3. A Deadly Diva
A DEADLY DIVA
RAYMOND
“R aymond, my boy. How’s our shark doing?” Jack’s voice slithers through the phone, smooth as oil but with just enough edge to make my jaw clench.
I can picture him right now, his skin tanned like an overripe pumpkin after too many lazy days of doing nothing but soaking up the sun on a beach.
The collar of my silk shirt suddenly feels like sandpaper, the Windsor knot digging into my neck. “Perfect as always, Jack. How about you?”
“Well, that depends on how our little land deal is moving along.”
I can practically see his self-satisfied smirk.
“Everything’s on track, exactly as planned.” My fingers dig into my forehead, suppressing the irritation bubbling up. Shareholders and their obsession with micromanaging—especially Jack—are just about my least favorite part of this whole industry. Their constant need to “check in,” to question and poke at every move. Whatever happened to trusting the man who built this empire?
“Great! That’s what I wanted to hear. Wouldn’t want a repeat of last time, now would we?” He chuckles, but there’s a pointed edge to it, a jab he knows is sharp enough to sting.
My fist tightens around the phone, and I grit my teeth. This bastard really has the nerve to bring that up? Instead of reminding me of the millions I saved us all by halting that deal, he keeps acting like it was my screwup. My team uncovered evidence of sinkhole activity that had somehow been “missed” by the inspection company—an oversight that turned out to be a payoff from our competitors to sabotage us. We filed a lawsuit on the spot and won, but Jack seems hell-bent on acting like I should be begging for forgiveness.
And that’s why the Pershing land isn’t any other deal. It’s my chance to shut him up—for good.
I grind out my reply, each word a battle to keep calm. “Like I said, I’ve got everything under control. And, Jack, I don’t appreciate underhanded comments. What happened last time wasn’t a failure. It was my team saving all of us from a very costly mistake.”
He’s quiet, probably reeling from the fact that I actually called him on his crap. I can hear his uneven breathing, like he’s scrambling to cover up his misstep.
“Hey, Raymond. I was just reminding you, you know…after last time, every shareholder’s watching this one closely. I’d hate for your reputation to take a hit. Your father and I go way back. You know I care about you and the reputation of Elixir Estates.”
The lie is almost laughable. He barely knew my father. They probably crossed paths a handful of times, at best. But one thing he’s not wrong about: everyone’s eyes are on this deal. And I’ll be damned if I let it slip.
A dull ache starts building at my temples, like a ticking time bomb, and just when I think my head might actually implode from this conversation, someone pats my back. I turn, ready to snap at whoever’s adding to my already frayed nerves, only to find Grandpa Will standing there. Relief is fleeting, though, as my pulse jerks, immediately scanning for a sign of Quill.
“Where’s Quill?” I mouth as worst-case scenarios flash through my head. All the dangers, all the what-ifs start piling up, one after the other.
But Grandpa Will, calm as ever, gives me a smile that lifts his bushy white beard. His eyes crinkle with that signature ease that’s somehow immune to my panic as he points toward the large glass windows of the restaurant, out into the bright festival chaos beyond.
I squint, scanning the colorful swirl of yellow-and-red decorations. Cherrywood is in full celebration mode. If there’s one thing this town does well, it’s throwing a festival. Mayor Coggeshall really missed her calling in event planning. Amid the streamers and paper lanterns, the town’s Ferris wheel stands out, decked in matching yellow and red. I notice it’s not moving, though there are still a few people in those hot-air-balloon-shaped cabins, suspended high in the air.
Odd. But right now, I’ve got bigger things to worry about.
I try again to spot my daughter in the crowd. I’d brought Quill out for lunch, and when she’d begged to check out the town festival, Grandpa Will had offered to take her so I could handle some work calls. But now here he is, standing beside me, while Quill’s…where exactly? I’m not worried about her being alone, because there’s security watching my daughter twenty-four seven. I’m just worried about her.
“I can’t see her from?—”
Before I can finish, Grandpa Will hands me a pair of binoculars.
