Chapter 15 Genevieve
Genevieve
The scent of marinara fills my apartment, but it’s the cheap kind from a jar. The kind I pretend tastes homemade if I sauté it long enough with garlic and fresh basil.
Across the studio, Art’s lounging on my bed with his phone, shirt half untucked, dress shoes kicked haphazardly by the door. He looks up and gives me a grin, and the tension in my back loosens.
Tonight has been good. Art came over early because he knew it was my night off, and he barely got through the door before he had me bent over the mattress. It was over almost as fast as it started, but he’s the only guy I’ve ever been with who goes down and makes sure I’m taken care of after.
He’s been feeling distant lately, so this is a nice reminder of all the reasons why I moved here to be with him in the first place.
He stands and crosses the room, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me back against him.
This is what I needed. Art showing up, holding me, being here.
He’s not perfect, but he’s mine, and after a lifetime of my father’s closed doors, having someone who chooses to walk through mine is enough.
“Dinner will be ready in a few,” I say, resting my head on his shoulder.
He grimaces. “I have to leave soon, actually.”
“Oh. I thought we’d eat together.”
“I know, baby. I’m sorry.” He presses a kiss to my hair. “I gotta go check on Lance.”
He’s choosing Lance over me. Again.
The disappointment stings. I’d really been looking forward to cooking for someone besides myself. After Lance loved something as simple as slow-cooker stew, it reignited the need like a lost limb giving phantom pains.
“Is he okay?”
“He will be.” Art’s quiet for a moment, his arms tightening around me. “He had to fight last night.”
I stiffen, the thought of Lance in that cage making my stomach turn.
“He’s lucky to have you,” I say.
“I don’t know about that.” He sighs. “Sometimes I wonder if I’ve made things worse for him instead of better.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Forget it.”
I study his face—the tension around his eyes, the way he won’t meet my gaze—and the question that’s been sitting in my mind finally pushes its way out. “Why don’t you just end it?”
“What?”
“The fights. You own the tavern. Can’t you just shut it down? I get worried about you, babe. This is dangerous and what if you go to jail, or worse?”
“It’s not that simple, Gin.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not,” he says. “The people involved don’t just let you walk away.”
“What people?”
He pulls back. “The less you know the better.”
“Art.” I grab his arm. “Don’t you think I deserve to know what I’m in the middle of?”
“You’re not in the middle of anything.”
“Then why does it feel like I am? You took me down there on my first night in town, had me work the bar, and then expect me not to have questions?”
He drags a hand through his hair. “Can’t you see I’m trying to keep you safe? This whole situation’s ridiculous. You aren’t supposed to ask questions, Genevieve, and now your dad—”
His mouth snaps shut like he’s physically biting back the words.
The sudden silence wraps around my middle and squeezes. “What about my dad?”
“Forget I said anything.”
I follow him, my heart pounding. “You said there was nothing to worry about.”
“Gin. You have to trust me on this.”
“Trust you?” I cross my arms. “If my dad’s in trouble, you better tell me, Art. The man I moved here for wouldn’t keep secrets like this.”
“He defends criminals! You think his life isn’t dangerous? Quit being so fucking naive, Genevieve.”
I rear back like he’s slapped me.
“Shit.” He runs a hand over his face and then grabs my shoulders, his eyes pleading. “I’m sorry, baby. Can’t you see how badly I want you to be safe? That’s all I’ve ever wanted, and prying into things like this? It won’t end well.”
“You won’t even tell me what ‘this’ is.” I rip out of his hold. “Who are you?”
We stand there, breathing hard, the pasta water boiling over on the stove behind me.
I turn and shut off the burner, my hands shaking.
“You should go,” I say. “Lance needs you.”
“Baby.” His eyes are glassy, and he presses his lips together.
But I can’t worry about his feelings right now. Not when he’s ripping up mine.
“Go.”
He hesitates, hovering behind me.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he finally says. “I love you, Gin.”
I don’t turn around.
His footsteps cross the apartment, and the door clicks shut behind him.
The silence swells like a living thing.
His words echo in my skull, over and over, until I can’t stand the sound of my own thoughts.
I dump the pasta into the colander without bothering to plate it. I’m not hungry anymore.
Art wants me to trust him. He wants me to stay in the dark like a good little girlfriend and let him handle everything.
