5:24 p.m.
I sit in my truck in the bank parking lot, traffic drumming on the other side of the bushes at my bumper, and scroll through the messages on my phone. Missed calls from my mother, a buttload of bills and marketing emails, a flurry of texts from Flavio and a local Housewife hounding me to cater a dinner for the cast and a hundred of their closest friends. I ignore them all, searching for the one I need, but it’s not there.
Ed’s silence cannot be a good sign. It means he couldn’t talk his boss into fronting the funds for my IRA or, at best, that he doesn’t yet have an answer. Either way, I’m screwed.
Jade’s words ring on a constant loop through my head, the way her voice sounded on the phone, how fear turned it high and thin. The sound of it shoots a new jolt of adrenaline through my veins, turning me radioactive. I can’t shake the image of her beaten and bloody and tied to that chair, helpless to stop the bastard from going after the Bees—an image that breaks me.
I run a shaking hand down my face and force myself to focus.
Stick with the plan.
Get the money.
Go get Jade and the Bees.
This mantra is the only thing keeping me sane.
I pull up Ed’s contact card and tap the number for his cell, my leg jiggling against the steering wheel. To my left, a neat line of crepe myrtles flutter under a stiff wind, and I start the car and crank up the heat even though I’m sweating. Panic sweat, the kind that makes you feel cold and slightly nauseous, like you’re coming down with the flu. I gun the gas and the vents spew lukewarm air.
One ring. Two rings. Three. I suck a breath and hold it there, ready to let loose a primal scream if Ed doesn’t pick up.
On the fourth ring, a slurp of garbled static beats through the truck’s speakers, followed by a fumbling of metal against fabric and finally, thankfully, Ed’s voice.
“Hey, Cam. I was just about to give you a call.”
Relief shoots through my veins like a drug, and I settle the phone in the cupholder, then throw the gearshift in Reverse. “Ed, please. For the love of God, please tell me you’ve got good news.”
I look over my shoulder and punch the gas, swinging the truck backward into the mostly empty lot. I’ve already thought about the best way to Ed’s office, on the fourteenth floor of a high-rise on the Buckhead loop, already plugged the coordinates into Waze. I screech to a stop and shove the gearshift into Drive, but Ed’s next words freeze my fist around the stick.
“I’ve got some news, yes, but I’m not certain it’s the good news you’re hoping for.”
A sick tremor works its way across my torso. “Please, Ed. I’m begging you. I am desperate.”
“Yeah. I’m getting that, Cam, and I want you to know that I really went to the mat for you. My boss may be all smiles at those soccer games and cocktail parties we’re always inviting you and Jade to, but here at the bank Alissa is a hard-ass, and she plays by the rules. I have very little wiggle room in these matters.”
The parking lot in front of me smears, a hazy gray wash of asphalt and skeleton branches and gauzy air. “I don’t have time for guessing games, Ed. Just tell me what she said so I can figure out how I’m going to plug the hole.”
“Basically, it’s a yes but. Yes, Alissa agreed to extend a loan to cover the time it takes for us to cash out your IRA, but there are two strings attached. First, she capped the loan at $350,000. Now I realize your IRA is worth much more than that, and that’s great news on the back end, but as far as extending the money up front, Alissa was pretty adamant. Three-fifty is as much as we’ll be able to get out of her.”
I don’t have to do the math: $350K, plus the cash in the bag on the seat next to me, is a little over half of what I need for the ransom. That leaves one hell of a hole, but it’s an amount that feels a little more feasible. My mind kicks into overdrive, racing through a mental Rolodex of people I know with that kind of cash. Business-owner pals whose fields are cash driven, friends who flaunt wives hung with diamond jewelry and Birkin bags, who blather on about yachts and vacation homes and who have homes with panic rooms and safes stuffed with cash.
Only problem is, why would they give any of that money to me?
And then I replay Ed’s words and realize there’s more. He just said there were two strings, two conditions to the money.
“What’s the other one?”
At Ed’s sigh, my body turns to stone, bracing for what comes next.
“The earliest I could get you the cash is tomorrow morning.”
His message is a gut punch. “Tomorrow morning is unacceptable, Ed. I need this money tonight. I need it now.” I slam my fist against the steering wheel.
“I understand that, but even if we could get through the paperwork today, an amount that large takes time to pull together. I’m up here at the executive offices, which means I don’t have that kind of cash just lying around. I’d have to call down to a local branch, but it’s already past five. I doubt I could even find anybody to pick up the phone.”
He pauses, sitting through a silence I know I’m supposed to fill, but with what? I’ve got nothing.
“I’m sorry, Cam. I know you were counting on this, but truly, my hands are tied. As much as I want to help you out here, and I really do want to help, it’s the best I can do. Come by first thing tomorrow morning, and we’ll get you sorted out.”