Where in the world did he get these?
Then again, “resourceful” doesn’t even begin to describe the man. He’s my father’s former butler, a pseudo-grandfather for me, and when Quill came into my life, I didn’t even have to ask him to move in. He was already there, with his unfailing dedication, ready to take care of another Teager generation.
The phone is still pressed to my ear, with Jack rambling about his golf match, but his words turn to static as something outside the window catches my eye. And suddenly, there’s silence—deafening, pounding silence. My stomach flips, threatening to bring up every bite I had at lunch right onto the shiny marble floor. But somehow, I keep it together.
My hands tremble as I take in the sight: Quill, my daughter, sitting in the topmost cabin of the Ferris wheel, wearing her favorite sparkly purple dress. She’s so high up, so tiny and impossibly far away, but it’s unmistakably her.
I hit the end call button mid-sentence, cutting Jack’s voice off abruptly. Every instinct in me screams to bolt downstairs and demand that someone—anyone—get that damn Ferris wheel moving. But my feet feel anchored to the spot.
Because Quill is laughing.
I can’t hear it from this distance, but I can see it in the way her whole face is lit up. And then, as if fate wants to make absolutely sure I’m not hallucinating, she speaks. Not with those tiny fingers, but this time, it’s her lips moving.
Six months. Six excruciatingly long months of waiting, of hoping for even one word. And when she’s finally speaking, I’m too far away to catch even a syllable.
“She just spoke,” I mutter, the words barely escaping my lips. “In actual words.”
My mind scrambles to process it, but Quill doesn’t stop there. She says something else, then leans over to press her lips against the head of a scruffy dog poking out of a carry bag.
And then she keeps going. Plural sentences.
It takes everything in me to pull the binoculars away from Quill and see who’s sitting beside her, the one somehow coaxing out the words I’ve been desperate to hear.
There, beside my daughter, is Willow Pershing.
The woman who called me every name in the book two days ago.
The woman who’s somehow managed to parade over my life and hold everything I want in those infuriatingly delicate hands.
The shock finally wears off, and I shove the binoculars back at Grandpa Will before tearing off toward the Ferris wheel like a man possessed.
Were the streets this crowded when we arrived, or did the whole town suddenly decide to stage a reunion right now? Bodies press in from all sides, with no sense of urgency, clogging up the path between me and my daughter. I’m proud of my fitness routine—hours of Aikido, gym, cardio, and football practice with the local kids—and yet I’m gasping and it feels like an eternity before I finally reach the Ferris wheel’s ticket kiosk, only to find it deserted.
And here’s the kicker: no one else seems remotely bothered that the Ferris wheel has stalled. People are chatting, sipping drinks in neon paper cups, hollering up to their friends stuck on the ride. A couple waves from their stranded cabin, looking like they’re on a Sunday outing rather than stuck thirty feet in the air.
“Who’s in charge here?” My panicked voice comes out as a wheeze, barely audible over the crowd.
The only response I get is a few raised eyebrows and even fewer glances my way. My patience, already hanging by a thread, snaps.
“Where the hell is the person responsible for this Ferris wheel?” This time, I project, voice ringing with authority—and a lot of desperation.
“That would be me.” A man standing at the far edge of the kiosk lazily waves a hand, strolling over like he’s got all the time in the world. His whole attitude screams indifference, like he doesn’t care that his inaction put everyone on that contraption, including my daughter, at risk.
My patience? Long gone. I’m a heartbeat away from grabbing him and dragging him over.
“Listen to him before you lose it, Raymond.” Grandpa Will’s calm voice beside me manages to keep my fists unclenched, but just barely.
“Hi there, I’m Decent Joe. How can I help you?” The man—who is, by all appearances, the epitome of laid-back irresponsibility—is completely at ease, not a single worry in the world.
The way he exudes casual negligence has me fighting the urge to shake him. “You’re the one running the Ferris wheel?”
He nods, still smiling like this is a friendly chat. “The one and only. Been doing it for years.” He gives a little shrug. “If you’re looking to take a ride, you’ll need to wait about half an hour.”
