Chapter 24 Chloe #2
The grip is hard enough to make my scalp sting. He pulls until the sting becomes a white hot line across my skull.
“Dad—” The word is unbearable.
“Listen to me,” he hisses, breath warm and metallic with disinfectant. “You find the accountant. He knows where the money is. You get him—get the numbers—get whatever you need. You get me out, or I’m dead in here.”
His voice is not pleading. It’s not bargaining. It’s a command that folds me down into the small girl who learned to make apologies and hold things together. The metal taste of fear clings to the back of my tongue.
“What accountant?” My voice comes out smaller than I want.
He yanks my hair a fraction harder, making me wince. “You are not stupid. Are you?”
“No sir.”
“You heard me. Don’t screw this up.” His eyes are fever-bright. He looks every part the man who built our life on edges and threats. “You understand me?”
I nod because the alternative is watching him truly lose control, and the seat of him turning into something I can’t restrain terrifies me more than anything.
For a second—just a second—relief softens his face. “Good girl,” he mutters, and his voice is a crooked compliment. He releases my hair, letting my head thud back a little in my skull. “Now act like it.”
I let out a whimper. My head throbs.
The guard clears his throat like a cue. “Ma’am, please step back.” He doesn’t shout. There’s procedure in his tone, too.
He’s watching both of us like he’s reading a script he’s read a dozen times before. I can see the lines in his face—what he’s seen, what he’s trained for. The guard is an apparatus of control in a room full of people who think they’re above it.
My father’s face rearranges in a breath.
Anger flakes off like dandruff and the old smooth, glib charm slithers back, slick and contemptible.
“Officer, my daughter worries herself stupid,” he says smoothly—with that same voice that used to make officials smile and hands open. “We’re fine. She’s dramatic.”
My skin crawls. He can flip that switch and set the world to melt in his favor, it always worked on everyone else. Does it still work on me? Does it ever? I feel something inside me split in two—the part that wants to spit in his face and the part that remembers what his threats cost if disobeyed.
The cop nods, satisfied by the performance, and gestures toward the doorway like a shepherd moving a stray. “Step back now, ma’am.”
I step back.
My father says, “That’s all.”
As soon as I reach the door, my dad says, “Did you talk to your mother?”
I pause, not turning back to look at him. “Yeah.”
I leave him with that and walk into the hallway where he can’t see me. Outside the room the light feels too bright. My hands shake so hard the phone dances against my palm as I type to Mr. Cadwell.
He’s hurt. I saw him. Do whatever you can to get him out. Thank you for everything.
I hit send and my finger hovers a beat too long over the names of the people who live in my phone under Miles and Jamie. There is a throb of foolishness in me—I was supposed to never get involved with them, and I don’t know whether to be brave or stupid.
I want to thank them for driving me here. For an unforgettable night. For all of it. But I’m too much of a coward to say any of that.
I pick the safest, most required message. It’ll be a while. Catch up later.
That should get them off my back. And then I sit in the waiting room to wait for them to leave.
It takes three wrong turns, one melted latte, and half a dozen panicked Google searches before I find the building. I stand on the curb staring up at the name stenciled in brushed steel—Marano & Associates, Financial Consulting—and wonder if it’s possible for a nameplate to look smug.
My reflection in the revolving doors looks worse than I feel. My hair’s frizzed from humidity, a T-shirt half-tucked into jeans that don’t quite fit right, dark circles under my eyes that no amount of concealer could fix. I smooth a hand over my hair anyway and push inside.
The lobby is cool and sterile, all marble and silence.
Every sound—my sneakers squeaking, my bag shifting—feels like an intrusion.
The woman at the reception desk doesn’t look up at first, too busy typing something into her keyboard.
Her blonde hair is pulled into the kind of bun that only exists in movies about corporate sharks.
“Hi,” I start, voice cracking a little. “I’m looking for Mr. Marano.”
Her nails pause mid-click. She looks up, gaze sweeping over me like a scanner. “Do you have an appointment?”
“No, but it’s—” I swallow hard, forcing myself to sound calm. “It’s urgent. I’m his client’s daughter. My father’s name is Matthew Ashford.”
The name seems to mean something. Her expression flickers for half a second before she recovers. “One moment.” She picks up the phone, murmurs something low, then listens. After a moment, she nods and hangs up. “I’m afraid Mr. Marano is out of the country.”
My stomach drops. “Out of the country?”
“Yes, on vacation,” she says, the word crisp and final. “He left a month ago. He isn’t expected back until—” she glances at her computer screen—“the eighteenth.”
“That’s in two weeks,” I whisper.
She gives a small, polite smile that isn’t a smile at all. “You can leave a message if you’d like.”
Two weeks. My father doesn’t have two weeks. The image of him cuffed to that hospital bed, bruised and furious, flashes in my mind like a warning.
“I really need to talk to him,” I say, hearing the desperation leak into my voice. “It’s about my father’s case. He said there was an accountant—someone who could help handle the trust—”
“I’m sorry.” She’s already shaking her head. “Mr. Marano handles all his clients personally. If you’d like to book an appointment, his calendar opens after he returns.”
“I don’t have after he returns,” I snap, then immediately regret it. “Please. Just—someone. Anyone who can talk to me.”
Her lips press into a thin line. “Miss Ashford, I understand this must be stressful, but there’s nothing I can do.”
My pulse is a hammer in my ears. I grip the edge of the counter, leaning forward. “You don’t understand. My father—he’s in prison. He’s hurt. If I don’t figure this out, something bad is going to happen.”
Something softens in her expression, but only barely. She lowers her voice, glancing around. “Listen. Between you and me, even if he were here, I doubt he’d take your meeting. Marano’s selective about who he helps. Especially now.”
“What does that mean?”
Her eyes flick nervously toward the elevator, as if worried someone might overhear. “Nothing. Just—try not to make trouble, okay?”
Trouble. That word feels like my entire life condensed into a single syllable.
I step back, heart pounding. My throat feels tight. “Thanks,” I manage, though it sounds hollow.
I turn before she can respond, walking fast toward the exit. The air outside feels heavier somehow, the city noise too loud after the antiseptic hush of the building. I lean against the stone wall beside the door, breathing hard.
What the hell am I supposed to do now?
My father’s words echo, Find the accountant. Don’t screw this up.
I’m trying. But everyone keeps closing doors in my face.
I pull out my phone. Mr. Cadwell hasn’t replied to my last text. Jamie’s name sits in my messages, unread since this morning. Miles’s too. My fingers hover over both. Then I shove the phone back in my pocket.
No. I can’t keep dragging them into this. Whatever my father’s mixed up in, whatever Vince is hiding, it’s too big. Too dangerous.
A gust of wind cuts through the street, carrying exhaust and the faint smell of fried food from a cart nearby. My stomach twists, but I can’t tell if it’s hunger or dread.
Across the street, a man in a dark jacket leans against a lamppost, smoking. For a moment, I could swear he’s looking at me. Then he flicks his cigarette and walks off, disappearing into the crowd.
Paranoia. It’s probably just paranoia.
I call for another uber and head back to my apartment.