“Deposit that money into Miss Jane’s bank account and return here before I do,” I say to Anna as she fluffs a pillow. “And on the next flight, you need to learn all of her personal preferences.”

  “Yes, Mr. Rochester.”

  “As for you,” I look over at the pilot, “Text me when the refueling truck arrives. I want to get the hell out of this shit-hole of a city as soon as they’re finished.”

  He nods. “Yes, sir.”

  Within seconds, several headlights cut through the early morning fog.

  The local syndicate has finally arrived to escort me to my meeting.

  Ten black SUVs deep, the last nine keep their distance, while the first car pulls in front of the plane. An associate jumps out of the driver’s seat and quickly runs toward one of the others.

  As I’m opening the door, my third cell phone—the one reserved for only one person in my life and strictly for emergencies—sounds in my pocket.

  Someone better be dying…

  “Yes?” I answer.

  “Mr. Rochester?” It’s my estate manager. “Sir, you have an uninvited visitor outside.”

  I stop moving. “Outside where?”

  “The courtyard,” he says. “He bypassed the gate even though I asked him to leave.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Chester, sir.” He pauses. “He’s been pacing the fountain for quite some time. Should I tell him you’ll be home soon?”

  “No. Tell him I’m sleeping.”

  “I tried that already.” His voice is a whisper. “He said—”

  “I said, ‘Bullshit. He never sleeps.’” Chester calls out in the background. “It’s about Canada, Mr. Rochester. You said you preferred to discuss things like this in person, so I’m here, in person.”

  I tap my fingers against the doorframe. I’ve honestly forgotten about Chester and a few other things since tasting both sets of Autumn’s lips in Seattle.

  Fuck.

  “Tell him I’m out of town for a meeting,” I say. “He can fill me in on whatever he wants when I decide to return.”

  “He said he’s prepared to sit out here all day, sir.”

  “That’s his choice.” I end the call and send the estate manager a text message.

  Me: That was not an emergency.

  Don’t call me on this line ever again unless there is one.

  And don’t text back.

  Sliding behind the wheel, I crank the engine and try to regain a sense of control over the day. Everything seems on track with my initial schedule, and I’m pleased that the syndicate came twenty minutes early.

  Not wanting to leave anything to chance, I check on the incoming flights to New York, analyze the outgoing flights from Miami, and pull up the tracker on Autumn’s Tesla.

  Error!

  Car not found.

  I refresh the app again, assuming it’s a simple connection issue.

  Error!

  Car not found.

  What?

  I try a third time, and the app finally shows me where Autumn is with the car.

  She isn’t heading toward the airport at all.

  She’s stalled near the sea.

  End of Episode 22

  Episode 23

  Autumn

  “In two hundred feet, turn right,” the GPS commands.

  I can’t…

  I’m stuck at a boardwalk stoplight, trapped between two black trucks—one on each side—with the Toyota still close behind.

  For miles, these three have wrapped me in a gridlock and prevented me from getting over or following the system’s instructions.

  They’ve made it more than obvious that they don’t want me to reach my intended destination. Not only that, but after making one too many wrong turns earlier, I’m three blocks away from driving straight into the waters of Sunny Isles Beach.

  And I can’t reach anyone…

  “Call Ryder, please,” I call out to the Tesla’s Bluetooth system. “Phone call.”

  “Calling Ryder,” it claims, but nothing happens.

  Again.

  “Mister R,” I say the other name he’s listed under, begging for what has to be the hundredth time. “Send a text message now, please.”

  Blue dots appear onscreen, getting my hopes up, but they’re immediately dashed with the words that appear.

  Can’t connect. Please try again.

  The streetlight ahead turns green, and I stall, placing the car in park.

  Beeeeep! Beeeeep! Beeeeep!

  The cars stuck behind me and the black trucks honk loudly, demanding that we make a move, but I refuse.

  They hold their ground, too.

  “Call Ryder, please…” My chest heaves up and down. “No, 911. Call 911.”

  “Emergency services are currently unavailable,” the car finally reacts. “If you need assistance with your Tesla, please contact roadside support.”

  “Roadside support.” I slam my fist against the screen. “Call fucking roadside support.”

  Beeeeep! Beeeeep! Beeeeep!

  The light turns red amidst another round of angry honks, and I consider jumping out of the car and running the hell away.

  I can’t tell if someone is sitting in the passenger seat in the car on my left, if I could run fast enough to the 7-11 across the street.

  Do it, Autumn. You don’t need this.

  I mentally count down from twenty and decide to go for it.

  Eight…Seven…Six…

  As I’m gripping the door handle, a loud ringing sound fills the car. The rings escalate with every second that passes, and I realize they’re coming from under my seat.

  Sliding a hand between my feet, I clutch the sides of a cell phone. I immediately swipe to answer and hold it up to my ear.

  I don’t get a chance to utter a plea for help.

  “What part of ‘Call me if something goes wrong’ was unclear to you, Autumn?” Ryder’s deep voice comes over the line.

