Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
SEVEN DAYS AFTER (YES, STILL)
I offered to drop out of the race, and he hasn’t said anything.
That’s how it typically goes. I trick myself into thinking I know him—that little he does can shock me—yet here I am, baffled.
It makes me wonder if I miscalculated by offering him the promotion, the job I’ve raced like hell toward.
Scraping and clawing for more accounts. Working more hours.
Taking more meetings. Focusing on little else.
Because racing forward meant never having to go back.
This job—the promotions along the way—meant freedom from the constant shadow of poverty, hunger, and desperation and a guarantee that I could feel secure enough to get to my other goals.
And now I’m pulling myself out of the race.
The accident pulled me out of it, I remind myself.
No matter how long I’ve fought to move forward—checking off lists and keeping my eye on the next promotion—I’ve been whipped backward so hard my soul’s popped out of my body. Literally.
My chest is about to combust as I marinate in the loaded silence, waiting for him to give me something.
I pick at my nails, tempted to chew on them.
The glossy polish doesn’t budge. The best shellac manicure and pedicure this side of Chicago.
I go every two weeks, like clockwork. Part of the Evie Pope package. Look where that’s got me.
“We’re here,” Rafael says at last. His response isn’t the answer I expected. It’s not an answer at all. Which means he doesn’t want the deal. Which means I’m on my own.
And I’m fine with this. Completely fine. So fine I can’t even meet his gaze, so I stare straight ahead and nod.
He shifts in his seat, the leather squealing beneath him. “Evie.”
Rafael. If I speak, he’ll know he’s affected me. I won’t give him the satisfaction.
Beside me, he sighs, opens the door, and slips out of the truck—and I deflate like a popped tire.
I shouldn’t be so affected by his lack of a response, but if Rafael doesn’t help, how do I fix myself? What if I can never go back?
I’m on the verge of dry heaving, but the door opens.
I grit my teeth together and suck in a pocket of air, ignoring Rafael as he leans into the truck.
Keeping my gaze fixed on the dashboard, I look inward for a ghostly power to take me far, far away.
Not heaven or hell far, but somewhere I can come up with another plan, one that doesn’t require his help. Because who needs him anyway?
“Stevie,” he says.
I whip toward him so fast, Rafael flinches. “What did you say?” I ask, blinking and breathing fast. The name—the one I haven’t used in almost a decade—makes me exchange grief for anger faster than I switch out of my pumps at the end of the workday.
“That’s your name, isn’t it?” His tone is even and unperturbed, but a familiar spark has entered his gaze, and it makes me want to hurtle myself at him.
“No, it’s not.” I narrow my eyes, daring him to continue.
A brow rises in question. “Stevie Popovici. That doesn’t jingle a bell?”
I balk. “You … couldn’t know …” No one knows my real name, the one I discarded along with my old life. Yet he’s throwing it around like it’s written on my forehead.
If I were a little more certain this isn’t all some final “heaven or hell” test, I’d give him a slice of hell.
I’d tell him that he’s lucky he’s handsome and charming because if he weren’t, everyone would actually see beneath the facade to the double-crossing jerk beneath.
I’d admit I’m not sorry about the laxative incident or the parking ticket or that Gemma only pretends to like him because she’s a junior associate on his team.
And I’d make him wish he’d never heard my name—either of them.
I realize I’ve floated out of the truck, advancing on him, hands balled at my side. Rafael concedes a step, then another. We’re in a parking garage, and he cuts through two empty parking spaces before he backs into a minivan and halts.
Somewhere my heart’s slamming into my rib cage, and my breaths pump out of me, short and rapid. “I’m going to haunt you and your children and your children’s children if you ever so much as speak that name to another living soul again,” I warn, jabbing a finger at his chest.
Surprise flits across his gaze. I’m the one who’s a ghost-thing, but I can see right through him, and his soul is scared.
“Your grandmother doesn’t have enough prayers to save you from the kind of torment I can inflict.” My voice becomes deadly quiet. “I’ll be there at every turn.”
I’ve been a spirit all of twelve hours and don’t have a clue about my paranormal abilities, but I’ll find a way to pull it off. If nothing else, Rafael knows my relentless determination. I wasn’t one of Chicago Business Journal’s “Thirty Under Thirty” for nothing.
“I’ll never speak a word of it,” Rafael says, holding up three fingers.
I frown, not following. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Scout’s honor.”
