I don’t remember any of my drive home.

I should have gone back to work. The fundraising event needs to be locked down, and I should be asking for details on the other inquiries we’ve had. But I can’t. My brain won’t focus, and I find myself parking in my spot at my run-down apartment building instead. When I realize where I am, I call Temperance and tell her I’m not feeling well. It isn’t a lie, by any means, and not just because I puked my guts up at Magnolia’s.

I refuse to believe there’s only one way out of this that doesn’t end with everyone I love dying. But any way I look at it, life as I know it is over.

“After a few months, they disappear. Like they never existed to begin with.”

Mount can’t make me disappear. I have people who would notice and then scream bloody murder if the cops didn’t look hard enough. I’m not some random girl from a foreign country, or like Richelle with no family left to keep the case alive after the police shelve it.

When I open my door and climb out, a BMW pulls to a stop along the curb across the street.

Is it following me? Or is it just another random nice car, and my mind is playing tricks on me? Either way, the fact that I can’t see through the black-tinted windows puts me on edge. I hoist my bag onto my shoulder and lock my car door.

My keys jangle in my shaking hand as I walk with uneven steps toward the front entrance. When I let myself inside, I glance over my shoulder at the car, but no one gets out and the window doesn’t open.

Ignore it. It’s nothing. And regardless, from the way Magnolia described things, Mount would have no reason to have me followed if he already knows everything about me.

That knowledge makes me feel stripped bare, even though I’m fully clothed.

Unless they’re watching to see if I’m going to run.

I make my unsteady way up the stairs to the third-floor apartment I leased the day I met with the lawyer and planned to file for divorce. My townhouse, the one Brett moved into the day we got married, is a rental and the lease is about to lapse. I planned to renew it. At least until . . .

I push the memories of that day from my mind and focus on getting inside. I could have picked a nicer place to crash-land after my divorce, but I already planned to cut my salary to the bone to keep up with the distillery debt.

My parents sold their place when they moved to Florida, so that wasn’t an option. When they flew home for Brett’s funeral, Dad was pissed when he learned I planned to move into what he called a shithole, but I made up some excuse about it being closer to work and not needing so much space anymore as the reason for letting the lease lapse. I couldn’t admit that I didn’t think I could afford to pay myself enough to stay in the townhouse or find a better apartment. I wasn’t about to admit how badly we were struggling.

Knowing my dad, he would have insisted on coming out of retirement to take over, but that was the last thing I wanted him to do. Not just because I want to be the one at the helm, but because I feared he’d have a heart attack when he realized the damage Brett had done and how close Seven Sinners teeters on the edge of failure.

All my parents knew was that Brett had cheated, I was leaving him, and then he died in a tragic accident before I could file for divorce. As a compromise, I let Dad install two new dead bolts on my shitty apartment door. That was three months ago, and everything since is a blur.

I took it one day at a time, making sure all the bills got paid, and settled Brett’s affairs. With the big payday from the fundraising event coming soon, I thought we would finally have some room to breathe.

But no.

Now things are even worse.

My fingers itch to pick up the phone and call my dad for guidance, but I know I can’t. If what Brett did would give Dad a heart attack, what Mount suggested would cause heart failure. And if it didn’t, he would show up with a shotgun and try to hunt Mount down, and based on Magnolia’s information, we’d all be dead.

So, I will not be telling my parents, and I sure as hell won’t be telling my little sisters. Imogen is finishing her PhD, and Jury is partying it up somewhere exotic, working behind or on top of a bar somewhere, just enough to fund her playgirl lifestyle.

My decision is clear—my family can never know about any of this.

I drop my bag on the worn blue velvet chair in my living area and stride toward the kitchen, intent on finding another bottle of whiskey since I left the other with Magnolia.

I’m halfway across the tile floor when I freeze.

A copy of the promissory note is on the counter. I know it’s a copy because the original is in my bag.

He was here.

Torn between making a run for it, but remembering the car parked outside, I snatch the document off the chipped Formica. Something metal pings off the tile as another piece of paper floats to the floor.

I scan the faded tile and stained grout, not seeing anything but the note with two words written in a bold hand I recognize immediately.

---

---

I leave the note where it is, fighting another shiver of fear as I drop to my knees to search for whatever else he left.

I crawl toward the coffee table and something glints in the afternoon sunlight near the edge of one leg. I dive for it, but my fingers shake so violently I can barely pick it up.

No way. Impossible. It can’t be.

I hold the circle of gold up to the light and read the inscription inside my dead husband’s wedding band. Ice water takes the place of blood in my veins.

How? Why?

I bolt for the chair, grab my bag, and lunge for the door. When I’ve finally unbolted it, it swings open and I’m ready to sprint for my car.

Until I crash into a solid male body.

I look up, expecting to see Mount, but it’s not. Why would he bother with such a menial task if he’s busy running an empire?

Instead, it’s my super, Phil.

“Everything okay, Keira?”

I want to scream nothing is okay, but I shake my head and mumble, “Fine. Great. Thought I forgot to lock my car. Gotta go check it.”

Phil nods. “Can’t be too careful in this neighborhood.”

He moves on down the hall and I lock my door behind me, although part of my brain is wondering why I do it when it’s clear locks aren’t a deterrent to Mount or whoever he sent.

When I burst out of the building, my gaze shoots across the street. The black BMW is gone, and in its spot is a silver Prius.

Was it Mount in the BMW? Or someone who reported to him?

The words on the note flash in my head.

Six days.

The only thing I’m going to figure out in six days is how to drive myself completely crazy.

Once I lock myself in my car and jam the key in the ignition, I inhale deeply and release the breath slowly, attempting to calm my hammering heart.

My instincts scream at me to run, but where the hell do I go?

Mount was in my office at the distillery. He was in my apartment. Nothing feels safe anymore.

Maybe that’s part of his plan? He wants me helpless, like I have no options. Weak. Powerless. Under his control.

You’ve underestimated me, Mount. You might get me, but I won’t come cowering before you.

In my shitty Honda Civic, I make a vow to myself.

I will not run. I will not hide. And I sure as hell won’t put anyone else I care about in danger by bringing that monster to their doorstep.

I yank the key out of the ignition and get out of my car and lock it again, retracing my steps, feeling steadier with each moment. Once I’m inside, I find a bottle of Seven Sinner’s single barrel in the cabinet and a glass. I set everything—both versions of the promissory note, Brett’s wedding band, and my six-day warning—out in front of me.

Tonight, I’m going to reread every word of my death sentence, and then I’m getting drunk.