Chapter 32
32
OWEN – ONE DAY LATER
Since yesterday morning we have checked the serial number on over six thousand bond tickets using the online prize checker.
Losing hope, Jacob hands me the last one to check. I punch the numbers in, hit enter on the keyboard of the laptop, and wait.
“No luck.” I sigh heavily.
“How much do we have?” Lincoln asks Jacob, who is calculating the final tally.
“3.5 million,” he replies.
It’s not enough. “We have two days left,” I say, looking at the thousands of disregarded tickets.
We need more time.
I tried calling Jade again later last night, but she must have been asleep. Hoping she would waive her no-phones ban on display days because we haven’t spoken for what feels like forever, I tried all day again today, but I still haven’t been able to get hold of her. I need to hear her voice.
I drop her a text.
Me
Please call me. I miss you, Hotshot. xoxo
That was hours ago and she’s still not replied.
Something feels… wrong.
“What if he’s already done something to her, and that’s why I can’t contact her?” A violent shiver runs down my spine.
Dread is consuming me, swarming like a nasty hive of hornets in my chest, making it feel like it’s about to explode.
“Don’t think stupid things.” Jacob stacks the winning tickets into a neat pile.
“This is fucking bullshit.” I kick a stacked pile of files and send them flying. Anger soars through my body. Unable to temper it, I flip the coffee table over, smashing it through the glass cabinet full of expensive liquor. “I never asked for any of this,” I angrily spit out.
“Owen.” Lincoln tries calling my name to calm me down. I think the ferocity of my mood is frightening him.
Grabbing a side table, I launch it at the oversize floor mirror, shattering it to smithereens. “He’s destroyed my life.” I grab the hair at the bottom of my neck and pull it in frustration. “I fucking hate you!” I scream at the painting of my father above the fireplace and throw the chair I’ve picked up at it. The chair tears through the canvas.
I roar so loud it burns the back of my throat. “I wanted to break free. That’s all I wanted.” I fall to my knees. “I didn’t ask for any of this. This is not my fault.” I shake my head and punch the stone floor, splitting my knuckles open. “Why? Why would he do this to me?” Tears streaming down my face, I look at my friends for help. But I’m looking in the wrong place. They did all they could for me. We lost.
I failed her .
Jacob hands me the sweatshirt from the back of the sofa and wraps it around my knuckles to stop the bleeding. Emotionally bankrupt and defeated, I take one last look around the destroyed room, briefly glancing at the painting of my father.
“I have to tell Richard I can’t get him the money.” My voice sounds low and lifeless.
As I move, something shiny catches my attention.
Curious, I narrow my gaze to get a better look, then move toward the painting.
“What the fuck is that?” I ask in wonder as a sliver of silver shines through the split.
Using my good hand, I reach up to touch the painting and insert a finger into the canvas then drag it down, ripping it further, unveiling what’s behind it.
“Sweet Jesus,” Lincoln declares.
I look at the hidden safe that’s been hiding in plain sight. “Find me a blowtorch.”