'Me too. So does everyone,' she mouths in a reply.

  "Hello? Are you there, or did your pathetic brain have a fucking aneurysm trying to hold a conversation?"

  "Look, go fuck off to the White Lotus with your bullshit, Richie Rich. Understand this: you have three days to put the money together, and once you pay us, you'll get the location where she's being held and you can come pick her up. But if you don't pay, or hell, even if you do but you piss me off, know that your fiance isn't the only one who will get a bullet. I'll make sure the bullet that I fire into your stupid, shit-spewing mouth is shot from the cheapest, most low-class gun out there; I'll drive around fucking Oakland until I find the sketchiest bastard huffing Freon straight from a fucking air conditioner, and I'll buy it from him. So shut your fucking mouth with your high-class bullshit, get me my fucking money, and don't bother me again, got it?"

  Then I hang up the phone.

  It is the most gratifying hang-up I've ever done, and I've hung up on my fair share of telemarketers.

  "We should kill that bastard anyway," Rook says. "Talking to women the way he does, he doesn't deserve to live."

  "Still might," I say, imagining the look on Alexander's face as I pull the trigger. "Still might."

  But the satisfaction is short-lived.

  Because now that the call is over, I see the look on Madison's face. She's shaken, rattled by her abusive conversation with Alexander. Her face is pale, her eyes wide and glistening with hurt. In just a minute or two of talking, he completely shattered her with his vileness. I fucking hate that she feels so down about herself. That she should ever feel that way, as smart, kind, and drop-dead gorgeous as she is, is unacceptable.

  I go to her, put my hands on her shoulders, and look into her eyes. "This will all be over soon, Maddy. In just a few days, you'll be done with college, you'll have earned your degree, and you'll have enough money that you can save your family and never have to live in the same fucking hemisphere as that asshole. You've got this. Just hold on a little longer."

  "I'll try," she whispers.

  I brush a tear from her cheek. "It's going to be okay. You've nearly got your thesis done, right?"

  "Yes. It's done. Now I just have to wait three days until I can turn it in. Why?"

  Three days for her, too? Such strange timing.

  It'll be freeing for her to turn in her paper, to be done with her degree, and then receive more money than she'll ever need.

  But I don't have time to muse on the serendipity of the timing. Maddy needs me. Needs me to free her again from the crushing grip that Alexander has on her soul.

  "We're going out."

  She sniffles, and I brush another tear from her cheek.

  "Out?"

  "Bad idea," Rook chimes in.

  "Butt out," I say to him. "After what she went through, she deserves a breather. Staying in this fucking lighthouse for three more days is out of the question. I'm taking her out. Maddy, if you could go do or see one thing right now, anything at all, what would it be?"

  Her eyes change—from glassy to bright, as imagination takes over and lifts the corners of her lips. "I'd love to see a show. Like a concert or the opera or a play."

  "Doesn't your rich asshole ex-fiance run in those circles?" Rook cautions. "This is a terrible idea that's going to get you caught, Bullet."

  "He's right," Maddy says, eyes downcast. "The Covingtons know so many people in San Francisco. They've got as nearly as many business connections there as they do in Costa Oscura."

  I shake my head, refusing to give up. "They can't have people in all the opera, uh, theaters…"

  "Opera houses," Maddy corrects me.

  "In all the opera houses and theaters in the Bay Area. It's just not possible."

  "Wait... Oh, I got it. I know what we can do," Maddy says, laughing. That laugh is all the music I need to hear for the rest of my life, fuck the opera. "There's a concert hall in Oakland that I know of. When I was little, back when my family still had some money, we sponsored an orchestra there. Alexander and his friends wouldn't set foot in Oakland city limits. It's, uh, not their type of place." She turns away from me quickly, caught up in the enthusiasm of her idea. After a few clacks on her laptop keyboard, she lets out a triumphant yelp. "They're playing tonight. Oh, and they're doing a trio of Bach's Brandenburg Concertos. Are you sure we can go, Jackson? Please?"