I slump in my seat, resting my forehead against the wheel and breathing through a brutal wave of panic. I see a younger Jade, her curls hanging wild like they used to before she started straightening them, grinning above me in bed. A purple-faced Beatrix, waving wrinkly fists and raising hell in her hospital bassinet. Sweet, innocent Bax, sacked out under the Christmas tree atop his Woody blanket. Devils by day, angels at night, Jade is always joking, but the truth is, Bax is an angel when he’s awake, too.
And now—
“Please, Ed. Please, I am begging you.” A sob is stuck in my throat like a brick, so thick it hurts to swallow. “I’ll take any amount you can offer me, at any interest rate. I don’t give a shit what you charge me for it, I just need that money today. This is life or death for me. I know that sounds cryptic, and I can’t tell you anything more, other than that it’s true. If I don’t get this money today, people are going to die.”
Another long pause. More silence waiting to be filled.
“Look, I...” Ed clears his throat. “I feel obligated to ask what this is all about, because honestly? From where I’m sitting? This sounds like something the police should be involved in. Is everything okay, Cam? Is Jade?”
I wipe my eyes, fist the steering wheel, and drive the truck out of the lot to God knows where. Where do I go now? Whom do I ask for money now? I follow the asphalt around the building and to the road, and everything around me goes black around the edges. For a shivery second I think I might pass out, but I shake it off, clenching down on my teeth until my vision turns solid again.
“I know our relationship is mostly professional, but I like you,” Ed says. “I consider you a friend, which is why I’m going to ask you again. Do you need help? Do I need to, I don’t know, send in the cavalry? Because I’ll do it if you need me to. I’ll make that call. All you have to do is say the word.”
No police.
And for God’s sake, no sirens.
“Thanks for trying, Ed. I’ve got to run.” I hang up and pull into traffic.
I drive down an unfamiliar street and try my damnedest not to throw up. $49,000 and some change. That’s all I’ve got to show for ninety full minutes of hustle, and now it’s too late. The banks are closed. Ed packed up his papers and clocked out, and I have less than an hour and a half to scrounge up seven hundred grand from God knows where. What a nightmare.
Ed’s final words to me echo in my head. I’ll do it if you need me to. I’ll make that call. All you have to do is say the word.
For the first time today, I wonder if involving the police isn’t my best option. There are loads of home invasions in this city, drama you hear about every day on the news. Surely the cops have a SWAT team, a playbook, skilled negotiators who know what not to say. Surely they know to turn off the sirens. Surely they know how to avoid a standoff.
Only, how many of them end in tragedy?
My mind swirls with real-life scenarios I saw on the news. The pregnant lady shot in the stomach by a stray bullet, the girl who watched her twin sister get gunned down, the mother who escaped out the basement window only to have her entire family murdered when the cops busted down the door. I had to flip the channel because their stories were so tragic—and these are just the ones I can remember.
I think about what that would be like, having to live with the knowledge that my mistake cost me my family. Even if the cops came in quietly, even if they snuck through the trees in the neighbors’ yards and managed a surprise attack, they’d have to get inside the house somehow. They could probably get the alarm company to disarm the house, but he’d hear them coming from a mile away. Plenty of time to kill everyone including himself before the cops stormed up the stairs. What if they blow it? That kind of mistake is forever. You can’t put the pin back in that grenade.
No. I can’t risk it. It’s a potential death sentence. Involving the cops has got to be the absolute last resort.
So then...what? Call the house and explain? Beg him to hold off until the banks open in the morning? That would give me the rest of the night to pull together another four hundred thousand and think through my defenses. An automatic weapon. A Kevlar vest so I can take the bullets meant for Jade and the Bees. If I can hold him off until tomorrow, I’ll have time to come up with a plan.
Still, I imagine Jade, sleeping on that blue chair with a gun pointed at her head, sharing fifteen extra hours of oxygen with a psycho kidnapper. One wrong move, one moment of impatience and his trigger finger could get twitchy. The kids would be witnesses, so they’d die, too. Boom boom boom. My whole family, lying in a sticky pool of their own blood. Wiped out in an instant because I couldn’t come up with the ransom.
Which means there’s only one answer, only one possible recourse: get the money and bring it to the house by seven. It’s the only way to keep Jade and the kids alive. Failure is not an option.
And then I remember the fire.
The one that licked my Bolling Way kitchen to death and took out my best source of income. The one that sparked in an outlet next to the cooking oil, exploding into a fireball when it hit the ceiling’s flammable noise panels.
