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No way. Jane’s not the type.
He reads my mind. “No one’s too clean, Drew. You of all people know that. Your best friends turned on you and Lindsay four years ago. What makes you think Jane wouldn’t?”
Considering Mark Paulson is the closest thing I have to a best friend, all I can do is stare at him.
“I get one phone call,” I choke out, coughing so hard blood appears at the corner of my mouth.
“You’re exercising that right now?”
“Better late than never.”
His face goes slack. “Depending on who, exactly, is orchestrating your arrest, never is a distinct possibility.” The bones in his face stand out with tension as he whispers, “If they move you out of here, I don’t know where they’ll take you. The longer we stall, and the more people I add to the chain of information, the better. Once you’re out of my sight, I -- ” His words break off with a frustrated halt and an angry shrug.
“One phone call. Senator Harwell Bosworth.”
“You have brass balls, Drew. Brass fucking balls. The guy’s probably behind some of this!”
“I know he’s not. And he needs to know that any instructions from any entity to move Lindsay will only endanger her.” I recite a number. “That’s his private line. Get him on the phone.”
Mark hands me his phone. I dial.
“Bosworth.”
“Harry, don’t hang up.”
“You.”
One word can sound like a death wish.
“Listen to me. Don’t move Lindsay. Any transport puts her at risk,” I snap.
“You put her at risk, you sick little beast.”
“It wasn’t me. I’m being set up.”
“He said you’d say that.”
“Who?”
“Look, Drew. Get help. Go inpatient at a mental hospital, get whatever assistance you need. But stalking Lindsay like this isn’t healthy for you. She doesn’t love you. She doesn’t want you.”
I don’t take the bait.
“Do not send her to the Island.”
His silence confirms what I suspected.
“I know it’s not a coffee plantation.”
“It’s where she needs to be, Drew. No thanks to you. And stop with the death threats against me,” he adds, acid in his voice.
“Oh, come on. You don’t actually believe that’s me, Harry. I can tell you don’t.”
The sound of a palm rubbing against stubble peppers the phone line. He sighs. “I don’t know who has decided to make your life a living hell, Drew, but you pissed off someone very, very high and very, very powerful. I can’t save you.” His voice tightens, as if he’s reconsidering. “Not that I’d want to.”
He thinks the line’s being monitored.
He’s right.