  Even though I have no idea what these Brandenburg Concertos are, and I'm pretty sure I won't understand or even like them, the hopeful, happy look on Madison's face is all I need to know I’m making the right decision, regardless of the risks.

  "Get ready, Maddy. We're going out."

  Chapter Twenty

  Madison

  "We need to make a couple of stops first," Bullet says as I slip onto the motorcycle behind him.

  "Of course. For clothes, right? Because we can't go see the symphony looking like this. They just wouldn't let us in," I say, looking down at the desolate state of my wardrobe and realizing I should've grabbed more than just my laptop when Bullet took me by my apartment. A change of clothes would've been nice. I look and smell extraordinarily rough.

  "Got my suit at home. We'll grab it, then get you some clothes from a store. Shouldn't take long."

  With that, he starts the motorcycle and my thoughts get so scrambled by the roar of the engine that we're several miles down the road before I realize that we're heading to his house. I've never seen his house. Never known where he lived. Never met his family, really, except saying a brief hello to his father when I stopped by their garage once. And now that I've been kidnapped and am extorting my fiance's family for tons of money, I'm going to just casually walk into his house like nothing's happening and meet his parents?

  I am freaking out.

  More than when I talked to Alexander, more than when Jackson first stormed back into my life and kidnapped me by running the car off the highway.

  When we pull into the driveway of a single-story house on the outskirts of Costa Oscura, I'm so close to hyperventilating that it takes me a moment to notice the state of the house—the peeling paint, the sagging roof on the garage, the plywood nailed down over a broken living room window—that speaks to a state of sorry disarray.

  "What the hell...?" Jackson murmurs as he slips off the bike.

  "This is your house?" I say, shocked I can even get those words out.

  He nods, looking around as if he's seeing the place for the first time.

  "Used to be. Now it's just my dad's. I haven't been back in a while. He never was the best about caring for the place, even when mom was alive. But after she passed and after I left, it looks like he just..." He reaches out a hand to help me off the motorcycle, and I take it, feeling a little unsteady on my feet. But after he helps me off, he hesitates, staring at the house. "Maybe it was a mistake to come here."

  "Jackson, it's okay. I don't care what your house looks like."

  "My dad doesn't know I'm back. I never called... When Alexander made those threats, I didn't want to put anyone in danger. So I just disappeared." He sighs. "We should go."

  I take his hand, clutch it tight, and smile at him.

  "It'll be fine. Your dad needs to know you're alive."

  We make our way inside; the door creaks ominously on its hinges to announce our presence. The inside of the house is even worse than the outside, with air that is thick with dust, with age, and a musty smell that makes me wrinkle my nose. The furniture is faded and worn, and the curtains threadbare and stained. It's like something out of a horror movie.

  It's dark. But down a long hallway to the left, the flickering lights of a television stream through an open door, along with the sounds of some sitcom's laugh track.

  "Dad?" Jackson calls out. There's no response, and Jackson turns to the door. "We should go.”

  "Mr. Reid," I call out.

  A second of nothing, then the television is switched off, and a voice calls from down the hallway. It's harsh, angry. It sends my eyes glancing to the door, wondering if we really did make a mistake coming here. "Who the hell is it?"

  "Dad, it's me. Jackson."

  "If this is some fucking prank, I'm warning you: I'm armed. Whoever the fuck you are, thinking you can just fucking come here and taunt me about my dead son. You're trespassing and I won't hesitate to shoot you."

  "It's really me, dad. It’s Jackson." Jackson's voice shudders, rife with pain, with heart. There's a glassy shine to his eyes and a look on his face like nothing I've ever seen: sorrow and longing. "I was gone, but I'm back now, dad. I'm back and I'm so sorry for leaving."

  There's a shadow in the doorway at the end of the hall. A quiet response. "Jackson? Is it really you?" The shadow comes a few steps forward, bringing into the light a man clearly broken by pain, by heartbreak. "Jacky, oh Jacky, my boy." He shuffles toward us down the hall, but with each halting step, his stride grows, quickens, and his posture straightens. He envelopes Jackson in a hug and kisses him once on each cheek. "I can't believe it. You're back?"

