Page 9 of Vega

I snatched the remote from the nightstand and raised the volume.

“...identified the victim as thirty-eight-year-old Donovan Granger,” the reporter said. “Granger was found late last night in Lake Michigan.”

Dior was still talking. “And then he told me he was flexible, which I assumed meant emotionally. It did not.”

“Dior, shut up,” I hurriedly spit.

I moved closer to the television. The image changed to crime scene footage. Police tape surrounded the beach.

My knees weakened as I could hear Dior fuss, “Who you tellin’ to shut up? You mighty snappy this morning…”

Dior’s words faded as I listened to the news reporter. “Granger was the son of prominent businessman Roman Granger, whose name has surfaced repeatedly in federal and local investigations into organized criminal activity. Neither Roman nor Donovan Granger had been convicted in connection with those allegations.”

The screen showed Roman next. He wore a dark suit and was surrounded by attorneys as he entered a courthouse. The caption beneath his image called him a Chicago businessman with suspected ties to organized crime.

The reporter continued. “Investigators are asking anyone who may have witnessed suspicious activity in the area to contact Chicago police.”

The room became too small. I tried to inhale, but I suddenly couldn’t breathe. My fingers went numb around the phone.

Roman Granger wasn’t simply an angry father who had lost control. He was a man law enforcement had investigated and failed to convict. That meant he had money and connections. That also meant that he most likely had people willing to make other people disappear.

I backed away from the television and knocked into my dresser.

“Sonnet?”

I couldn’t answer Dior.

“Sonnet, what’s wrong?”

My breathing came too fast now. It was short, useless gasps that made me light-headed without giving me enough oxygen. I pressed a hand against the dresser and forced myself to think.

Name five things you can see.

Television. Lamp. Closet. Shoes. Mirror.

Four things you can touch.

Dresser. Phone. Skirt. Carpet.

I had learned grounding exercises through countless therapy sessions years ago.

“Sonnet,” Dior urged again. “What were you trying to tell me?”

I stared at Roman’s face on the screen.

Had he seen mine? Could he find out which employees had been in the building? My name, address, and emergency contact information were all in my company’s system. A man with enough reach would not need long to locate me.

“Nothing,” I said.

“You said it was important.”

I swallowed and straightened my blouse with one hand.

The truth was sitting right there in my throat. I wanted to tell him. Dior was the closest thing I had to family. He was the person I called when I was sick, stranded, angry, or lonely enough to admit it. Keeping something this big from him felt wrong. Telling him would make him part of it, though. If Roman discovered I had spoken, Dior could become another person who knew too much.

“I’m fine,” I lied. “I barely slept. That’s all.”

“You sure?”