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“Something’s up. Something bad is up,” he explains. “Look, I made contact with that passport guy. Just say yes, and you’ll have yours and Raffi’s in two days.”
“Thomas! What did I say?”
“Right. So you haven’t changed your mind.”
“Get yourself one if that’s what you want, and if you’re absolutely sure you’ll be out of Don’s reach!”
“Iz, listen. I’m telling you this because you’re my dear friend. If anything happens to me, you look the other way. You got that?”
His statement splits me in two. It’s so real, yet I refuse to believe it. Maybe—just maybe—he’s merely trying to sway me into taking the passports. “Don’t you blackmail me, Thomas!”
“Shut up and listen. Don has planted a spy in Hartley Marine. I don’t know the details yet, but I’ll send them as soon as I know. I think Don’s plan is to get that man to do the dirty work once you get hold of Clayton’s access card.”
The statement stabs my already struggling body. So this is it. Don is going all-out with whatever he’s been planning.
Thomas asks, “What are you gonna do, Iz?”
“I don’t know. I’ll think of something.”
But every time I try to hatch a plan, my mind is washed out with mud. For now, I have to know that my best friend is safe. “I owe you, Thomas. But you can’t fucking say something’s gonna happen to you! Take your passport, and go!”
“No. Once I know who this spy is, tell Clayton. No doubt Don will know I did it. But if you stay with Hartley, I’ll know you’re safe. Only then will I leave.”
“Listen to me! Don’t dig anything more. Don’t wait for me. Just go!” I spell it out for him. “Clayton will figure out who that spy is after I alert him. Save yourself, Thomas.”
“No. You and Raffi are our only priorities. Do you hear me?”
“Thomas! Leave now.”
“Raffi is the brother I never had. And you, you’re my best friend.”
And he hangs up.
“Fuck!”
My day isn’t getting any better when a couple of LAPD officers approach my car. I have a morning-afternoon shift today, and I left it on the street overnight to save time this morning.
“Miss Martin,” one of them calls to me when I come out. They then introduce themselves.
“How can I help you, officers?”
“May I ask how this happened?” One of them rubs the dented corner of my hood.
I frown. “I don’t know. It wasn’t there when I drove home last night. Maybe someone hit it sometime between then and this morning.”
“Were you driving along Hilgard Avenue at around seven a.m. yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“Someone has reported a hit-and-run with your car details, including the exact registration.”
Cold sweat coats the back of my neck. “It must be a mistake. I never hit anyone.”
“Miss Martin—”
“I need to go to work. This is a mistake. You need to go back to your witness and ask them again.”
“We can do it the easy way or the hard way.” The officers stand in my way. “I suggest the latter. So come with us to the station.”
