think I’m involved?”
“You’re not.”
“Yeah, but how do they know that?”
She’s quiet for a moment, like she’s weighing something. “What about Beckett?”
“I don’t want him involved.”
“What if he’s your best option? He’s been looking for you. And if nothing else, he’s your brother’s friend. He’s smart. And he has resources. You don’t have to do this alone.”
I nod, eyes still on the spreadsheet. I feel like I’ve stepped onto a bridge in the dark, unsure how stable it is or if it even leads anywhere.
Ginny’s voice softens. “This isn’t some leftover love letter or a dumb prank. This is serious, Sadie. If someone realizes you have it…”
“I know.” I close the laptop gently, my fingers trembling. “I don’t think I can go back to pretending I don’t.”
She reaches out and squeezes my arm. “Good. Then we figure it out together.”