Chapter Thirty
Ava stole Bucko’s shitty little Corolla, which was missing a hubcap on each side—not the best ride to take her to Cale’s private mansion, but she was going to have to figure that part out later.
She’d stolen Jack’s map of the mansion, and most of his other shit, too, come to think of it.
The invite she’d scored would get her into the mansion, and hopefully the black wig she’d brought with her and the makeup she was wearing would be enough to get by.
At least until she could draw Jack’s gun and put an end to all this.
The road curved abruptly, signs warning that it was a dead end, a private road.
Cale Jacobson’s.
When she had first started researching Cale, she was still living in the little house in Iowa that felt haunted by Ari.
It had been two days after the small funeral, and one day after Ava had blown things up with any remaining friends she and Ari used to hang out with.
Ava had been sitting on the love seat when she’d found Ari’s hoodie, a soft, worn gray pullover she’d worn the day before she’d gone to the hospital and never come home.
And something in Ava had changed.
Not the days in the hospital, not the day she lost Ari forever, not even the day of the funeral.
That day, clinging to Ari’s sweatshirt and sobbing.
After that, there had been nothing left but the revenge. Because if Ava Cavalcante had nothing else, at least she’d have that.
Tears blurred her vision, and she took the next turn too fast. She’d let herself get distracted.
Stupid, stupid, stupid of her to let herself start caring. That hadn’t ended well for her, not ever. Fuck Jack for tricking her, and fuck Ava for not seeing every red flag and running for her life.
She slowed the car as the turns through the forest tightened, the road narrowing.
Few people took this road—rich people with drivers who drove them here, maybe.
Staff who worked at Cale’s mansion, certainly.
But most of Cale’s guests would be flying in on their private planes and landing at the airstrip north of his home, where they’d be driven to the mansion for the gala.
It was meant to support some nonprofit educating people about the environment, but—in Ava’s opinion, at least—it was nothing more than tax write-offs and a chance at some good PR.
The trees that lined the highway were tall, moss clinging to the trunks. Ava took one hand off the wheel and swiped at her eyes.
She had called the cops when she left, told them that Ava Cavalcante and her accomplice were hiding out at the hostel. Told them his name was Jack O’Sullivan. Even if it wasn’t true—that stung, too, not knowing if she even knew Jack’s real name—it would at least slow him down.
And—
Oh, fuck.
The road had straightened out here, and she could see a vehicle behind her. A motorcycle, its rider wearing a tuxedo and a black helmet.
Ava stomped on the gas. She had no idea how Jack had conjured up a whole new motorcycle out of thin air, but she did know one thing: He was not going to ruin this for her.
He’d ruined everything from the beginning—dragged her off Cale that day at the café, stopped her from finishing it then and there.
She should have seen it then. She should have known better.
Fuck Jack for delaying this for her. Fuck him for making her think he cared, even a little, fuck him for making her feel safe. It would have been better not to feel safe at all if it was just going to be taken away from her in the end.
It was always going to be taken away from her.
And fuck Ava, most of all, for ever thinking otherwise. Her phone buzzed as she pressed the gas pedal down as hard as it would go.
Jack.
There were two numbers saved in Ava’s phone now. One more than she should have had.
She sent the call to voicemail. She’d block him, but she wasn’t sure she could figure out how to do that without careening off the road as she did.
Then, as always, she went back to the last voicemail Ari had left her in the before days. The phone connected to the car’s speakers.
Hey, baby, Ari’s voice filled the car.
Ava could listen to it only so often, because just the sound of Ari’s voice left her sinking so heavily into her grief it would sometimes take hours or days or weeks to pull herself back out.
I know things are tough right now. Thank you for being brave for me. I ordered Indian food for us to eat tonight, and I thought we could watch our favorite. Maybe the episode where Dean flirts with that girl and Sam says—
Ari’s voice faded off into a rustle and the sound of a door opening. Ava swiped at the tears on her face, her hand shaking.
Supernatural had been Ari’s favorite, not Ava’s, but Ava would never have told her that. Or maybe it was Ava’s favorite, too, but only because she had loved her wife more than anything in this world.
Sorry, baby. I’m back. We’ll keep trying with the insurance, okay? It’ll be okay. I promise.
And that was it.
They’d never had their Supernatural marathon, and Ari’s takeout had molded in the fridge, because that night she’d flatlined.
Now the motorcycle was gaining on Ava.
She had the car, though. She could run him off the road. She could—
She couldn’t do much, because she couldn’t currently stop fucking crying.
The motorcycle roared over the yellow line, swerving and then accelerating until it was keeping pace parallel to Ava.
Jack turned his head to look at her—she couldn’t see his face, but she knew him, would know him anywhere.
And then he pulled a gun from his waistband and leveled it at her.