Hannah Jayne - Under Suspicion

He turned and walked away; and every fiber of my being told me to stop him, to shout, to say something—anything—that would pull the awkward discomfort out of this moment, for something that would make everything okay with Alex, with Will—with me.

“Alex,” I said to his back.

He stopped and waited a beat before turning around. “Yeah?”

I bit my lip, and words choked my throat. Alex’s tender gaze; Will’s comforting touch. Alex’s sexy half smile; Will’s sweet lopsided one. The way my name sounded in each of their mouths ...

“Be safe,” I heard myself whisper.

I stepped into my apartment, dumping my filthy clothes on the floor. ChaCha came running toward me and I scooped her up, scratching her head absently.

“Nina!” I called. “Neens, I need to talk to you.” My cheeks were hot, and my heart was crushed between walking into Will’s arms—and out of Alex’s.

“Nina?” I said, my voice picking up a tinny, whiny twinge, which I didn’t like. “Are you here?”

I did a double knock on her bedroom door and then poked my head in. Her clothes seemed to buzz with a nervous energy and I felt my blood pressure rise.

“Nina?”

I looked down into ChaCha’s brown marble eyes and she cocked her head at me; then reached up on her hind legs and lapped my chin.

I gave her an extra treat from the kitchen counter, and when I reached for the paper towels (this dog is a slobber hound), I saw Nina’s note stuck to the cabinet.

Soph—

Out with H. Love this man!!!

Think about what color you’d like to wear in our wedding... .

XOXO,

N

I crumpled up the note and tossed it in the trash, then scoured the kitchen for breakfast food. I was halfway through a peanut butter–smeared waffle when my cell phone chirped its “you’ve got messages!” chirp. I shoved the waffle in my mouth and held the phone to my ear.

“You have six new messages,” the unnervingly polite cell phone voice told me.

Alex had called three times; each message getting progressively shorter and stabbing me with shards of guilt. Then there was the obligatory “this is not a sales call” message, and the last two were from Roland.

There was a pause before the message started and I could hear Roland’s nervous breath in the background. I could imagine him mopping his sweaty head with that yellowed handkerchief.

“Hello, Sophie.” His recorded voice sounded as weasely as his date voice. “This is Roland Townsend—Harley’s agent? From the restaurant.” As if he needed any more introduction. “Um, I’m calling to see if you know where your roommate is. I think she’s with Harley and ...” Roland sucked in a slightly shaky breath, which told more than his words did. “Can you just call me as soon as you get this message?” He went on to awkwardly read off his phone number.

I erased his message and his second one started immediately.

“Sophie? Roland again. Roland Townsend. Can you call me, please? Right away. I”—Roland sucked in another tentative breath—“I’m worried about your roommate. I think ... I don’t think Harley has the best intentions—the best intentions toward your friend. I think Nina might be in danger.”

I sat up straight, Roland’s final words slicing down my spine like a frozen blade. My stomach turned over; my peanut butter waffle felt like a hunk of raw dough rising in my gut, pressing against my chest.

I dialed Roland and he answered on the first ring.

“Aw, geez, Sophie.” Roland’s voice was strangled with a strange mix of tension and relief. “I’m glad you got my messages. And my calls.”

I pulled the phone away from my ear and saw the frowny-faced readout: eleven missed calls.

My saliva immediately tasted bitter and my eyes started to sting. “Where’s Nina?”

“She’s not with you?” He breathed out a long, uncomfortable sigh. “She must be with Harley, then.”

“Why do you think Harley’s dangerous?”

“I don’t think Harley’s dangerous, Sophie. I know he is.”

My heart was in my throat when I hung up with Roland. I looked down at the Post-it notes where I had scrawled the address he gave me and I barely recognized the shaky chicken scratch writing as my own. I flew into a pair of yoga pants and sneakers. On my way out the door, I glanced over my shoulder at the freezer. There, stashed in a box of Skinny Cow mint dippers, was the gun that Alex had given me a year ago; a handful of bullets rolled around in our junk drawer.

I licked my paper-dry lips and heard Roland’s voice reverberating in my head. “ I don’t think Harley’s dangerous, Sophie. I know he is. ”

I grabbed my gun, the bullets, and went thundering out the door.

“Whoa! What’s this about?” Will’s eyes were big, his cheeks pushed up in a semi-surprised grin. “It wasn’t that bad, was it?”

It took me a second to process what he was saying, a niggle of heat washing over my cheeks. “I need to find Harley,” I croaked out finally.

Will’s eyes raked over me, over the gun in my hand. “I’m going with you. And you better put that away, love, or we’ll never get out the door.”

I looked blankly down at the gun in my hand, its muzzle trained on the horrible industrial-grade hallway carpet. “Oh.”

Will locked the door behind him and I shifted from foot to foot, worrying my bottom lip as the elevator sank down into our basement garage.

“It’s going to be fine,” Will said, squeezing my shoulder gently. “You’ll see.”

I let him lead me through the dimly lit lot, the space between us minuscule as my heart thumped solidly against my rib cage.

“Get in.”

I was rolling locks of hair around my index finger—my number one nervous tic—until the tip of my finger turned cold and white while Will sped through the intersection, occasionally glancing over at the Post-it note balanced on my thigh.

“You’re sure this Roland bloke is reliable?”

I nodded, unable to open my mouth lest my heart leap out onto the dashboard.

He poked at the address with an index finger. “And you’re sure this is right?”

I nodded again. “I guess. This is what Roland gave me. He said Harley likes to go here.”

“And you believe him?”

I shook my head, terror closing my throat. “Not exactly. But it’s the only lead we have.”

My eyes were locked on the road disappearing under our wheels. My hand was feeling the outline of the gun in my purse—the gun that I might have to use to kill Harley.

My heart leapt painfully again, throwing itself against my rib cage.

I had run out of the house with this gun before. I had been willing to aim it, to shoot it at unknown attackers, or attackers who were on their second, evil life. But I had never considered shooting—killing—a flesh-and-blood human being, a human being with a name and a face and a family and a life.

“ I don’t think he’s dangerous, Sophie. I know he is. ” Roland’s words played over and over again in my mind like an ominous, horrible record. “ I know he is. ”

I gulped, trying to blink back the tears, trying to swallow back the terrified lump that clawed at my throat.

“Do you know this area?”

I snapped to the here-and-now, to Will in the car, to the ominous-looking brick buildings jutting up all around us. They were squat and industrial, lined with cracked sidewalks; little bits of weedy grass poking through the concrete. They had been trampled mercilessly.

“You’re sure this is right?” Will asked again, skepticism deep in his voice.

“This is what he said,” I repeated. “Besides, I suppose if”—I couldn’t say his name, couldn’t given him an actual human moniker—“he wanted to get Nina alone, this would be the place to do it. There!”