  “I tried.” I look ahead as the light turns green again, rambling as fast as I can. “There have to be some type of cell signal blockers close by, and there are two trucks and a Toyota, and they won’t let me—”

  “Floor the gas pedal and stay in the middle lane.”

  “I’ve already tried that.”

  “Now.”

  I slam my foot against the gas and pull forward, catching the trucks off guard.

  They speed toward me on both sides, nearly catching up.

  “Move into the right lane,” Ryder commands, and I oblige.

  The trucks adjust their strategy, taking the lanes at the middle and the left.

  “Stay at eighty miles an hour until I tell you to do otherwise,” Ryder says.

  I nod as if he can see me, noticing that the road ahead is all clear.

  “Now, tell me your favorite color.”

  “What?” I shake my head. “Why?”

  “Because I’m trying to help you relax.” He pauses. “I’m also curious.”

  “It’s red.”

  “Favorite movie?”

  “Casablanca.”

  “A movie you’d actually expect someone to watch.”

  “Gone Girl.” I can feel the Toyota’s grill touching my bumper from behind. “I just hated the ending.”

  “Not tragic enough?”

  “Not romantic enough,” I admit. “They should’ve ended up in love with other people.”

  “It wasn’t a romance.” There’s a smile in his voice but it quickly fades. “Get off on the next exit and make a quick left.”

  I follow his directions, still driving far above the speed limit, past a group of police cars.

  To my surprise, they don’t bother coming after me.

  Their sirens never sound.

  What the…

  Bright yellow signs for the airport wave ahead, with warnings of speed bumps and digital speed trackers.

  “Slow down to fifteen miles an hour,” Ryder says, “then pull into the parking garage.”

  “I’ll be trapped.”

  “I’m not repeating myself.”

  I don’t bother questioning him.

  I glance in the rearview mirror as the trucks form a single line behind the Toyota.

  Pulling into the garage with my heart racing a mile a minute, I pause at the ticket machine.

  “Don’t roll your window down,” Ryder says. “Just wait for the arm to go up.”

  Within seconds, the red and white arm flies upward, signaling for me to come through.

  “Drive up to level five as fast as you can and get out by the elevator.”

  Without a word, I speed past a group of teenagers, nearly tagging a woman who dropped her carry-on. Then I stop in front of a set of sea-blue doors.

  “Take the emergency stairwell on your left,” Ryder says as the Toyota pulls onto the same level.

  Flinging my door open, I step out and run like hell.

  “Your other left, Autumn,” he says.

  I keep running. Is he here?

  “Autumn, your other left. Now.”

  I turn around and push my way past the emergency door.

  “There aren’t any proper steps,” he says. “Just keep running down the ramp.”

  I’m too out of breath to respond, and heavy footsteps are echoing through the hallway from behind.

  Running faster than I ever have in my life, I’m nearing two doors—a red and a yellow one—and before I can ask Ryder which one I’m supposed to open, a set of hands grabs me by the waist and pulls me back.

  “Nooooo, stop!” I scream as loud as I can. “Stop!’

  My back hits the cement wall and I slowly realize that those hands belong to Ryder. He’s staring at me, looking genuinely concerned.

  “I wonder if you’ll ever get that loud for me when we’re alone.” A slow smile spreads across his face, but I’m too on edge to return one right now.

  The heavy footsteps suddenly come to a complete stop, and then a pained cry cuts through the air.

  Several others follow, and then I hear shattering glass and something heavy falling onto the concrete.

  I turn my head to look but Ryder places his hand under my chin, keeping my gaze on him.

  “You don’t need to see any of that,” he says. “It’s not worthy of a watch.”

  I suck in a breath as screams of “Please man, don’t!” and “Fuck, nooooo!” echo through the stairwell.

  Ryder’s face remains stoic as he stares into my eyes.

  “What else do you like?” he asks, attempting to distract me again.

  “Being able to drive without being followed.”

  “That won’t be a problem anymore,” he says. “What else?”

  “I…” I shake my head, struggling to block out the painful sounds of men begging for the beatings to stop.

  “Autumn?” Ryder’s thumb caresses my cheek, making me focus on him. “What else do you like?”

  “Dates,” I say.

  “Like dinner and a movie?”

  “No. The dates that take actual effort to plan, and the kind that come with red roses.” I pause. “The type of roses you can only buy in a nursery where they make you pick the bouquets bloom by bloom.”

  “Duly noted.” He cups my face in his hands. “You shouldn’t be trembling like this.”

  “Are they enemies of yours?”

  “They’re just overzealous journalists who found my flight log. They were probably desperate to figure out who you were and if they could get you to talk.”

  “You’re not going to kill them, are you?”

  “Please stop listening to that goddamn podcast.” His lips curve into a smile. “And no, Autumn. I’m not going to kill them.”

  “Just hurt them?”

  “Severely.”

  The unmistakable sound of a trunk slamming shut sends my mind racing.

  “You know what?” I swallow. “I think I need to take back what I said to you on that plane in Seattle.”

  “What was that?”

  “I think you being a part of ‘the latter’ will be a problem for me, after all.”

  “It wasn’t a problem when I was devouring your pussy.”

