Chapter 54
FIFTY FOUR
BUOYED BY THE morning’s victory and the quiet, steady hum of my café, I feel more capable and clear-headed than I have in months.
I stand at my desk, staring at the signed petitions, grateful for each and every one of these signatures.
After a moment, I step over to the filing cabinet and open its bottom drawer.
I discard dried-up pens and transfer documents to their appropriate files, making room for the petitions.
With the whole pile now sitting neatly in there, I slide the drawer shut.
The sound of my phone buzzing is jarring in the quiet of my office. One glance at its lit-up screen, and my peaceful, happy bubble bursts.
My blood runs cold.
James.
My first instinct is a jolt of pure, reflexive panic. A desire to silence the phone, to throw it across the room, to never hear his voice again. The old fear is a phantom grip around my throat. But then, another thought cuts through the haze.
The check.
I remember my trip to the bank earlier. The teller handed me the deposit receipt. A tangible piece of my new reality. The money to pay him off is in my account. This call is my chance to arrange a meeting, hand him his money, and sever this last tie between us.
My panic recedes.
This is just business.
Taking a deep, fortifying breath, I swipe to answer, my voice level. “James.”
Ragged, uneven breathing answers me.
When he finally speaks, his voice is a barely recognizable, slurred version of itself. “Amy…”
“What do you want, James?”
“Friday night… that fucker… I saw you… him… makin’ out with you,” he slurs, his voice cracking on a bitter laugh. “Looked so damn into him… not for me, you know? Not in the cards.”
I roll my eyes, sinking onto the couch. “Call me back when you’re sober, James.”
But before I can hang up, his tone shifts, turning venomous.
“James, yes. James fucking Devlin. That’s me.
James Devlin of the illustrious Devlin and fucking Sons Financial.
” He spits the name like it’s poison on his tongue.
“Family legacy my ass,” he laughs again, the sound full of despair. “It’s a fucking curse.”
“James, we can—”
“You…” he interrupts, sounding broken. “You were real… the only real thing in my pathetic life… fuck! I royally fucked up with you, Mimi…” He trails off.
I hear a strange shuffling sound. Then, a groan of pain.
“James?” I ask, a sliver of concern cutting through my anger.
“What the fuck?!” He sounds distant.
“James?” I sit up straighter.
“Blood… b-blood… m-m’arm…” His breathing grows heavy with panic. “A-Amy… I d-don’t feel…”
His words slur into an unintelligible mumble, followed by a sickening, heavy thud that cracks through the line.
“James?” I bolt upright.
Nothing.
“Are you still there?” Ice-cold panic surges through me at the absolute silence on the other end. “James!”
I hang up and call him right back.
Busy.
I hang up and try again.
Busy.
The line is still open at his end.
“Shit, shit, shit…”
I snatch my purse off the desk and burst out of the office, nearly colliding with Grace.
“Amy?!” She stumbles back.
I rush past her to the front counter, where Helen is organizing the pastry case. My frantic energy must be radiating off me, because her head snaps up instantly.
Her smile falters when she looks at me. “What’s wrong?” she asks, her voice sharp with immediate concern.
“I have to go,” I say, breathless, fumbling in my purse for my keys.
“What happened?” Helen demands, eyes wide.
“It’s James.”
Helen’s face registers pure confusion. “James?”
“I have to go,” I repeat, finally snagging my keys. “I’ll explain later.”
Without another word, I turn and bolt, pushing through the front door and running to the curb, my arm shooting up to wave for a cab.
One screeches to a halt in front of me a moment later.
I fall into the backseat, gasping James’s downtown address. My hands shake so badly I can barely function. As the cab pulls into the steady stream of traffic, my fingers begin to fumble through my keychain.
And then I find it.
The silver key I haven’t touched in days.
The key to his apartment.
I wrap my fist around it, the sharp edges digging into my palm as the city blurs past my window. My heart hammers a terrified, three-word rhythm in my chest.
Please be okay.
Please be okay.
The torturous drive ends in front of the apartment building I used to call home.
I shove cash at the driver without waiting for change and scramble out.
Inside, I race to the elevators. After pressing the call button, the wait stretches into an eternity.
When one finally arrives, I step inside, my heartbeat thundering in my ears as the doors slide shut.
Each soft chime of a floor passing feels like a tick on a time bomb.
The walk to James’s apartment door at the end of the hall feels miles long. A journey that is surreal and dreamlike. My focus narrows until only his dark wood door exists.
I stand before it, my breaths coming in shallow bursts.