“If you say so. But don’t test me on this,” I warn, injecting years of resentment into my gaze before I spin and walk away.
Fighting to get my breathing and emotions under control, I grind out a few Mamma Mias through anger-blurred vision.
The underground garage—painted in shades of green—comes into focus.
Emerald Heights. Home.
“How did you—” I start to ask, but bite my tongue. Literally. Asking the guy who has intimate knowledge of my birthmark and real name how he remembered my address from a single drop-off years ago feels like the least of my concerns.
I ignore his “What?” and speed-walk to the elevator, back straight and brain buzzing with questions. I ask none of them.
I slow at the elevator and reach for the buttons before curling my fingers into a fist. Right. Useless ghost hands.
I consider taking the stairs up to my floor. Eight flights. Time to think and figure this out on my own. Or—I could wait for him. For answers.
Footsteps sound behind me.
I cross my arms and fix my gaze on the elevator doors. A flyer informs residents that dues are increasing in the winter. Another mentions a Fourth of July celebration on the rooftop in a few weeks. Neither of which I might be here for.
Rafael reaches past me and jabs the up-arrow button before his hands slip into his pockets. I angle my head away so he’s no longer in my periphery.
Rafael sighs. “That first day? I passed by your desk after lunch. Your paperwork was out—a photocopy of an old ID,” he says quietly.
“I figured it was easier to shove it back into the folder before I walked away. If Media Lab does anything better than marketing, it’s gossip.
And since you started the job under another name, maybe you didn’t want that out there.
For the longest time, I figured you were KGB. ”
I roll my eyes at that last part. But I don’t respond, because I expected something sneaky or nefarious, not this.
That first morning—running late and battling the snowstorm—is forever seared into my core memories.
My anxiety made me sloppy. I accidentally grabbed all of my paperwork, including some I hadn’t used since before college, before I legally changed my name.
And I never even realized I’d left it out for public consumption.
And Rafael’s known. This entire time.
That same afternoon, he was setting me at ease—telling me about the HR manager who napped in the janitor’s closet and the accounts payable specialist who snuck toilet paper home in his trench coat.
His office intel, peppered with jokes, made me lower my guard—maybe he did think I was KGB.
Part of some elaborate plan to glean his own intel and store it for a rainy day.
Today’s more of a storm, so it doesn’t surprise me that he’s whipped this morsel of information from his ammunition belt.
But he’s kept it to himself for so long. That surprises me.
The elevator dings and the doors peel apart, revealing a lone occupant.
“Hi.” Charlene Baker, the lawyer who lives on the floor above mine, smiles at us.
She steps forward, clad in her signature black pumps and YSL handbag.
As one of the youngest Black attorneys in Chicago, Charlene is one person who I know has worked harder to earn her spot than even I have.
We don’t get drinks on the weekends, but we grab the occasional coffee and chat in the elevator as our work schedules allow (not often).
I wave.
“Hey,” Rafael says beside me, and I remember that she can’t see me. It’s him she’s looking at with bright hazel eyes. I look from her to him and back to her when a second ticks by. Charlene’s grin is all straight teeth. Friendly. Inviting.
They know each other.
“Nice to see you back,” she says, slipping out of the elevator as Rafael steps into it. He keeps the doors from closing with an outstretched hand. She stalls; so does he. I look between the two of them, a little bit confused, which seems to be the flavor of the day for me.
They definitely know each other, and I’m not sure how I missed this. It makes sense, though. She’s a lawyer. He’s a troublemaker.
“Char, I’m sorry I didn’t call after …” Rafael starts.
Charlene stops him with an upheld hand. “Please, don’t apologize.”
“No, I am sorry.” Rafael offers an apologetic smile, which toes dimple territory.
She answers with a shake of her head, but something familiar lingers beneath the brightness. Something that makes my breath catch. Something I know.
A glimmer of loneliness.
In a blink, it’s gone, and … ohmygod, Charlene is into him.
I look between the two of them, speechless.
“Seriously, I should be apologizing,” she assures him with another megawatt smile. “I should’ve known there was someone else.”
The elevator doors push against his hand. “Still feel like a jerk,” he says, dropping his hand and stepping into the elevator.
“Don’t.”
“You should.”
Charlene and I respond at once, and his eyes dart to mine. I glare back, hoping I’m communicating that he’s an asshole extraordinaire. Assholedinaire.