My Darling Bride(20)

“It’s a historical building.”

“They can still gut it. If they’ve got the city in their pocket, which they probably do, with that kind of money, then who knows what will happen. Was it the man who came in wearing a cream suit? I heard he asked for me.”

He sits down in a chair next to me and pats my shoulder. “Emmy, nothing changes if nothing changes—you know that. Maybe you need something different.”

He didn’t answer my question.

I rub my face. “My life is blowing up. Scorpions are after me.”

He gives me a worried glance. “Is that a gang or something?”

“No. I’m just in shock.”

“And it’s my fault.” He rubs his jaw. “You should take the day off.”

“What? No. I-I just got back.”

“I insist,” he murmurs, giving me a squeeze on the shoulder. “I feel terrible for not telling you before putting the sign up. Freshen your résumé and look for a new job.”

Oh God. This is really happening.

Numbly, I mumble an agreement and leave. I make my way to my office, my eyes drifting over the store. Owning it was just a pipe dream, something to keep me going. Part of me always knew I’d never have the money, but to not even work here anymore—I can’t fathom it.

Sitting at my desk, I cover my face with my hands. The anxiety that’s been growing in my chest ever since I saw the sign claws at me.

It’s all hanging over me, the bills, the Lamborghini, and now the bookstore.

In that moment, I wish desperately for Gran to appear at my side. She always knew what to do. She’d give me a hug and say, When the Darling women get lemons, we make lemon drop martinis.

A knock comes, and I start. “Yeah?”

A young man in a bike helmet and a messenger outfit eases in. He throws up a hand. “Hey. Babs sent me back here. I’ve got a letter for you. Can you sign for it?”

“Sure.” I scribble my initials and take the white envelope, frowning at the lack of a return address.

Sitting on my desk, I rip it open and pull out a handwritten note.

Emmy,

Got your note and thought I’d reply. Look at what you did (see enclosed photo), and you’re going to do something for me to make up for it. Because you stole my fucking car.

I’ll be in touch.

G

With shaky hands, I reach in the envelope and pull out a four-by-six photo. A gasp comes from me. No way. I can’t believe it. I’ve imagined his car at the airport, all nice and shiny and waiting for him.

It’s his yellow Lamborghini—only it isn’t at the airport. The once sleek and aerodynamic lines of the car are barely recognizable, twisted and curled up on a street. One of the doors is gone. The windshield is busted. A wheel is off.

Blood drains from my face. Holy shit.

I start when Babs appears in the door, carrying a tray loaded with cupcakes. Pink icing coats her lips. “I’ve been thinking . . .”

I tuck the letter and photo away and clear my throat. “Yeah?”

“My ma always said that life changes come in threes, especially the bad ones. Kian, the bookstore being sold, which means you’ve got another thing coming.”

Funny. It just arrived. By messenger.

“So beware. Also, I sent one of the guys to the bakery on Seventy-Sixth.” Her eyes flick down at the tray. “I’m practicing being a taste tester. You want a green one? They call it the ‘grasshopper.’ I think they can improve on the naming process.” She frowns, lowering the cupcake as she searches my face. “Hey. What’s wrong? Your face looks like that time we thought we’d lost that first edition of The Great Gatsby.”

A faint smile ghosts my lips. An employee accidentally shelved it when it should have been locked behind a glass display in the rare-books section. We ransacked every floor looking for it, then found it next to the antique manual typewriter we keep on a table in the rotunda for customers to type messages and notes to people.

She comes closer. “Was Terry an ass?”

I shake my head. “No.”

G has found me. He knows where I work. Probably where I live.

It’s time to face the consequences of my actions. Karma has circled back to sting me.

I gather myself. “Question: Is there a vacant place here where I can go scream?”

“Basement. Nothing there but boxes and a papier-mâché shark. The art girl made it while you were gone, if you want to take a look. It’s quite massive. You’ll love it.”

I sigh sadly. No one will see our shark. No one will see our summer window display.

“I gave Terry a blow job in the basement once. It was a good one. He blacked out.”

“Thank you for letting me know. How do you think I’ll look in orange? Maybe in scrubs?” I ask.

“No one looks good in orange. Why?”

“It’s what they wear at county lockup.”

She grimaces. “Are you in that much trouble?”

I nod as I think about his vague letter, anger curling inside me. Just send the police, already. Bring on the handcuffs and interrogation.

I’m not doing “something” for G. Scenarios dance in my head. Who exactly was he? Wealthy, yes, that was evident by the car and clothes, although he was staying in a shithole motel. He could be mafia or some kind of international thief. Maybe he wants me to kill someone, smuggle drugs, or steal art from museums.