We’re halfway through our subs when I clear my throat from the kitchen, where I grabbed a beer.
Emma’s at the dining table now, hair clean and damp, cheeks no longer blotchy. The shower helped. She looks a little better. Smells it, too, honestly. Heather’s curled up on the couch in black leggings and that forest green Oregon hoodie she basically lives in, one sock half falling off her heel. Practically chaos in human form, that girl.
“I went ahead and booked some flights this morning,” I say.
Emma freezes mid-bite.
Heather looks up immediately. “Flights?”
“To New York,” I say, stepping into the dining area. “Tomorrow night.”
Emma blinks at me. “You—what?”
“I almost told you earlier. I didn’t want to waste time,” I say with a shrug. “Rook is our best hope. He’ll be at the opening night gala at the Met. He’s at every one of those events.”
Heather’s jaw drops. “The Metropolitan Museum of Art?”
I nod. “High-profile. He never misses those. He’s a fucking weirdo, but he’s a high-class weirdo. You’ll see what I mean.”
Emma’s mouth opens and closes. “So what’s the plan? I...thought we didn’t have one?”
“We didn’t. But I thought about it and decided to do what I could. We show up,” I say. “You approach him. You tell him exactly what you need.”
Heather leans forward, elbows on her knees. “And if he tells her to fuck off?”
Emma folds her arms, defensive but logical. “Jude killed his brother. Why would he help us? We need a backup plan. He could say no.”
I don’t hesitate. “Then we pay him.”
Heather frowns. “Pay him…how much?”
“Four million.”
Heather chokes on her saliva, and it turns into a coughing fit.
Emma stares at me. “You’re serious.”
“Yes. I have more than enough.”
Heather finally gets her shit together. “JesusChrist.”
“He won’t do it out of kindness,” I say evenly. “He’ll do it because it benefits him. That’s how men like him operate.”
Emma gets up from the table and starts pacing. “Okay, let me check hotels, then. Or have you gotten us those, too?”
I smile despite myself. “I didn’t get the hotel yet.”
“Okay.” She takes a sip of her Dr. Pepper and pulls out her phone, already opening an app.
Heather smiles at me as I take a swig of my beer. But when I glance back at Emma, I see that her face has drained of color. And her hands are shaking.
“Em?” Heather says softly. “What’s wrong?”
She doesn’t answer.
I’m next to her before I consciously decide to move. “Hey—give me that.” I gently take the phone before it slips from her fingers. And there he is.
Jude.