Now it’s like pulling a crumpled lottery ticket from your pocket and seeing the winning numbers, like ripping open the candy bar to uncover the golden ticket. All this time, I’ve been sitting on a pot of money I didn’t even think about. A flicker of hope sparks in my chest, and my lungs swell with gulped air. I yank on the wheel and swerve onto the dirt shoulder, tires kicking up rocks and garbage as the truck skids to a sloppy stop.
Flavio picks up on the first ring. “Finally. I’ve been leaving you messages all afternoon. Where are you?”
I look around, blinking through my windshield at the run-down terrain. Boarded-up buildings and chop shops behind chain-link fences, an occasional fast-food joint—the cheap and dirty kind. Scaryville, as Jade would call this place. Bankhead, I’m guessing.
“Running a couple of errands. What’s the word from the insurance adjustor?”
There are still all sorts of obstacles, I know, but if I could somehow manage to get my hands on a check, I could take it to one of those check-cashing places—Western Union or one of the sketchy ones that stay open late for suckers like me, desperate people willing to pay an obscene rate for quick cash. But even then, even if I had to forfeit what? Ten percent? Twenty? The payout will still be more than what I need. I’d walk away with plenty of cash for Jade and the kids.
“That’s what I’ve been calling you about,” Flavio says. “He wants to know about the building on Pharr.”
I frown. “What about it?”
“Actually, he’s standing right here. Why don’t I let you talk to him.” Not so much a question as it is a statement, and one that ticks a warning beat in my chest.
There’s a shuffling on the line, the cell phone exchanging hands, followed by a new voice, deep and heavy on the syrup.
“Hey, Cam, Matt Brady here. I’m sorry you and I haven’t had a chance to chitchat before today, though I surely regret what’s got us on the phone now. I want you to know, however, that you and I will get to the bottom of this fire. I assure you, I’m here for the duration.”
My restaurants are filled with men who talk like this, in flowery sentences delivered in dignified twangs that echo of cotton fields and weekend hunting lodges. They pull up to the valet stand like they just arrived from the country club, in custom shoes and neck scarves doused in designer cologne, and they buy buckets of Screaming Eagles for them and all their friends. They run big companies and sign big checks.
What they do not do is take a job as an insurance adjustor.
“Thank you for that, Matt. I appreciate your dedication to the cause, but as I’m sure you can understand, I have lots of people counting on me for their livelihoods. How soon do you think we can get them some compensation?”
I may not have grown up in the South, but I can play good ol’ boy like the best of them.
“Well, I suppose that depends in large part on the conversation you and I have here today. What can you tell me about the Pharr Road establishment?”
“I can tell you the building on Pharr does not belong to me. I haven’t taken ownership yet, and just between you and me, whether or not I move forward on the purchase is kind of up in the air.”
He makes a humming noise. “Still. I find it a little interesting you put down that kind of earnest money on a building just around the corner from your existing restaurant on Bolling Way. Less than a quarter of a mile to be precise, and featuring a rear lot that’ll fit fifty-plus cars. I checked the zoning, and what do you know? The City of Atlanta has earmarked it for restaurant use.”
The rubber band around my chest wraps tighter. I don’t like where this line of questioning is headed.
My laugh tries for casual but misses by a mile. “All that’s true, but have you seen the place? It’s a real dump. One I no longer have the time or the funds to renovate. Looks like Lasky will be staying put.”
“How much do you think it’ll cost to fix it up? You’re a businessman, Cam. I’m assuming you’ve done the math.”
Hell yeah I’ve done the math. Four thousand square feet of prime real estate smack in the second wave of the Buckhead development, easily accessible from both Buckhead and Midtown, and an owner who’s beyond desperate to sell. A no-brainer, assuming I could cough up the money—which I can’t. Not without another investor with deep, deep pockets.
“I don’t see what this has to do with—”
“How much, Cam?”
I fight the urge to scream. The clock on my dash ticks to 5:30, and we still haven’t gotten to the payout or talked about the possibility of him writing a check for the money I need to save my family. I white-knuckle the steering wheel, my body a sizzling bundle of reflexes and raw nerves.
“A million, give or take, for the reno plus furnishings. And then there’s the cost of the building—which again, isn’t mine.”
“But it’s under contract. You put down a significant chunk of earnest money.”
“Money I’m fully prepared to walk away from. Recent developments have changed my investment strategy somewhat.”
“Are you referring to the fire?”
“I’m referring to the hole in my bank account!”
I wince at his stretch of silence.
“Look, I’m sorry. My nerves are shredded. The truth is, Bolling Way is the only shop keeping me afloat, which means I need that insurance money as soon as humanly possible. I needed it yesterday.”
