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Jameson’s tapping on his phone, and then I hear it, his tell—he clears his throat.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He flips his phone over on his thigh.
“What? Get a hot sext?”
“Drop it, Bryant.”
“Jesus, what’s got you ill as a hornet?”
He turns his glare toward the driver’s window. Anger drips from his face in the reflection.
“You’re scaring me, Jameson. What is it?”
“Fuck,” he mutters, “I don’t want to do this.”
“Do what?”
I’ve never seen him this mad, not even at a crime scene.
“This.” He turns his phone back over and taps the screen. “I’m sorry”—he shows me the image on it—“but he’s an asshole.”
My ears start ringing. My fingers go numb. It’s Redix and Angie on Instagram, holding hands over dinner on some outdoor LA restaurant patio.
It flips my world and my eyes look away from the pain and can’t find focus. They’re supposed to be over. I heard Redix call Angie myself. I can’t think past it, past the deception.
I want to scream.
“I’m sorry, Bryant.” Jameson sounds a mile away. “It posted an hour ago. I’d rather it be me to show you than some random dick.”
Everyone knows. That photo of Redix and me at the golf resort splashed all over the local papers, and social media, and the press and fans went apeshit.
The famous BOUND perfume couple, our local star-crossed young lovers, are back together.
I don’t care. I’m so numb to that stuff; it doesn’t faze me. The guys at work making dumbass jokes. My neighbors asking me where Redix is. I’ve been too happy to care.
Now, I exhale happiness and inhale horror.
He did it again.
Redix Dean lost my heart and all his chances.
“I’m fine.”
I focus back on the front glass doors. Mai Le is standing there by the corner of the building. I jump out and focus my anger on at least helping her.
Mai texts me the picture of her sister, Cam. I jot down all the notes. Where Cam was last seen. Where she likes to go. Eat. Shop. All of it. She shares what she knows of Cam’s coworkers and the friend who usually gives her a ride to the island. Once I’m done and say goodbye to Mai, I need something, anything, so I dash inside the store for my only relief.
Candy.
“Ms. Dubois,”—I try to refocus, talking to the owner behind the counter—“you ever gonna fix your cameras?”
I’m glad tonight that she didn’t. I didn’t want Mai on camera—nothing to expose her to even more risk.
“You and your mama,” Ms. Dubois cracks a grin, “y’all worry about me too much. I’m fine. I don’t need no cameras when I got this.” She pats the counter. Her shotgun is underneath it—more power to her. “You have a good night, sweetheart. And you send your mama my prayers, alright?”
“Yes, ma’am. I will.”