  "I am. For a while, yeah," Jackson says, hugging his dad back. "I know it's been hard on you, but I want you to know that I'm okay."

  "Why'd you leave? Why didn't you call me?" Jackson's dad says. "What's wrong? You know you can trust me. I may not look like it, but I can help you if you need something. I've still got the shop, I've got the house, I'll sell them both if you need money, son."

  "It's not that, dad. It's complicated."

  "And you can't tell me?" Jackson's father says, his voice shaken, hurt. "I'm your dad, Jackson. Why can't you tell me?"

  "Because people could get hurt. Just trust me."

  Jackson's father turns from his son. Maybe he saw something in his son's face, or heard something in his son's voice, but he looks right at me, as if he knows.

  "Bryan Reid," he says. "And you are?"

  I'm the reason your son disappeared, I want to say.

  "Madison.”

  "Do you have a last name, Madison?" Bryan Reid says.

  Jackson clears his throat. "Dad, better if you don't know."

  "Son, this is all so confusing. I feel like you're a ghost, like you're just here for a moment and you're going to leave me all over again. I don't know if I can take that. First your mother, then you..."

  "Mom had cancer, dad. You can't blame yourself for that. You did everything you could for her, more, even. You worked yourself to the bone, and you nearly went bankrupt with all the doctors, the experimental treatments… mom said over and over—to you, to me, to others even when you weren't around—that you made her so happy, even at the end."

  "You don't understand, son."

  "I understand, dad. I understand that you're trying to put everything on your shoulders. You have to stop doing that to yourself."

  His dad is quiet for a moment. "Is that what you're doing with her?"

  I look from Jackson to his father, and back again. I can see how they are cut from the same cloth. See how, if things were just a little different, if I were the one in the hospital bed, Jackson would run himself into the ground, work himself to the bone until his very bones were ground to dust, just to bring me an ounce of comfort. It's who he is. How he suffered these last four years, living alone in some faraway city, doing what he had to do to survive, but knowing he could never contact anyone he loved, even his father, is just a fraction of what he would endure for me.

  That's what love is to him: sacrifice, even self-destruction. All to make that one person whose life is the center of your world and your happiness just a little happier.

  He truly loves me.

  Loves me, and in introducing me to his father, is showing me just where our love could lead, once my kidnapping is over.

  Jackson seems stunned, unable to answer his father.

  I cut in. "No, sir. We're here because the man I love left a suit here, and he's taking me to a show. Isn't that right, Jackson?"

  "That's right, dad. I wanted the woman I love to meet my father. You're the last family I've got, and she's important to me. I hope that my old suit is still in the closet?"

  Bryan Reid nods, his eyes softening as he looks at his son.

  "Of course, son. Anything for you."

  He leads us down the hall and into a room that looks like a mixture between a bedroom and a storage closet. There are boxes piled high to the ceiling and clothes strewn about the room, everything in disarray, a room of memories kept locked up, locked away, so Jackson's father never has to face them, but never has to lose them, either. At the center of the far wall is a small closet. Bryan opens the door, rummages around and causes several moths to indignantly flutter about. He pulls out a suit bag. "Is this it?"

  Jackson takes the bag and nods. "Yeah, that's it. Thanks, dad."

  Bryan smiles at his son, then turns to me. "You take care of him, you hear me? My boy's been through a lot."

  I smile back at him, feeling my cheeks flush with embarrassment. "I will, sir."

  Bryan nods and watches us as we make our way out of the room and back towards the front door. "Jackson," he calls out. "Come back soon, okay? I love you."

  "Of course I will, dad. I promise. I love you, too." Jackson's voice shakes with love, with pain.

  As we make our way back to the car, I can feel his eyes on me.

  "You love me?" he asks, his voice full of surprise. Not that I blame him. After how much I protested earlier, after how we agreed to put away our feelings and focus on our business arrangement, it makes sense he’d be surprised.

