I had never been so startled by a knock at the door in all my life.

As I made my way across the living room, I replayed in my mind the post-accident statement I’d given to the police less than a month ago. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t remember what I’d said to the officers on the scene.

Maybe the gaps in my memory were due to the mild concussion, or a severe case of shock. I could only imagine I was about as coherent as a drunken toddler when I gave that statement. However, I did remember the events leading up to the accident. Unfortunately, I remembered that very well.

I hated being a clock watcher. It wasn’t as if I wasn’t accustomed to sitting in cars waiting for people. Sitting around and waiting was ninety percent of my job. The reunion reception was supposed to end at ten p.m. But as the parking lot began to empty, and the clock crawled past midnight, I began to worry.

Exiting the BMW i8, I made sure to press the button on the key fob to activate the alarm, even though I knew the alarm was automatically activated as I walked away. It was not every day that I drove my boss around in his new $160,000 sports car. And, because I couldn’t resist, I glanced back at the car to make certain it was still in the parking space where I’d left it—and to admire it—before I entered the Vanderbilt Hall reception area.

A group of men in expensive suits had gathered in the far corner. They all laughed and gestured raucously, most of them still holding empty cocktail glasses in their hands. A bartender was cleaning up behind the bar as janitorial staff picked up trash off the floors and empty wine glasses off tables.

A gentleman who looked like a waiter in a starched white shirt and black slacks approached me. “Excuse me, sir, but you’ll have to leave. We’re locking up soon.”

I nodded at him. “I’m just here to pick up my boss, Michael Becker.”

His eyes widened a bit at the mention of Michael’s name, then he nodded. “Of course, sir. Can you please tell him that we were supposed to clear the building and lock up by midnight?”

“Will do,” I said, continuing toward the corner.

Michael Becker stood at the center of the group of men, telling a story or joke that had the other men enthralled with laughter. I walked slowly toward the group, giving Becker time to finish his tale before I interrupted. When I was within a few yards, he noticed me and insisted a few of the men make way as I approached.

“Good evening, sir,” I said, nodding at Becker as I glanced around the group, taking in everyone’s face. “I’ve been informed by the university that they will be closing the doors to Vanderbilt Hall very soon. We should get going, sir.”

“Gentlemen, this is my bodyguard, Daniel…Daniel…? What’s your last name again, Daniel?” Becker said, draping his arm across my shoulders.

“Meyers, sir.”

He smiled as he tightened his arm around my neck and pointed at me with his other hand, which was still precariously holding a half-empty cocktail glass. “Good-looking kid. If…and I mean if I had a daughter, Daniel would get my blessing. Everyone knows it’s aesthetics that matter above all else. Right, Meyers?”

I politely wriggled out of his grasp. “Of course. We should get going, sir.”

Becker cocked an eyebrow as he stared into his glass. “Yes, aesthetics matter, but so does power. Did any of you see my i8 in the lot?” he asked, looking around at the other men. “That beauty is power personified—357 horsepower, to be exact. Wanna have a look?”

The men, who seemed to be in some sort of drunken trance, all voiced their agreement with slurred variations of “Fuck, yeah.”

I trailed closely behind the group, nodding at the cleaning staff in a modest gesture of apology and reassurance that we would soon be out of their way. After a bit of redirecting, I herded the men toward the exit leading to the parking lot on the 3rd Street side of the building.

The balmy July heat had melted into the earth, leaving behind a sizzling promise of trouble that hung in the air. I hoped the rest of these men were taking taxis or calling for a ride, because none of them seemed sober enough to drive, except Michael.

I had worked for Becker for less than a month, but I’d already seen him plastered on at least two occasions. When he was drunk, he had a very obvious tell. It was my job to notice these things. When Michael was drunk, he forgot people’s first names.

It made sense, considering he probably knew a thousand Bobs, Tims, Richards, Johns, and Daniels. Last names were often more distinct. Either Michael wasn’t aware of his own shortcomings when he was tipsy or, more likely, he was signaling to me that he wasn’t really drunk. He was putting on a show for the guys.

