Chapter 38
CHAPTER
THIRTY-EIGHT
That evening, they decided to grab dinner together at a restaurant where Mariella promised they’d eat the best pasta of their lives.
Matthew adjusted his glasses. “That’s statistically unlikely.”
Mariella waved him off. “Trust me.”
They moved down the sidewalk as a loose cluster, traffic rushing past in shiny streams while Los Angeles settled into its nighttime rhythm.
Storefronts glowed beneath string lights and neon signs, music spilling from bars and open patios.
People packed the sidewalks—couples drifting hand in hand, groups laughing too loudly, runners threading through it all with earbuds in and purpose to spare.
The city felt wide and restless, even on foot.
Andi walked with the group, keenly aware of how easy it would be to disappear here.
And how difficult it would be to notice if someone didn’t come home.
She fell a half step behind, her thoughts still ruminating over this case.
Duke drifted beside her without comment, matching her pace as naturally as breathing. His posture was easy, but his attention wasn’t—his gaze sliding from reflections in darkened windows to doorways to the flow of people ahead of them.
Mariella was in the middle of an animated description of handmade gnocchi and a dessert she claimed involved fire.
Andi smiled at the enthusiasm. Let herself listen.
Then a sharp, panicked shout sounded.
The scream of brakes cracked the air.
Metal shrieked against concrete.
Andi looked up in time to see a car lurch over the curb. Its tires bounced and headlights flared as it barreled toward them.
Time slowed.
The car wasn’t stopping, Andi realized.
It was headed directly toward her.
Andi froze as she saw the car coming toward her.
Duke’s hand clamped around her arm, solid and unyielding.
He yanked her backward so hard her breath punched from her lungs.
She stumbled into him as the car shuddered past, close enough that she felt the rush of air against her legs, close enough to smell hot rubber and burning brake pads.
The vehicle screeched to a halt inches from where she’d been standing.
Too close.
People screamed. Someone fell. The sidewalk erupted as the crowd surged away from the car in a wave of shock and instinct.
Duke didn’t release her.
His arm came up around her shoulders, pulling her tight against his chest, shielding her as his body turned instinctively between her and the street.
The driver leaned halfway out the window, face pale, hands raised. “Sorry! I don’t know what happened!”
Voices overlapped—anger, disbelief, nervous laughter already creeping in as the danger passed.
Andi’s heart hammered so hard it felt unmoored, her breathing shallow and uneven. She pressed her hand into Duke’s jacket, grounding herself in the solid reality of him still there.
“You okay?” Duke murmured near her ear, his voice steady, anchoring.
She nodded, though it took effort. “Yeah. I think so.”
Eventually, someone waved the car on. The crowd resettled with eerie speed, the scare already morphing into something people would joke about later.
They started walking again.
But Andi couldn’t shake the sensation crawling under her skin—the sense that something had shifted.
A block later, she slowed. “Hold on.”
She slipped her bag from her shoulder, fingers fumbling slightly as she opened it.
Wallet. Phone. Keys—
Then she stopped.
A folded slip of white paper lay neatly on top.
She hadn’t put it there.
Her pulse spiked as she unfolded it.
Four words. Neat. Deliberate.
That one was close.
Her stomach dropped.
“Andi?” Duke squinted as he studied her.
She handed him the note without speaking.
He read it once. Then again. His jaw tightened.
“This wasn’t an accident,” he said.
“No. It wasn’t.”
Someone had been close enough to pull her back from death—or push her toward it—then slip away unseen.
Right through the noise.
Right through the light.
Right through them.
Mariella hadn’t exaggerated.
The restaurant was small and loud and alive. Bowls of pasta landed at the table in quick succession, steam curling upward, the scent of garlic and chili oil cutting through the noise.
For a few minutes, conversation stayed light—comments about the food, about LA traffic, about how good it felt to sit still.
Then Ben joined them—they’d told him where they were meeting.
He arrived just as Andi twirled a forkful of noodles she wasn’t really hungry for. He slid into the empty chair beside Duke, his expression tight, all business.
“You find anything?” Mariella asked, not bothering with pleasantries.
Ben nodded once. “I did. April Altman.”
Mariella stilled. “And?”
“I found her,” he said carefully. “Sort of.”
Those two words—sort of—dropped like a warning flare.
“What does that mean?” Andi asked.
Ben folded his hands on the table. “She died in a car accident last year. Highway outside Bakersfield. Single vehicle. No suspicious circumstances.”
Mariella blinked. “She’s . . . dead?”
“Yes.”
Silence pressed in around the table, sharp enough to cut through the restaurant’s noise.
“She didn’t have family?” Duke asked.
“No immediate family. No spouse. No long-term partner. No children.” Ben shook his head.
Mariella’s mouth parted slightly. “Then what are you saying?”
Ben didn’t answer right away. He lifted his gaze and locked it with hers, something sober and unflinching in his eyes. “I’m saying if someone is targeting you guys, it’s most likely not because of what happened to April.”
The words settled heavy.
Around them, plates clinked and laughter rose from another table, the world blithely unaware.
Colin wasn’t behind this.
This wasn’t because of something that had happened in Mariella’s past.
Then what was this about?
It felt like they were back to square one.