“I’m afraid that’s not how this works. What do you think, that I just drive around town with a trunk full of money? I don’t even own a checkbook. There’s a process for these things, which starts first and foremost with you filing a claim. Then, once that’s approved, we have up to thirty days to process the payment. Now, I’m not saying it will take that long, but you see where I’m going with this? It’s going to take some time.”
“Okay. Well, what about an advance?”
“You could request an advance, but that’s only meant to tide you over for the first few days. Advances are typically a very small portion of the total estimated amount, and even then, it’ll be tomorrow before I can work through the paperwork.”
The reality hits me like a fist in the face—no insurance money today, no way of plugging that $700,000 hole—along with a more urgent problem: a man coming at me on the other side of the windshield. A crackhead, that much is obvious from the slant of his mouth, his vacant expression, the way his limbs flop around in a sloppy gait.
My hand reaches into the space below my seat, my fingers closing around the handle of the Smith & Wesson. I flip the safety and drag the weapon onto my lap, holding it steady.
“Flavio can handle the claim,” I say while looking the crackhead straight in the eye, holding his gaze, daring him with mine. He peers through the side window, sizing me up, too. I see his eyes settle on the logo on my shirt, then wander on to the truck’s rims, the oversize tires and custom grill.
Not today, dude. You do not want to fuck with me today.
“Whatever information you need, Flavio can provide.” I watch the crackhead in the side mirror, his gait slowing at the back bumper. My body is on high alert, but my heartbeat finally eases up, settling into a deliberate, steady rhythm. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m kind of in the middle of some—”
“Just one more thing.” Matt’s genteel twang is gone now, replaced with something flat and razor-sharp.
“Yeah, what?” I clock the guy’s slouchy stride, the way he ducks his head under that hoodie, how his hands swing long and free.
“Earlier this afternoon, I had a very enlightening discussion with a Mr. Spivey at the Abernathy leasing offices. He says you’re scheduled to start paying rent at the end of the year.”
Abernathy, the landlord. My gut twists with unease because yet again, I know where this conversation is headed.
“Was scheduled. Was. Obviously, this fire changes things. Mr. Spivey already told Flavio they’d work with us on the lease.”
“That’s not what Mr. Spivey related to me. He said the two of you have been involved in a bit of a tiff. He accused you of trying to wriggle your way out of what’s supposed to be a five-year lease.”
“That’s all true,” I say, because there’s really no use in denying it. Tim Spivey has probably fifty emails from me and my attorney throwing every excuse at the wall to see if one would stick. The Bolling Way shop was making a killing, not just for me but for the entire development. More diners meant more shoppers, hordes of happy, tipsy folks with plenty of money to spend. I was willing to stay, but only if they dropped the monthly payments on the last two years of the lease. Preferably, to zero.
“Next time you talk to Mr. Spivey you can tell him a move to Pharr Road is off the table. Lasky Steak is going nowhere.”
“I’ll do that, Cam, but just so we’re clear. You do understand how it looks, right? A catastrophic fire smack in the middle of a lease dispute. The timing is beyond convenient.” His accent is back, the words delivered slowly, precisely, like a doctor reporting bad news.
“I don’t like what you’re insinuating.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I must not be making myself clear. I’m not insinuating anything. What I’m doing is making an accusation, and I’m not the only one. The investigator agrees the fire looks suspicious. He even threw around the word arson, and multiple times. If that’s the case, if the fire was intentionally set by you or someone directed by you, then that would qualify as insurance fraud. A felony.”
The words are like an ambush, prickling my skin with alarm. “Check the security footage.”
“I have. Seems the camera was turned on, but the wire from the unit to the monitor had come loose. The last recording from your security company was taken just before midnight last night, a good ten hours before the fire. The footage from today showed a blank screen.”
In other words, no way to prove who set the fire—and more importantly for this particular conversation—no insurance money from Matt today. Maybe ever.
He’s still talking, something about next steps and legal matters, but I’m not listening because a shadow has fallen across my side window. The crackhead, going for my door handle.
I press the gun to the window, the muzzle flush to the glass.
There’s a sluggish delay, a full couple of seconds before his eyes have focused on the weapon aimed at his chest, and then they widen in shock. He stumbles backward, almost stepping into traffic, missing a passing bus by a foot before he takes off in a dead run.
Matt’s voice fills the cab: “Did you hear me, Cam? I said I’m sending your case to the Special Investigations Unit for potential insurance fraud. That’s the first step into an investigation as to the origin and cause of this fire.”
I toss the gun onto the passenger’s seat and shift into gear. “That’s great, Matt. It’s just really fucking fantastic.”
I hang up and hit the gas, pulling out with a growl of motor and clattering of kicked-up gravel, my mind stuck on two facts. I have no idea where to go next, and I’m just so royally screwed.