Every self-preservation instinct I possess screams at me to turn around and leave. But the memory of that sickening thud on the phone, followed by that terrifying silence, pushes me forward.
The key scrapes against the metal of the lock. I have to use two hands to be steady enough to guide it in.
Inhaling one last, ragged breath, I push the door open and step inside.
An unnerving stillness.
The overwhelming, stale stench of whiskey.
The apartment is in ruins.
The table lamp is knocked over on its side, its shade askew.
Cushions and empty bottles of alcohol are scattered across the floor.
In the center of the living room, the glass coffee table is shattered into a thousand pieces.
My gaze catches on the jagged edge of a large shard.
And a dark red smear across its sharp surface.
“James?” I can barely get his name out as my eyes frantically scan the wreckage.
Then I see him.
He’s crumpled on the floor on the far side of the table, his body twisted. His phone lies a few inches from his outstretched hand.
“James!” I gasp, rushing to his side. My knees hit the floor beside him as I reach to shake his shoulder.
Pure, primal fear takes over.
I pull him with all my might onto his back. That’s when I see it. A long, jagged gash runs down the length of his inner forearm. It’s horrifyingly deep, with a shard of glass still protruding from the skin.
A strangled sound, half sob, half scream, rips from my throat.
For one eternal second, I am frozen, my mind unable to process the amount of blood.
The sight of his still, pale face finally shatters my paralysis.
Help.
I need to get help.
Now.
I scramble backward, away from the pool of blood, my hands searching frantically for my purse. My phone feels impossibly heavy as I pull it out, my vision blurring as my index finger stabs at the screen.
9-1-1
The call connects on the first ring.
“911, what’s your emergency?” a calm, professional female voice asks.
The sound of another human, so steady and normal, breaks the dam inside me.
A sob rips from my throat, violent and uncontrolled. “Oh my God, please,” I cry, the words a tangled mess. “He’s on the floor. There’s so much blood! This is all my fault…”
“Ma’am—”
“I knew he saw us kissing,” I sob. “I took it too far—”
“Ma’am! Amy. Am I speaking with Amy?”
“Y-yes…”
“Okay, Amy, I need you to take a deep breath for me and tell me your location.”
“L-location… his, James’s ap-apartment.”
“The address, Amy.”
“N-noVo Building. Pinckney Street.”
“Okay, NoVo Building. And the apartment number?”
My mind goes blank for a horrifying second.
The number.
I swallow hard. “The p-penthouse,” I stutter. “Penthouse B.”
“Penthouse B. Got it, thank you. Help is on the way.”
“Please hurry! Please!” I wail.
“Amy, stay with me. I need you to help me. Okay?”
My eyes are glued to James’s still form.
“Amy? Are you with me?”
“Y-yes, yes.”
“Okay. Is he breathing?”
Another sob bursts from my depths. “I don’t know! He was talking to me and then, then there was that sound… Oh God, what did I do?”
“Amy, listen to my voice,” she commands, her sharp tone cutting through my hysteria. “You need to help him. Where is he bleeding from?”
“Arm. H-his arm. The coffee table… it’s broken. There’s glass—”
“Okay, I need you to stay calm and listen to me carefully,” the operator cuts through my rising panic. “Do not try to remove any glass from the wound. But I do need you to get a clean towel. Can you do that for me?”
I nod uselessly, then stumble into the guest bathroom. I rip a pristine white hand towel from the rack and rush back to James, dropping to my knees beside him.
“Do you have the towel, Amy?”
“Y-yes.”
“Good. Listen carefully. Do not touch the glass. I want you to take the towel and press down hard on either side of the wound. Do not let up. Do you understand, Amy?”
Sobbing, I press the towel down with all my might, just as she instructed. The fabric turns dark red almost instantly, the blood warm and sickening against my trembling hands.
My stomach roils.
“Amy? Are you still with me?”
“I’m d-doing it,” I choke out into the phone on the floor beside me.
“You’re doing great, Amy. Paramedics are seconds away. Keep holding on.”
I close my eyes, forcing myself to keep breathing.
I can hear the first faint wail of a siren.
Thunderous, forceful banging on the door makes me jump.
“Paramedics!”
“C-coming!”
I end the call with the operator. Leaving the bloody towel on James’s arm, I force myself to stand on shaky legs. I rush to the door, my bloody hands leaving a smear on the handle as I pull it open.
Two paramedics rush past me, their attention locked on James. They’re followed by two police officers, their presence sending a fresh jolt of terror through me.
The room is suddenly crowded and loud.
“Ma’am, I need you to step back,” one officer says, his voice firm but not unkind.