Or he was using reverse psychology on me, trying to make me believe he wasn’t drunk when he was actually wasted. Fuck. This job was becoming more complicated by the minute.

It was a beautiful summer night in New York. A few of the men closed their eyes and tilted their heads back to savor the fresh air on their faces. I shook my head as I led the way to Becker’s new BMW i8. The few with their eyes open either whistled or let out various curious words at the sight of the crystal-white electric sports car with the blue accent stripe.

They discussed the virtues of the i8 over the Tesla for a few minutes as I kept a vigilant watch over the various entrances to the parking lot. A group of drunk, unarmed, presumably rich assholes was a robbery waiting to happen. Finally, the men said their good-byes and wandered off into various directions, muttering about their intentions to catch cabs and Ubers. Obviously, these men were not as well off as I had assumed.

Michael held his hand out to me palm up. “Key fob.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, sir. Are you telling me you want to drive?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Meyers. You know I’m not drunk. This is my car. Now, give me the key fob or tomorrow you can look for a job elsewhere.”

I looked him in the eye, waiting for him to tell me he was kidding, but he clearly wasn’t. “Sir, I really don’t think that’s a good idea. You may not be drunk, but you’ve—”

“If you don’t give me that key, so help me I will call the police and charge you with theft.”

I chuckled. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m pretty sure the police will understand why I’m not letting you get in that driver’s seat.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe they’ll believe the rich asshole over the poor schmuck. You want to take that chance, Meyers?”

I gritted my teeth as I realized he really wasn’t drunk, but that didn’t mean he was sober enough to drive. I was fucked either way.

“When was the last time you drove this thing?” I asked, slipping my hand into the pocket of my slacks to retrieve the key fob.

“I drove it last week!” he replied impatiently, glancing in the direction of the sidewalk, where one of his former law school cronies was watching our exchange.

I handed over the key fob and he snatched it out of my hand. “Just try not to kill us,” I muttered under my breath as I walked around the back of the car toward the passenger side.

“What did you say?” he asked as he slid into the driver’s seat.

“Nothing, sir,” I said, getting into the passenger seat and shutting the door. “Please feel free to pull over if you get tired or just don’t feel like driving anymore.”

“Jesus Christ. Give it a rest, already. I’m fine!”

I buckled my seat belt and watched as he tossed the key fob into the cup holder and pressed the START button on the dashboard. The car didn’t start, and he shook his head as he seemed to remember he needed to press down on the brake as he pushed the START button.

Once the car was idling, I gently reminded him to put his seat belt on, but he waved off my suggestion as he lowered his window to let in some fresh air. I tried to think of what, if anything, I could do to prevent a car accident from where I was seated. I didn’t know how the BMW i8 worked, but it was possible I could hit the START button to kill the engine if it became clear Michael wasn’t driving safely. But that wouldn’t help much if we were barreling over a guardrail or into a brick wall.

I could kill the engine at the first sign that he wasn’t fit to be driving tonight. Then, I could grab the steering wheel and guide the car to safety. My other hand would grab the key fob and toss it out the window, away from the vehicle, so Michael wouldn’t be able to restart the car.

Fuck. This job was getting way too fucking complicated.

His driving was a bit choppy as he made his way out of the parking lot onto 3^rd Street. But as soon as he was on the road, he smoothed out, and I allowed myself to relax a little. Big mistake.

“See, this is not so bad, right?” Becker said, taking a smooth left turn. “It’s not so bad to let your boss remember what it was like before he became a rich asshole and had everything done for him like a fucking invalid. Right?”

“Right,” I said, unable to decide if I felt more angry with him or sorry for him.

We were six blocks from Becker’s townhouse, and the traffic light had just turned green, when he pulled forward and BOOM! We were T-boned in the middle of the intersection, by a woman who was distracted by her phone.

I stared at the doorknob, willing myself to turn it so I could finally face the person I knew was standing on the other side of the door.

“Who is it?” Geneva shouted from the bedroom she shared with Alisha.

“It’s not for you!” I shouted back as I reached for the doorknob.

