Chapter Twenty-Six
—JAMIE
The sun beats down on the sand, the salty air mixing with the sound of the waves crashing in the distance.
It’s midmorning, but the weight of the moment hangs heavy around me.
My hands are clammy as I look down at my phone.
I stand a little apart from the others as they watch, keeping their distance.
I can’t make the call in front of them. Although I’d be embarrassed to admit it, there is a different way to talk to the wealthy.
It’s a different tone, a lighter clip. I have to sound like them, and it reminds me that I’ve spent my life as one of the Collective—whether consciously or not.
It’s a role I no longer want to play, but desperate times…
I swipe through my phone, stopping on the last message from Jordan, which includes her mother’s phone number and the blunt instruction: You’d better be convincing.
I stare at the words for a moment, then mutter under my breath, “I will do my best,” as if repeating it might somehow make me believe it.
The screen lights up as I dial the number, my thumb hovering just above the green button until I click to call. Cecelia Miles picks up on the first ring.
My throat tightens, my heart thumping as it rises into my chest.
“This is Cecelia?” she says, smooth but sharp, clearly not recognizing the number.
“Mrs. Miles,” I say, keeping my voice deep and steady, like I practiced in my head. “This is James Matthews. How are you?”
She is quiet. I wait a beat and then press forward.
“I’m sorry to call you out of the blue,” I continue, straightening up as though she can somehow see me. “But I wanted to personally apologize for my behavior yesterday. It was out of line. Classless. I’m truly sorry if I caused any embarrassment.”
There’s a pause on the other end, and then she responds, her voice frigid.
“You’re certainly the talk of the town right now,” she says. “And frankly, I’m surprised at you, James. I expected more from you.”
“Me too,” I agree, and I almost mean it. “And I think the most regrettable part is that I let Jordan down. I had asked her to be my date to the Augustus Gala, and then… I ruined everything. She’s never going to forgive me. I just… I let my jealousy get the best of me.”
“Jealousy?” she repeats, the hint of curiosity in her voice, as though this isn’t the answer she was expecting.
“Yes,” I say, taking a breath. “Her and Matteo… they’re always together. And I just… I should’ve known better. Jordan is loyal. I shouldn’t have questioned it.”
“Loyal?” she asks, fully invested now. “Have you two gotten that serious?”
“Of course,” I respond without hesitation. “A girl like Jordan? I’m not going to waste her time. Which is why I know how upset she must be. She’ll have to go to the gala alone. And that’s my fault. I take full responsibility.”
There’s a long silence, and then I hear the faint shuffle of the phone as she shifts it to her other ear.
“If you’re sure that you can behave,” she says slowly, almost testing me. “I’ll think about allowing you to attend tonight. But I will have to discuss it with my staff first, so don’t get your hopes up.”
“I would do anything to make this right,” I tell her, my voice earnest.
“Very well. I’ll let you know my decision shortly,” she replies, and then, with a tone that cuts through the air like a knife, “And, James, don’t fuck with my resort again.”
The words hit me harder than I expect, a chill running down my spine. “Yes, Mrs. Miles,” I say, barely able to keep the nerves out of my voice.
I hang up, standing frozen for a moment as I consider my unease. Cecelia Miles has the same kind of power as my father—intimidation. I get why Jordan always has to lie to her. I’m still catching my breath when I hear footsteps behind me.
Noa looks me over, trying to gauge the answer. “Well?” she asks.
I look at her, and then glance around at the others. “She said she’d let me know,” I tell them. I shrug my uncertainty, but just then, my phone buzzes in my pocket.
I take it out, smiling when I see it’s Jordan sending a message.
Meet me at the entrance tonight at eight, she writes. And you’d better look damn good. My mom is ready to blacken your other eye.
I grin, the tension easing just a little. I let Jordan know that I’ll be there, and then turn back to the others. “Now what?” I ask.
Tech sighs. “Well, now that we know the sheriff has been working with Noa’s dad and Ellis, I think I should go talk to him again.”
“What are you going to say?” Noa asks.
“Not sure yet, but we need to all be on the same page. If you find something on that computer”—he motions to me—“we want the sheriff to be ready. And now that we think we can trust him again”—he looks at Noa and she nods—“we need to get him my uncle’s journal.
It’s time to show him the truth about the Starline Hotel. ”
“Will that be enough?” I ask. “It’s just a journal—what can it prove?”
“For starters,” Tech says, “the sheriff already knows the hotel didn’t burn down, which discredits the original police report.
On top of that, there are names in there of other Chasers, people who were working that night and know what happened.
I think it could be enough to exonerate my uncle, but with the rest of the details like the letters, the life insurance, the cover-up…
it might be enough for them to investigate Mancini for Florence Marsten’s death. ”
“How about Felix?” she asks hopefully.
For this, Tech looks at me. It would mean implicating my father in the crime. My entire body seems to react, because although I want justice, there is still a tiny piece of me that hopes my father isn’t evil.
“Tread lightly,” I tell him. “No offense, but we still need to be a hundred percent that the sheriff’s not somehow on the payroll. Helping Ellis is one thing. Facing off against a crime family is another.”
“Yeah, that’s good,” Tech says, nodding along. “I plant the seeds, see where it all goes. Either way, we’re getting Mancini on his radar. Hopefully he can figure out a way to take him down.”
“Let’s all hope so,” Noa says, stepping up to hug him. When she pulls back, they smile at each other—cautious, yet hopeful.
“Okay,” Tech says, taking a deep breath. “Shawn’s going to take me to pick up the letters from my house, and then we’ll head to the sheriff’s station. And you, my friend,” he tells me, tapping my wrinkled T-shirt, “had better find a tailor who takes resort credit.”