  But dollars, cents, and logic don't mean a damn thing to my heart; not when he treats me the way he does: like I mean more to him than all the money in the world.

  "I do. No one else cares for me like you do, Jackson. No one else actually treats me like they love me more than they love themselves."

  My voice takes on a note of sorrow at that; even my parents, the people who raised me, who are supposed to protect me, don’t. Oh, they love me, sure, but not so much that they’d lose everything for me. I am both their daughter and a bargaining chip.

  He smiles at me, his eyes sparkling with joy and fire.

  They fill me with warmth. There's nothing I wouldn't do to see those eyes look at me the rest of my life the way they are looking at me right now. But they spark regret in me, too.

  What will happen to Jackson’s father after we part?

  Furthermore, what will happen to Jackson? Will he wind up the same as his father, a broken man trudging on, waiting for death?

  Doubts and regret swirl within me, though I fight them off by forcing myself to smile harder.

  "I love you too, Madison. I always have."

  "I know that. And I've loved you, too, always. Even when you broke my heart, there were still pieces that loved you."

  We reach his motorcycle and he helps me astride, then he hands me the suit bag to hold while he gets on. Before he starts the bike, I put my hand on his shoulder, making him turn his head. I kiss his cheek, then his lips, drawn to them by the call of my heart. For a long time, we sit there in the driveway of his dilapidated family home, lost in each other's lips, in each other's love.

  Finally, he pulls back, smiling.

  "We can't miss the symphony show."

  "No, we can't. Also, it's called a concert, not a show. Or you can simply refer to it as ‘the symphony.’"

  "You learn something new every day," he says.

  I look back at his house for a moment, struck again by how broken it looks, how ready to fall into a heap of nothing but rubble and shattered memories.

  "What's going to happen after?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "To your dad. When we've finished with Alexander and taken his money, are you ever going to see him again?"

  I can't forget how small and agonized Bryan Reid appeared; as if he were already dead and his soul was just waiting for his body to catch up to the news.

  "I don't know, Maddy.”

  "Will you see him again? Will you say goodbye?"

  "We'll figure it out when it comes up."

  "What will happen if you disappear again?"

  "He'll be fine. He's tough," Jackson says. "It'll be safer for him, anyway. It's not like I can just pop back into his life for a while after everyone dangerous, like all of Covington's men, think I'm dead. That'd make my dad a target, and I can't do that to him."

  "Is that any better than giving him hope and then ripping it away?" Maybe Jackson doesn't think about these things, but I do. I’ve lived through that pain once before and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. "He's miserable, Jackson. He looked more dead than alive."

  Jackson shakes his head and starts the motorcycle. "There's no time for pointless speculation. We've got a concert to get to and we have to get you a dress first. I can't wait to see how good you look."

  Despite the feeling of anxiety growing in my chest, I can't help but smile. Going to the symphony, getting dressed up, spending a night surrounded by culture, is something that speaks deeply to my soul. It's one of those things—like coffee, a good book, a lazy Sunday morning, or a hug from a dear friend—that gives me life.

  "You're right. Oh, I can't wait to hear some proper music and wear something other than stinky old clothes." My fingers and toes are tingling with excitement just imagining it. “It’s going to be bliss.”

  But as we tear away from the driveway, I throw one last look over my shoulder at the dilapidated house that was Jackson's childhood home. Bryan Reid watches us from the living room window, his face pensive, pained.

  He knows this is one of the last times he'll be seeing his son.

  Is this the cost of our love?

  Nothing but misery and hurt for the people we care about?

  I grit my teeth and try to force the dark thoughts away, but they resurface just seconds later with a vengeance.

  How many more people will we hurt with our scheme? People who will suffer when we disappear?

  So many.

  Ourselves included.

  But what else can I do?

  Because of our actions, our decisions, our future is a runaway freight train barreling forward at full steam and there's nothing I can do to stop it; I can't go back to Alexander and just pretend like nothing's wrong, like life is just going to go back to normal. I have to move forward.