But I’m so fucking tired of being handled. It’s all he’s done since I moved here, and I’m not this girl. When did I become this girl?
I grab my jacket and walk out the door.
The Round Table is almost empty when I pull into the back lot, typical of a Sunday night.
The drive over gave me too much time to spiral through every half-truth Art has fed me since I moved here. Every deflection. Every “don’t worry about it” and “I’m handling it” and “just trust me.”
I’ve been swallowing them whole like medicine I didn’t know was poison.
Not anymore.
I slip in through the back entrance, easing the door shut behind me so slowly the latch barely clicks. The hallway stretches ahead, dark except for the faint red glow of an exit sign at the far end.
My heartbeat sounds too loud in my ears.
“Gin?”
I nearly jump out of my skin.
Rosalie’s in the storage room doorway, a case of vodka balanced on her hip. “What are you doing here?”
“Art forgot some paperwork. I’m just grabbing it.”
She rolls her eyes. “That man would lose his head if it wasn’t attached.” She shifts the case higher on her hip. “Well, make it quick. I’m locking up soon.”
I wait until her footsteps fade before I let out a shaky breath. I have a reason to be here now. If anyone else sees me, I’m just grabbing something for Art.
The office is dark and smells like bourbon and stale paper. I close the door behind me and lean against it, letting my pulse settle.
I pull out my phone and flick on the flashlight, sweeping the beam across Art’s desk.
It’s cluttered in that way of someone who has a system only they understand.
Receipts stacked in one corner, inventory sheets in another, a half-empty bottle of Woodford Reserve acting as a paperweight on a pile of invoices.
His laptop sits closed in the center, but I don’t have the password.
I rifle through the papers as quietly as I can, keeping them in order so he won’t know I was here. Vendor invoices. Liquor orders. A reminder about the health inspection next month. A phone number scrawled on a napkin with no name attached.
Nothing. Nothing that explains why someone was watching me at the bar. Nothing that explains what my father is wrapped up in. Nothing that explains why Art looked so scared when he told me to stop asking questions.
I’m about to give up when I notice the drawer on the left side of the desk. I suck in a breath and pull on the handle. Locked. Shit.
But people don’t lock things that don’t matter.
I pull on the handle again, harder, like maybe it’s just stuck, but it doesn’t budge.
From somewhere in the building, a door closes, and my heart jumps to my throat. I freeze, my phone pressed against my chest to kill the light, and listen.
Footsteps. The muffled sound of Rosalie talking to someone, and then…nothing.
I exhale and turn the flashlight back on.
If I were Art, where would I keep a key?
Probably someplace ridiculously easy—taped under surfaces or tucked behind frames.
He’s always been terrified of forgetting his own passwords, and security is never at the forefront of his mind, so he’d put a key somewhere easy to reach.
I run my fingers under the lip of the desk and find it almost immediately.
A small brass key, taped flat against the wood.
My hands shake so badly it takes two tries to fit it in the lock.
Click.
The drawer opens.
There’s a small black external hard drive shoved toward the back, unlabeled, with a sticky note on top that just says ‘backup.’ I turn it over in my hand, but it’s useless without a computer, so I put it back.
There’s a manila folder with no label.
My fingers hesitate over it.
I grab the folder and flip it open.
The first page is a printed email. The sender’s address isn’t familiar, but the recipient line says F. Lawrence, and the date is from over a year ago.
My eyes scan the text:
Freddy,
Good news. Spoke with Michel and the situation is handled. Our friend’s daughter won’t be finding work in Boston anytime soon, so she should be open to options elsewhere. I’d expect her to land in Rosebrook within a couple months if the boyfriend plays his cards right.
C sends regards. Drinks soon?
Brutus
The room tilts.
I read it again. And again.
Spoke with Michel.
Situation is handled.
Boyfriend plays his cards right.
They’re talking about me. They have to be talking about me.
My hands are shaking so hard I almost drop the folder.
Art. My Art. The man who held me while I cried about losing my job, who told me Boston wasn’t good enough for me anyway, who offered me a fresh start in his small town like it was a gift.
Did he know?
I flip to the next page, hoping for an explanation, or a sign that I’m reading this wrong, but there’s nothing else.
