Harlow
Present Day
Sam paces around my two-story living room, looking uncomfortable in his tight blue suit. He holds a glass of Macallan in one hand and gestures wildly with his other. He’s complaining about what I did, but I’m not paying attention. My mind elsewhere, thinking of them. Thinking of you.
“Are you even listening?” he says, snapping me out of my thoughts.
I sigh, balancing my head in my hand as I sit on the sofa, trying to calm Ringo, who’s eyeing Sam warily.
Sam’s beady eyes meet mine, and he gives me the warning, patronizing look I’ve come to despise.
Like he’s reminding me that he knows “my deep, dark secrets,” so I should… what? Be nicer? More amenable? Afraid?
No.
I smirk, amused by his arrogance. How he thinks he has a hold over me, that I should be genuinely concerned about him turning me in. But his greed makes him predictable. And he already showed his hand the first time, three years ago.
“It was an accident… I’ll take care of it… No one will ever have to know… You’re her… And she’s you… Do you understand?”
I understood.
But what he didn’t understand is that his actions showed me that he’s a man who can see the bigger picture. And in time, he’ll see that I did what needed to be done. That it was better for me, for him, for everyone. He should be thanking me, really.
The vein that’s been pulsing out of his five-finger forehead finally recedes, but just as he chills out, his phone rings.
He looks away from me, mumbling things like “I see” and “uh huh” before telling whoever is on the other line that he’ll be right there.
I relax into the sofa, glad he’ll be leaving.
I can’t stand any more post-arrest crisis PR talk tonight.
“Everything okay?” I ask, studying my gold-flaked manicure.
He lets out a big sigh. “Security flagged someone outside.”
Heat pools in my chest as the security notification comes through on my own phone and Lennon starts barking, causing Ringo to get up and do the same.
“Nothing for you to worry about, though,” he says, grabbing his keys and heading for the door. “We’ll finish this discussion in the morning, alright?”
“Sounds good.”
I pretend like I’m unbothered by the prospect of a crazed Colton “fan” at the gates, but fear ripples through me. I see what they say about me. The detailed descriptions some write. How they’d hurt me. Torture me. Kill me.
They’re finally coming for you, a voice whispers. Her voice, the one that’s haunted me, ever since that day. It makes me wonder if the person at the gates isn’t a Colton fan. But one of hers. Someone I should be even more afraid of.
They know what you did. All of it.