Chapter Twenty-Seven

Naomi

The frosty sea air stings my cheeks as I pull out my phone. It feels good to walk, and I pound each foot into the pavement, imagining Ben’s face beneath my heel.

He will never, ever take my side in this. All he wants is to improve his reputation in this town, and if he thinks that manipulating me to help him do that will work, he has another thing coming. I have almost convinced myself that he’s a jerk, that I want nothing to do with him.

I ignore the part of my brain that reminds me how many times he’s saved my ass.

I press Katie’s name, and her number rings. On the second ring, she answers.

“Naomi? Are you OK?”

I repress a sigh. People have been asking me that question a lot recently. I wish that I had a better answer. I’ve never been more not OK in my life.

“Yeah, I needed to get away from that station. I hate to ask this, but can you come pick me up? I’m walking up Elm.”

“Of course, I can. I’ll be there in two minutes.”

She ends the call, and I keep walking. Images of Ben flash through my mind. Some of them are harsh, like when he detained me the first time, when he questioned me about the yacht. Some of them are wonderful, like the myriad of ways he’s managed to intoxicate my body, if not my mind.

Not completely. Not anymore.

A pair of headlights appear at the end of the road, and Katie honks the horn twice to let me know it’s her. She pulls over, and I slide into the passenger seat. Her car is still cold, and I feel like I may never be warm again.

“Hey,” she says.

“Hey.”

Silence.

She pulls the car back onto the dark road and drives. “Where do you want me to take you?”

“Home,” I say, without hesitation.

She casts a sideways glance at me. “You sure that’s the best idea? There could be some damage there.”

“I don’t care. They’ve already done their worst. Chances are they won’t expect me to stay there after what they’ve done.”

“What do you mean ‘after what they’ve done?’ Does Ben think this was intentional?”

It irks me that Ben’s opinion in this matters to Katie, but it’s not her fault. She doesn’t know how cops operate. May she forever be in the dark about the terrible truth.

“A fireman showed him a trail of gas, apparently. This was done on purpose.”

Katie’s cheeks blanch, and her knuckles turn white on the steering wheel. “This is my fault,” she whispers.

“What? Of course, this isn’t your fault. Why would you think such a thing?”

“If Skippy hadn’t come to the restaurant, none of this would have happened!”

A tear falls from her eye, and she wipes it away with a swift swipe of her fingertips.

“Katie, this is so far from being your fault I can’t even see it. Do not try and take any blame for this. You have been a victim here. Don’t blame the victim.”

That gets a small laugh from her, but there’s little humor in it. The rest of the car ride is spent in heavy silence as she pulls into the parking lot next to my house.

“Thanks, Katie. Are you going back to your mom’s house?”

She nods. “Yes. She might force me to move to Florida after this week.”

“Maybe you’d be better off. I bet alligators are nice compared to all this,” I say, waving out the window. There’s something sitting on my chest, and I have to remove it before I leave. “I’m so sorry Katie, for all of it. I should have answered my phone tonight. You shouldn’t have been the one to deal with all this after what you’ve been through.”

Katie shrugs, and when she meets my gaze, there is a strength behind her fear that is beyond admirable. “This place was my fresh start, too. I didn’t want to be cowering at home if I could have done anything to help.”

I reach out and grip her hand, and I give it a squeeze. “We’ll get through this, you and me. We’re survivors.”

“That we are. Naomi? Please lock your door tonight. Please.”

“I will. I’ll keep my phone by my head, just in case.”

“I think everything that can go wrong has, but those are some fatal last words, aren’t they?”

I release a dark laugh. “Yeah, well. We’ll see. Goodnight.”

“Night,” she says.

I shut the car door and watch her drive away, and then I turn and face my little apartment, somehow saved from the flames. I should go back to the hotel, but I need to be here tonight. I need to show myself and Jordan that I’m not afraid.

Or rather, I need to pick up some shit before I flee back to the damn hotel, instead.

I purposefully ignore the building next to my cottage, tattered and charred as it is, and I shove my key in the lock, opening my front door. The place is warm, and I’m enveloped in the reassuring scent of home. I wish I could feel comforted by that, but now I don’t know what to feel. Tomorrow I’m going to have to rebuild my entire life from the rubble. I will have to find a way to rise like the phoenix from the ashes that have burned down my life.