Taking a deep breath before I opened the door, I was not at all surprised to find a man in a freshly starched white shirt and slacks, a badge hanging from a chain that dangled around his thick neck.

“Detective Jones?” I said, opening the door wide to invite him inside.

“Mr. Meyers. May I come in?” he replied in a deep, authoritative voice.

“Please,” I said, stepping aside and motioning to the sofa my little brother slept on every night. “Have a seat.”

He pulled a notepad and pen out of his back pocket before he took a seat on the sofa.

“Would you like something to drink?” I offered. “All I have is water and OJ.”

“I’m fine, thanks,” he replied, writing something on his notepad. “I’d prefer to just get right to it, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all,” I said, swallowing hard as I took a seat in the armchair to the right of the sofa. “Ask away.”

Jones cleared his throat. “You said in your report—”

“I actually don’t remember what I said in that rep—”

He held up a hand to stop me. “Let me finish, please. Then, you can speak.”

I nodded and pressed my lips together tightly to keep from calling the guy a prick.

“Okay, as I was saying. You said in your report that you didn’t know Mr. Becker had been drinking that night. If you’re his bodyguard, weren’t you supposed to be watching him all night long?”

I paused a moment to collect my thoughts. “Mike—I mean, Mr. Becker asked me to stay in the car. It was some kind of college or fraternity reunion. I can’t remember. Anyway, he said he didn’t want people to think he was an asshole—his words—for bringing a bodyguard.”

Jones pursed his lips as he stared at me for a moment, lost in thought. “So…you didn’t assume that Mr. Becker would be drinking at a fraternity reunion?”

I sighed as I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Look, I never personally saw him drink anything. And he was my employer. If he said he wasn’t drunk, I wasn’t going to call him a liar.”

“But your job was to protect Mr. Becker from all possible threats, even himself. Was it not?”

I shrugged. “I didn’t want to lose my job.”

“So you risked losing your life by allowing a possibly intoxicated man to drive a car while you were in the passenger seat.”

“He threatened me. He said he would fire me or call the cops and say I was trying to steal his car.” I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth as I tried to block out the images of Michael’s head, lopsided from the impact. “He said he just wanted to remember what his life was like before he became a rich asshole.”

I opened my eyes and Jones was looking at me through narrowed brown eyes, one eyebrow cocked skeptically as he sized me up. As he opened his mouth to speak, the phone attached to his belt buzzed loudly. He slipped it out of the clip, glanced at the screen, then answered the call.

“Jones.” His eyebrows scrunched together as he listened to the person on the other end. “I told Reyes to interview the mother. She’s the alibi witness… How am I supposed to fucking know where he is? Am I his fucking wife?... Well, someone has to do it before the 72-hour hold is up or that little fucker’s gonna run… No, I’m in the middle of an interview… The Becker accident…” He shook his head and let out an angry sigh. “Just get me the fucking address. I’ll do it.”

I looked Jones in the eye as he ended the call. “Look, Becker threatened to make up a story that I was trying to steal his car if I didn’t give him the keys. I had no choice.”

He shook his head. “I can see you’re upset. We’ll continue this conversation later. I’ll give you a call.”

“I’m fine,” I insisted, eager to get this interview over with.

He stood from the sofa. “I have somewhere else I need to be. We’ll resume this interview later.”

He followed me to the door.

“Should I have a lawyer present?” I asked, placing my hand on the doorknob without turning it.

He raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know. Do you think you need one?”

I sighed as I opened the door. “I guess we’ll talk later.”

Closing the door behind Jones, I turned and leaned my back against the cool wood slab, still gripping the knob as I shook my head. This was like a game to him, but to me it was my life, and I wasn’t playing it right.

I had to get a lawyer before I spoke to Jones again. The last thing my family needed was another father figure in prison.

Maybe I should have told Jones about Sabrina, and her plan to defraud Kristin out of her inheritance. Then, I ran my hand roughly down my face in frustration. If I told Jones about that, I’d have to tell him about my involvement in Sabrina’s scheme. I was officially fucked.