Just an old email to Frederick from someone named Brutus, a name I’ve never seen before but that sits wrong in my gut, like maybe I should know it.
I snap a quick picture, before shoving the folder back in the drawer and slamming it shut, bile rising in my throat.
My hands shake as I call Art, but it goes straight to voicemail.
I hang up and try again. Same result.
Of course he’s not answering. He’s with Lance, doing whatever it is they do that’s more important than me.
Well, fuck that.
If he won’t answer me, then I’ll hunt him down. I just have to figure out where the hell Lance lives. Art told me once Lance liked being off grid as much as possible, and his family bribed the county to build a cabin in the park. It was close to some overlook…the one where Frederick shot himself.
Upside Down Rock?
Whatever. I’ll figure it out when I get there.
I slip out of the office, half expecting Rosalie to be waiting, but the hallway’s empty.
The night air hits me as I cross the parking lot to my car. My hands are still shaking when I jam the key into the ignition.
This is insane. I’m about to drive into the middle of nowhere to hunt for a house I’ve never seen, hoping to find my boyfriend so I can scream at him about a secret file that insinuates my entire relationship might be a lie.
What kind of person does that?
Me, I guess.
The roads get darker the farther I go from town, my headlights carving tunnels through the blackness, but I don’t stop because Art said Lance’s place was out here somewhere.
If I drive around long enough, maybe I’ll find it.
Or maybe I’ll get lost in the woods and freeze to death, and Art will have to explain to everyone why his girlfriend’s body was found in the middle of the night.
Wouldn’t that be poetic?
The sign for Verona County Park appears in my headlights, and I turn onto the gravel road. The trees press close on either side, their branches scraping against the hood of the car like fingers trying to scare me away.
I pass a few trailheads, squinting at the signs in the dark. Deer Run TRAIL. Lovers’ Alcove. Names that mean nothing to me.
Then I see it: Upside Down Rock—0.5 miles.
I pull into the gravel lot and kill the engine. The silence is immediate and suffocating. The park is technically closed, but there are no gates stopping me so I’m not really breaking the rules.
This is so stupid.
I get out anyway.
The cold bites at my cheeks and my fingers as I pull my jacket tighter and turn on my phone’s flashlight.
The trailhead is just a narrow gap in the trees, barely visible, with a weathered wooden sign pointing in two directions.
One way leads to Upside Down Rock—still closed off—and the other goes deeper into the park.
I don’t know if Lance’s cabin is anywhere near here. I don’t know if I’m even in the right area. But standing still isn’t an option, and walking feels better than sitting in my car waiting for answers that will never come, so I start down the trail.
The path is overgrown and uneven, choked with roots and dead leaves that crunch under my feet. My flashlight beam bounces ahead of me, catching glimpses of tree trunks and rocks and the occasional glint of animal eyes before they disappear.
There are path lights, but they’re dim.
I don’t know what I’m looking for. A house in the distance? A mailbox? A sign that says ‘Angry Bearlike Man Lives Here’?
My breath fogs in the cold air, my mind churning through that email over and over.
If the boyfriend plays his cards right.
Was any of it real? The way Art looked at me, the things he said, the future he promised—was any of it actually about me? Or was I just a box he needed to check? A piece he needed to move into position?
And what the hell would the reason be? None of this makes sense.
A tremor races down my spine, and I’m suddenly overwhelmed with the sense that I’m not alone. I freeze, killing the flashlight, and the darkness crashes over me as I hold my breath and listen.
Wind rustles through the leaves.
Something moves in the underbrush.
But beneath that is the unmistakable crunch of leaves under someone else’s feet.
Then it stops.
My heart slams against my chest. I strain to see, but there’s just shadows layered on shadows, the trees pressing in around me like walls.
It’s nothing. Just an animal. Just my imagination.
I turn the flashlight back on and keep walking, faster now.
The crunch comes again, behind me, and I spin around, sweeping the beam across the trail.
“Hello? Is someone there?”
No answer. I turn back and walk faster. The footsteps behind me speed up, too.
My jog turns into a run, my phone flashlight swings wildly, and I can’t see where I’m going, but I don’t care. I just need to get away, need to find somewhere safe.
You’re so stupid, Ginn—
A hand closes around my arm and yanks me sideways.
I scream.