Clearly one martini at the hotel bar wasn’t enough. If it had been, Bram Russell’s face would have faded into the bleak background of crappy food and overpriced toilet paper. I wouldn’t have even seen him. But he was as clear as the shaky hand in front of my face, and now I feel like throwing up.

The worst part was the way he left, just dropping a hundred and walking out. As if I were less than nothing.

“You don’t want your groceries, ma’am?” the cashier says.

Holding my reeling stomach with one hand, I dump the six-pack on the counter with a thud. “No, thanks. Just the beer.”

He peers at me. “You sure you’re all right?”

“I’m fine. Having a bad day, that’s all.”

“Well, this should cheer you up,” he says. “Believe it or not, that was Bram Russell you were talking to.”

I can barely speak. “Who?”

“Bram Russell.”

I grind my back teeth. “You mind ringing me up? I just called a cab.”

“Sure,” he says, dragging the six-pack across the scanner. “Maybe you don’t follow the news. You hear about that road rage case from a few years ago? Some guy got all hot thinking Bram Russell cut him off, so he followed him home. When he tried to get inside the house, Bram –”

I grip the edge of the counter. “That’s not how it happened.”

He flaps open a paper bag and sticks the six-pack inside. “How do you know?”

“Trust me. You can’t believe everything you read.”

“I didn’t read it. I saw it on Newscenter 4, and –”

I grab the bag out of his hands. “Thanks a lot.”

I’m out the door before he can say another word. What a ridiculous fucking day.

Scanning the parking lot for my cab, I step off the curb into the rain. A car starts to back up next to me, the rearview mirror coming a little too close to my hip.

I glare through the rain-speckled driver’s window. It’s him. Driving that vulgar black Maserati and looking bulletproof. Of course. Because he is.

Bulletproof and inhuman.

No one looks like he does. No one’s that big and tall. One of his hands would cover my back. I used to stare at him in court and think, he’s got the face of a fallen angel. Not that I know what fallen angels look like, though maybe I should since my father’s a minister. But every time I saw Bram Russell’s chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, and ash-colored eyes, that’s what I thought.

He was horribly, unfairly perfect. My stomach would pitch as I looked at him, and I’d squirm with shame.

I hated him. I wanted him to die. I couldn’t like looking at him.

Rain pours onto my shoulders but I don’t move. I see myself reflected in the rain-speckled glass. My eyes are wild and I look unbalanced.

Because I am. I actually thought he got an erection when he saw me in the store. Like, come on. Even he can’t be that sadistic.

He brakes. Raising his palms, he mouths, sorry.

Sorry. What an insult. Worse than nothing at all.

“You’re sorry?” I yell. My voice breaks. My whole body is vibrating.

The window rolls down halfway. As the glass disappears, another man’s face emerges. Round, bearded, with close-set brown eyes.

It’s not Bram. The car isn’t even a Maserati. It was all my insane imagination.

“I apologize,” he says. “I didn’t see you.”

The tears I’ve been holding back since this morning spill over. “That’s okay.”

He frowns. “Are you hurt?”

The cab pulls up behind me. A tear drips into the corner of my mouth as I grope for the door handle. “I’m fine. Really.”

I slide into the back seat and shut the door. The driver glances at me in his rear mirror. I wipe my face with my wet sleeve.

I manage to get home with the six-pack unopened. Twelve entire blocks. I haven’t had a binge like this in a long time.

“Tomorrow,” I mutter. “Everything will be different. I’ll start all over again.”

As I get out of the cab, I realize I’m shivering. Even my panties are soaked. I can’t wait to get inside.

I go up the steps to my apartment and see a dark figure leaning against the wall by my door. My heart jumps, but I know in a second it’s not Bram Russell. Whoever it is is half his height, not much taller than I am.

He turns toward me as I get closer. The overhead light illuminates his pale, flat face.

Isaac, my father’s right-hand man. He wears his usual uniform of a black suit, white shirt with a band collar, and shiny, square-toed boots. The look is undertaker with a touch of Nordstrom Rack.

As soon as he sees me, a smile snakes across his face. My skin tingles in silent warning.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Hello to you, too, Gracie,” he says.

I give him a sidelong glare. “Nobody’s called me Gracie since I was fourteen.”

“That’s okay. You’ll always be fourteen to me.” He spins his wedding band around his finger and squinches up his eyes. “Can you believe I’ve known you that long?”

“Feels like longer. Did my father send you?”

“Yes, he did. He, uh, heard you got fired today.”

I tuck the bag of beer under my arm and dig in my handbag for my keys. “I didn’t get fired. I quit.”

“Why?”

“A bunch of reasons.”

“Your father’s worried about you. We all are.”

“I’ll call him,” I say, nudging past him. “Thanks for your concern.”

Isaac sniffs the air. “You smell like girl’s night out, Gracie. What’s in the bag?”

“Why do you care?”

“You know your father doesn’t like it when you drink.”

“I’ll discuss it with him. Now if you’ll excuse me – ”

“Sure thing.” He steps out of the way and watches as I push the key into the lock. “You look awfully pretty in that dress.”

“You said that last time about my baggy jeans.”

“You look pretty in everything.”

“Uh huh.” I try to turn the key but it’s stuck. Great timing. I take a calming breath and try again. It won’t budge.

“Something wrong?” Isaac says. His high, whiny voice makes my scalp crawl.

“My key is sticky. Must be the rain.”

“You got the right one?”

I pull it out and check. “Yes.” I jam the key back in. It still won’t work.

Isaac lets out a little chuckle. I look over at him. His mouth twists into a cold grin that makes my stomach turn.

“Somebody changed my locks,” I say.

He shrugs. “It looks that way.”

“Who? My father?” Even as I say it, I know it isn’t true. My father can’t hang a picture, let alone change a lock.

Bracing his back against the rough stucco wall, Isaac crosses his ankles. “The apartment belongs to your parents, doesn’t it?”

“I pay the rent.”

“Last I heard it was still their property.”

I drop the useless keys back into my bag. My pulse pounds in my ears. “You changed them, didn’t you?”

“Everything I do is at Mr. Garrett’s request. And on that note, he asks that you come with me.”

My toes brace into my shoes. “Why?”

“You haven’t seen your parents in two weeks. They’re concerned.”

“They show that by sending you here?”

His thin mouth tics. “What do you have against me, Gracie? I’ve been nothing but good to you for twelve years.”

“Good to me? Is that what you call what happened that day?” I’ve never said it out loud before, but I’ve always been sober in his presence. I’ve always had something to lose.

“There’s no need to get snippy,” he says in a quiet voice. “I’m only here to help.”

“I just wonder. What would your wife think if she knew? Not exactly godly behavior, is it?”

His jaw grinds. “Let’s go, Grace.”

“Go to hell. I’m not going anywhere with you.”

His face is red and twisted. “I won’t let you embarrass your parents any more than you have.” He grabs the six-pack and wraps his thick, short fingers around my arm.

Panic rises in my throat as he hauls me down the stairs. “Let me go.”

I try to jerk away but I’m too weak. My mind is too fuzzy to think. “You can’t do this,” I hiss through clenched teeth.

“Whine about it to your father.”

I stumble behind him. Rain pelts my face as he drags me across the parking lot and pushes me into his car, a gray sedan with a child seat in the back.

Chest heaving, I stare straight ahead out the windshield. He bends down so close I can feel his stale breath in my ear.

“Now, buckle your seatbelt, Gracie. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.”