That’s tomorrow. Tonight, it’s time for a drink.

I head to my kitchen and pull out a bottle of chilled white wine from the fridge. I pour myself a healthy glass, then take a sip. The wine is cool against my tongue, and even with that chill a nice warmth burns all the way down as I swallow. My shoulders lower a fraction, though I will never truly relax again.

Not until Jordan is dead, anyway. Even behind bars, the man would be dangerous. Look at what he did with Skippy in jail. He’s capable of many terrible things. I’m left wondering how many of them I’ll get to experience personally.

I lean my lower back against my kitchen counter and stare out into the dark reaches of my own mind. I could leave town. Start a new life, free of Jordan’s influence. I want to get rid of him. I have to shake him off. It’s the only way I’ll be able to live freely once again.

I’m no coward. I don’t want to run away, knowing that he could always be one step behind. I never expected to see him again after Chicago, and yet here we are. If I run, there’s a chance I will always be running.

Besides that, I’ve fallen in love with the town of Stoneport. I’ve made friends here, and the people of this town are starting to accept me as one of their own. Do I want to pick up and leave, just to be the outcast newcomer again?

I take another drink and run my hand along the base of my neck. A headache’s forming there, but I ignore it. My gaze wanders aimlessly around the kitchen and lands on my busted-up camera. I’ve kept it sitting on the tiny shelf beside the spice rack, because I haven’t had the energy to deal with it, yet.

An idea dawns.

Maybe I can salvage the SSD card.

I reach for the camera and pop open the little compartment. The tiny card is still there, and I pull it out and examine it beneath the light. It looks OK to me, but there’s only one way to find out. If there’s one thing that can cheer me up right now, it would be the beautiful pictures I took before my life went south. Maybe I can still use a few for the new restaurant I’m going to have to build.

That thought makes me sad.

I flip open my laptop, get out my adaptor, and insert the little drive. A second later, a folder pops up—woo, my pictures were saved!

“Score!” I whisper. I open up the file and see there are twelve images inside. I start from the beginning, and I smile at a picture of the restaurant, so perfect and shabby. I let myself mourn what I’ve lost, and fresh tears flow freely down my face. I get to the picture of the lighthouse, which came out beautifully, and then I reach the end.

The last picture isn’t one I remember taking. It’s blurry, and all I can see is the image of a man’s arm. Behind him is a tilted ocean and the deck of a yacht.

This picture snapped right before I jumped into the ocean that day. I focus on the arm, because there’s something on it. A tattoo.

Jordan’s tattoo.

I swallow as I stare at the image in disbelief. That was Jordan? The black-masked gunman who held a gun right up to my heart was the same man who has been trying to get me to date him again? My mind reels as I think about Jordan reminiscing about all the great times we had, all the while knowing that he had nearly killed me.

Apparently, now I know what lengths Jordan will go to.

I email the image to myself, then pick up my phone. When I find Katie’s name, I add it to a text and drop the image in to send to her.

I found this on my SSD card. I need you to keep a copy, in case. This might give us some information on who lit the fire. Don’t tell anyone until I can find out more.

I hit the send button and set my phone down. I stare out once more into the nothingness that is becoming a close friend of mine, and I come to terms with the fact that Jordan was directly behind the yacht theft, Katie’s abduction in her own home, and the destruction of my livelihood.

Why am I surprised?

I accused the man of as much. I threw the accusation right in his face, and I was right, the entire time. I have no idea what I’m going to do with this information. I am paralyzed, and Jordan is the man who has hobbled me.

This is the most concrete evidence I’ve ever had. This could eliminate any guilt in his eyes as it relates to me, and give him a solid lead to go on. I could solve all of Ben’s problems with this picture.

I could solve all of my own. I lurch to my feet, clutching my cell. This is it. I’m going to prove my innocence and have Jordan—

My front door opens, and red-hot fear slices through my thoughts.

I forgot to lock my door. I promised Katie I would, and I forgot. Idiot!

The door closes, and I stare at the hallway, waiting for the worst. When Jordan walks in, I realize the worst has arrived.

“Naomi,” he says, his tone genial. He cocks a gun and lifts it, the weapon pointed directly at my face. “A pleasure, as always.”