Chapter 25
Harper
It’s official—I now have a boyfriend. After years of being proudly single, I finally broke the spell.
Well, Baptiste did. And for once, I don’t think there will be any crazy or illegal surprises awaiting me in this relationship.
What we have feels right. Steady. Like everything is exactly how it’s supposed to be.
A few days have passed since our weekend in the Hamptons, and I can still hear the roar of the waves. I’m truly glad I went. Especially because I gained something irreplaceable on that trip. Being with Baptiste feels… easy. Safe. Which is new. Slightly terrifying, but good.
Over the weekend, I was also able to bag some hair from Baptiste’s brush, since we shared a bathroom.
I noticed the bulb was still attached on at least one strand, so it should do the trick.
I felt weird sneaking around like that—my stomach twisted as I slipped it into a bag—but I had no choice.
I tried to bring up the subject of his family again, and as usual, he shut it down.
I received Helen’s swab kit at work this morning, and I’m now on my way to the lab.
The streets are buzzing, heat rippling off the asphalt in blurry waves.
I slow as I approach the building, my shirt clinging uncomfortably to my back—seriously, what’s up with this heat lately, New York?
Perspiration trickles between my shoulder blades, but it’s not just the temperature that has me sweating.
Suddenly, I’m second-guessing this whole thing.
This is wrong. I stole DNA from Baptiste. I lied. Even if I’m doing it for him, does the end really justify the means?
I hesitate, shifting my weight from foot to foot on the cracked sidewalk.
The heat is simmering through my clothes, my chest tightening with growing doubt.
Then, I straighten. I didn’t do all this to back out now.
After all, nothing is more important than family.
I know he’s scared—scared to hope again, scared to be hurt again.
And if she’s lying, I’ll never tell him any of this.
But if she’s not…
Then I’ll give him the information, and he can decide what he wants to do with it. I’ll never pressure him to have a relationship with Helen. I just want him to know the truth.
The truth is what matters. It always has been.
I meet my guy at the back entrance, and he says that my sample should work, but not to expect results for a few days.
The lab is backed up, and he has to be careful not to get caught, since what we’re doing isn’t exactly legal.
Still, I know I can count on him. It’s not the first time I’ve asked him for something like this, and he’s always delivered.
When I wander back toward the main avenue, I notice a black sedan parked on the other side of the street.
At first, I tell myself I’m just being paranoid. But then my gaze sharpens, locking onto the license plate.
All doubt clears away. It’s the same car I keep seeing on my street. And I can only assume it’s one of Victor’s.
My blood rushes through my veins, a spike of adrenaline flooding my system. Really? How long is that jerk going to follow me around? This intimidation routine is getting old.
Clenching my jaw, I straighten my shoulders and march forward. That’s it. I’m putting an end to this.
I’m not scared of him. Or whoever he’s hiding behind.
I storm onto the pedestrian crossing, eyes fixed on the sedan. Anger narrows my vision so completely, I don’t see the yellow cab zooming toward me. Tires screech. The cab stops inches away, and the driver leans out his window, horn blaring as he shouts a string of insults.
My heart slams against my ribs, breath caught painfully in my throat.
“Sorry!” I hold up a hand in apology, my pulse roaring in my ears. “I didn’t see that it turned red.”
My legs are trembling now, heat and adrenaline colliding. I look both ways this time, forcing myself to breathe before stepping forward again.
But when I lift my head, the black sedan is gone.
I spend most of the afternoon investigating Victor, until my phone buzzes with a text from Baptiste saying that he’ll pick me up in ten minutes. He’s coming with me—again—on my weekly visit to Golden Age.
I still need to get to the bottom of what’s going on over there, and I’m more determined than ever.
I haven’t found a single smoking gun in her contract or invoices. Everything is wrapped in vague wording, the goods and services bundled into neat little “packages” with no detail whatsoever. I plan to ask management exactly what it all means.
When we arrive at Golden Age, the common room is—once again—embroiled in pure chaos.
Three residents immediately converge on us with armfuls of homemade goods. A knitted potholder is thrust toward Baptiste. Someone else waves a stack of handwritten recipe cards under my nose. There’s a jar of something that smells aggressively like lavender.
But it’s nothing compared to the poker table. Dozens of bodies are crowded around the tense game. Even crazier, my grandma is sitting right in the middle, her face drawn with stress.
Five other residents are studying their hands like their lives depend on it.
Cards slap down. Chips clack together. One man’s hand is visibly shaking—whether it’s from age or nerves, I can’t say.
