I was in the shower and missed Jonathan’s calls—all nine of them—and now my phone is blowing up again.
Squeezing the towel against my chest, I pick up. “Jonathan? Are you all right?”
I hear loud breathing. “Sarah?”
My stomach clenches at the strain in his voice. “Yes, I’m here. What’s going on? Are you okay?”
“I don’t know…” There’s the sound of more breathing—is he running? He utters words I can’t make out, his mouth pressed against his phone as he speaks.
“Jonathan, what’s going on?”
He curses something unintelligible, followed by something crashing as if he’s kicked over or thrown something.
“Jonathan, you’re freaking me out. Where are you?”
“I’m heading home.” My breath calms for a second.
“How far away are you?” I stare at the door. Dropping the towel, I reach for a pair of sweats and a shirt.
“I’m on Ninth, almost home.” He’s huffing and I can tell he’s on the move, picking up the pace and barreling down the sidewalk.
“What happened?”
“It’s bullshit! I lost my job at Allegro.” Allegro is the Italian wine bar his buddy hooked him up with. “They said they found stuff in my locker, but it’s not mine. I swear, Sarah, it’s not. Someone planted it. It’s a setup.”
“Setup? What stuff? What are you talking about?”
“Cocaine,” he says.
There’s a roar in my ears. “Cocaine? How?”
“Not how,” Jonathan says, “but why? It doesn’t make sense. Why would someone put that inside my locker?” Something else crashes in the background and I think he’s smashed a trash can.
A dizziness shoots through my head. With my hand against my temple, I ask, “What makes you think someone did this on purpose?”
“There was a guy in the restaurant earlier, a table by the window. He had all kinds of files and was meeting with someone, spreading out these drawings. Some architecture firm. It’s got to be them—”
“It’s got to be who?”
“The Birds!” he shouts. “Do you think they know you told me?”
I stop in my tracks. “What did the man look like?”
“Young. Our age.”
Okay, so not Mr. Bird. Maybe Stephen?
“Short. Blond curly hair.”
Okay, not Stephen.
“They were at the table for an hour or more. Never ate, only drank. It wasn’t my table so I didn’t talk to them, but I know the family you work for are in commercial real estate. The Bird firm—”
“Did I tell you that? I don’t remember saying that.”
“You didn’t have to, I looked them up. Their company owns a ton of properties around the city. It’s too much of a coincidence, Sarah. Alex screaming at you like that. Think about it. You tell me their big secret. We track down Anna. Then somehow cocaine mysteriously appears in my locker the same night someone from a property firm visits the new restaurant I’m working at? It’s them! They know.”
Panic seizes my heart.
“Somehow they’re on to you—on to us. They’re trying to scare us.”
I hear a slam of the building’s main door, followed by the distinct hollow sound of footsteps beating in a stairwell.
Jonathan’s almost to our apartment door.
The key rattles and the door swings open. He drops his phone to his pocket and I hang up too.
“They wouldn’t punish you, only me.”
“I made some calls,” he admits. “After you told me what happened, I couldn’t let it slide. I knew I needed to find out more about this family.”
My eyes bolt open. “Who did you call?”
“People at their firm. The front desk at Bird and Associates.”
“Why?”
“To find out what they know about the family.”
I want to cover my ears.
“What did you think they would say?” I ask. “Oh yeah, sure, our boss is a nutjob? The man who pays my salary is a complete psycho? His whole family too?” I throw out my hands. “Jesus, Jonathan. There’s a gag order. I wasn’t even supposed to tell you and now you’re calling their office?”
Jonathan lets a rush of air fall from his mouth. “I was discreet about it. Come on, Sarah, give me some credit. I posed as a reporter wanting to write about the man behind this massive firm—”
“And you didn’t think that would get back to him? That people wouldn’t say there’s a reporter asking around for background?”
“I was only trying to help.” He marches to the sink and fills a glass with water. He gulps the water down steadily.
My fingers claw anxiously at my sides. Someone at the firm must have tracked his calls. They know who Jonathan is, that he is not a reporter but my fiancé, which means they know I’ve spilled. I’ve told him everything—broken my end of the contract.
I went to work today and sat beside Collette. Played game after game of Chutes and Ladders with Patty. I thought I’d been in the clear, the police phone calls and toy store complaints handled and contained, at least for now.
But all afternoon, Alex must have been digging into Jonathan.
Still, would he really go so far as to track him down at a restaurant and have someone slip drugs into his locker?
And now Jonathan’s been fired. Even worse, they could arrest him.
My heart leaps. “What about the manager? Did he say he was going to press charges?”
“No, thank God. He took the coke and is probably using it himself, that shitbag.”
“Jesus,” I breathe again. I can’t stop shaking.
Is this what Mr. Bird intended? Besides getting him fired, did he also hope to send Jonathan to jail and leave me alone, even more isolated and scared?
I’ll do everything in my power to protect my family, he’d said. He meant it.