Half an hour? Did he actually say that?
“My daughter is up there, in the topmost cabin.” My voice comes outrough and raw,scraping against my throat like a blade. “I want her down. Now.”
The smile slips from his face, finally. He squints, trying to see all the way to the top. “She’s up there with Willow?”
Of course. Small-town life. Everyone’s on a first-name basis with everyone else.
“Yes. And there’s a dog with them,” I snap. “I’m sure that’s a violation of every safety protocol you should have in place.”
Decent Joe waves a dismissive hand. “Oh, don’t worry. Captain Lick loves it up there. And Willow knows what she’s doing.”
“Not when it comes to my kid, she doesn’t,” I growl.
I couldn’t care less about Willow Pershing and her disregard for her dog’s safety—or her own, for that matter. If I’ve understood the woman right, she doesn’t know when to stop for her own good. Be it in arguments or be it in adventure.
“I want my daughter down now,” I repeat, each word clipped.
Decent Joe holds up a placating hand, unruffled by the edge in my voice. “Listen, man, this ride’s a beauty, and like every queen, she’s got an attitude. So every few rides, she likes to remind me that she’s the one in charge and stalls for about thirty-five minutes. Been that way forever. In fact, she’s kind of a local legend now—Cherrywood’s very own Ferris wheel with a personality. You can read all about her quirks on the town’s website.”
Is he seriously telling me they’re selling the idea of an eccentric ride to tourists instead of fixing it? I can’t decide if I should be impressed by the town’s shameless marketing or report them for utter recklessness.
“Look, people come here for a once-in-a-lifetime experience,” Decent Joe continues, revealing he’s a damn good salesman beneath that friendly face. “And for the crowd here?” He tips his head toward the onlookers gathered around us. “Well, they get a little thrill too, betting on how long it’ll be before the wheel starts up again this time. All harmless fun.”
He glances at his watch, then back at me with a calm smile that’s entirely unfazed by my murderous expression. “So how about you wait another twenty-five minutes. I promise your daughter will be back here by then. And if she’s with Willow, trust me, she’s probably having the time of her life up there.”
For the first time since this guy started his little happy-go-lucky monologue, my anger simmers down. He finally said something that hit a nerve. Quill’s actually having the time of her life, just not with me. No, she’s up there with a stranger who has zero respect for me and sees me as her personal nemesis.
“You actually think I’m going to stand here and wait for something to go wrong with my kid up there?” I ask, voice barely holding steady.
“But that’s exactly what I’m telling you, man. Nothing’s going to happen?—”
“Do you or do you not have a damn rescue plan for this malfunctioning death trap?” I snap.
Decent Joe sighs, like I’m the one being unreasonable here. “We don’t need a rescue plan. All we need is a little patience.”
Patience? The hell with patience.
I spin around, pulling out my phone and stepping away from this bizarre crowd that thinks a risky ride is just a good laugh.
My assistant, Donna, answers on the second ring.
“I need the chopper,” I say, pacing as the adrenaline surges through me.
“Where to?” she asks, already typing. I can hear her quick clicks on the keyboard, probably firing off a message to the pilot.
“Center of town. It’s a rescue. Quill’s at the very top of the Ferris wheel, and the damn thing is stalled.” I swallow against the tightness in my chest; saying it out loud only made it worse.
Donna’s typing hesitates for a second. “Did you talk to Decent Joe?”
“Yeah, and the guy couldn’t care less about my daughter’s safety.”
If Joe’s right and this Ferris wheel is some kind of local landmark, Donna probably knows all about it. But I’m not about to leave Quill’s well-being up to town folklore and good vibes.
“The pilot’s en route,” she replies without missing a beat. Just before I hang up, her voice softens. “Raymond, I get you’re worried, and I’m not stopping you from doing whatever you think is right. But that ride is safe. Quill’s going to be okay.”
I don’t argue with her. I brace myself for the one thing that tests me like nothing else—waiting while my daughter’s in danger.