Lois is muttering something to herself. As for my grandma, she’s stiff on her chair, lips pressed into a thin line.
There’s a deep crease between her brows, one I’ve never liked seeing.
The small crowd of spectators is quiet today, as if the fate of the world hinges on this game. When I look closer, I notice some of them holding small pieces of paper that look suspiciously like betting slips.
I take a deep breath and approach the table, Baptiste right beside me.
“Grandma,” I say gently.
“Mm,” she replies, eyes still locked on her cards like they might personally betray her.
The player to her left squints at his hand and breathes a dramatic sigh, the kind usually reserved for terminal diagnoses.
“Grandma,” I try again, louder this time.
She finally glances up at me, irritation flickering across her face. “Harper, not now.”
“Shh,” someone hisses. “She’s thinking.”
My grandmother is, indeed, thinking. Hard. Her fingers tap the edge of the table as she studies her cards like they contain the meaning of life.
After a moment, she straightens. “All in.”
The table collectively inhales—which can’t be good for their blood pressure.
Chips are pushed forward. The man with the trembling hand wipes his palm on his trousers and grins like a villain in a low-budget heist movie.
Someone flips the cards, and a beat of stunned silence ensues.
Then, a flurry of cheers and groans erupts from both the players and the spectators.
My grandma slumps back in her chair like the life has been drained from her.
“What happened?” I breathe out.
“I lost,” she finally croaks.
My stomach drops. “How much?”
“Too much.”
“That’s it,” I say, tapping on her chair. “Time for a break. Come on.”
The table roars in response.
“You can’t do that!”
“She was this close!”
“Rematch!”
“Double or nothing?”
“No,” I say firmly. “She’s done for now, and you all should stop playing too. This is getting out of hand. Get some rest.”
As the residents groan and grumble, I take my grandmother by the hand like she’s a child and lead her to her usual chair by the window.
Sunlight spills through the glass, warm, bright, and almost too peaceful compared to the chaos behind us.
She carefully lowers herself into her rocking chair, adjusting her cardigan like she’s settling in for a serious meeting rather than cooling down from a near-death poker match. Her wiry fingers grip the armrests.
“You told me to make friends,” she growls, already defensive. “That’s what I’m doing. While making some money.”
“And losing it,” I exclaim, shaking my head.
Baptiste leans in, voice calm but firm. “Glenda, Harper’s right. You look a little stressed. We don’t want anything happening to you.”
She snaps her gaze to him. “I’m perfectly fine.”
“I’m going to talk to someone about all this,” I say, my jaw tightening. “I haven’t found any red flags in your documents, but there’s something going on here. I’ll get to the bottom of this.”
Grandma just groans, her foot tapping against the floor in time with the rocking chair.
I lean closer to Baptiste and speak in a low voice. “Do you mind staying with her?”
He nods, then gives me a swift kiss on the cheek, sweet and reassuring, before scooting to the seat closest to my grandmother. He places a steadying hand on the arm of her chair, like he’s bracing for round two.
A warmth settles into my chest. She’s in good hands.
Marching back toward the entrance, I weave around a resident loudly trying to upsell a lavender sachet and dodge two others who are arguing about whether a straight beats three of a kind.
The receptionist is sitting behind his desk, posture relaxed, fingers laced together as though nothing unusual is happening twenty feet away.
“Hi again.” I prop my elbows on the counter. “It’s chaos out there, huh?”
“Yeah.” He chuckles. “They may be old, but they’ve got plenty of spunk. I’ll admit, these folks can be a little intense.”
“Right.” I tilt my head, keeping my tone light. Curious, not confrontational. “It’s new though, right? When I first came around here, it wasn’t this wild. If I understand correctly, a price hike is the source of all this?”
“Yeah.” He straightens, smoothing an invisible crease on his sleeve as his smile turns professional. “But they also receive exceptional care here, and exceptional care has a price, ma’am. Not to mention the exciting new activities they get to take part in, like ceramics and painting.”
My eyebrows draw together at his well-rehearsed speech, the words sliding off him like he’s repeated them a hundred times already.
His gaze shifts, and mine follows, drifting past the desk to the corner of the room where a small black camera is fixed high on the wall.
Its red light is blinking steadily. “Right. I guess that makes sense,” I finally say. “Thanks for your help.”
I stride back into the bedlam that is the common room, past the poker table that’s gearing up for what sounds like a rematch, past my grandmother who’s laughing a little too heartily now that Baptiste is beside her, and the gut feeling that there’s something fishy happening here weighs heavier on my chest than ever before.
And I’m determined to figure out exactly what it is.