  “That’s—” My cheeks redden. “That was different.”

  “So you just want to use me for sex?” He smiles, and my body betrays me with a bevy of butterflies in my stomach.

  “I don’t know what I want.”

  “I’ll help you figure it out.” He slides a hand down to my neck as the garage falls quiet again.

  “What happened to the person who did this job before me?” I can’t help but ask.

  “He quit,” he says. “And the one before that didn’t get this far.”

  “She quit, too?”

  “You’re the first woman I’ve ever hired as a courier,” he says, railroading my next question. “But no, that one didn’t quit. He died.”

  My eyes widen.

  “Surrounded by his family and friends because of an unexpected and aggressive disease,” he says. “Anything else before I stop answering questions for the day?”

  “What happened to the last woman you dated?”

  “You mean first?” He smirks. “She’s standing right in front of me.”

  Silence.

  “Are you sure I can’t switch to the second job?” I ask.

  “One hundred percent,” he says. “I’m running late for it, anyway.”

  “I don’t think that I should be punished for that.”

  “Not this time.” He runs his fingers through my hair. “But for the record, there are always three emergency cell phones in any car you drive for me. If your phone ever stops working because of a signal blocker, use one of those.”

  “I don’t think I’ll be working under you for much longer, Ryder.”

  “We’ll see about that,” he says, stepping back from me.

  Suddenly, a man in a dark grey suit appears and hands me my duffle bag and cell phone.

  Ryder looks as if he wants to say more to me but he holds back, and his entire demeanor shifts.

  “Boarding for your flight to JFK starts soon, Miss Jane,” he says. “You should go check in.”

  “Wait.” My meeting with Kylie crosses my mind. “I thought I was flying to LaGuardia.”

  “You were until this incident,” he says, gesturing toward the suit. “We’ve rerouted my asset delivery, and I’ll make sure no one follows you.”

  Shit.

  “Is there a problem, Miss Jane?” He raises his eyebrow.

  “No.” I step back. “JFK is great.”

  “Call me when you land for the last instruction.” He heads toward the door, looking me over one last time. “You’ve already lasted longer than my last five couriers. Good job.”

  End of Episode 23

  Episode 24

  Ryder

  Hours Later

  I’m staring at mountains of grey ashes, walls of orange fire, and two dozen emergency trucks.

  The pictures in front of me are penning a story I know all too well, an unfortunate novel that I swore never to read again.

  They’re making me remember all the headlines in the news, painfully spelling out each letter one by one.

  Ravaged by Flames, Estate Burned Overnight

  Five People Dead in Fire, Nine Critically Injured

  Rochester Estate Ruined

  As I force myself to look at the last one—the charred remains of my red office chair—I clench a fist under the table of this hole-in-the-wall-cafe.

  I should’ve sent someone else to do this after all.

  “I’m surprised you flew here for this session, Mr. Rochester.” A brunette smiles at me from across the table. “My boss says you never show up for these.”

  “I’ve just been reminded of why.” I shut the file of pictures and slide it to her. “You have four minutes to tell me why you sent an urgent FedEx letter for this.”

  “Well, first, um…” Her cheeks flush red again. “I’m Grace Poole, the new head of the division. Since the state of Washington and we at the ATF have never formally closed the case on your estate fire, I want to go over some things that still aren’t lining up for us. Is that okay?”

  I say nothing.

  “Okay then.” She clicks a pen. “At the time of the fire, you were on a date with someone, correct?”

  “No.”

  “Just checking.” She shrugs. “Seeing if you’ve changed your story over the years.”

  “I knew this was a waste of my time.” I stand to my feet. “Tell your boss to never expect a meeting with me again. And don’t send me another letter.”

  “People died under your watch that night, Mr. Rochester.” She glares at me. “And their families are still desperately searching for answers.”

  “Then do your job and find them,” I say. “I wasn’t there when the fire happened.”

  “I’m starting to think that you were.”

  Silence.

  “That part of the investigation has been over for a very long time.” I push the chair in. “Picking at old wounds won’t make them heal any faster.”

  “Spoken like a person who has never lost anyone.” She stands to her feet as well. “Do you know how agonizingly painful it is to wake up in a world without someone you love?”

  All too well. “No,” I say to her. “I have no idea what that’s like.”

  “Because you don’t love anyone except yourself,” she says. “If you had a family member who died in that fire—if you knew what the word ‘family’ meant at all—I don’t think you’d be upset about us not rushing to drop our investigation.”

  “It won’t bother me if you never do.” I wait for her to say something else—to attempt to rattle me with her emotional nonsense—but all she does is stare.

  “Let me guess.” She finally finds her words seconds later. “You were already heading into Florida to handle a deal and this meeting with me just fell on the same day?”

  “I’ve already hit my quota on questions for the day, Miss Poole,” I say. “And, unfortunately, you’re not someone I’ll ever make an exception for. Tell your boss I said hello, and that hanging on to a tragedy from years ago won’t get her any closer to knowing what I do.”

  “We know exactly what you do, Mr. Rochester.” She steps closer. “We just can’t prove it.”