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There are any number of things she might apologize for, including pretending I don’t exist for nine years, but what she says is a complete surprise. “I can’t give you any money.”
My lips part slightly. “I didn’t ask you for money.”
“I know. But I’m just saying. I wish I could give you something so you could start a new life and get away from that creep. But I can’t. I don’t have anything to give you.”
Ever since I left home, I’ve kept to myself. Done my job. Gone home after work. Avoided any sort of intimate relationship. Been self-sufficient and pragmatic and more cynical than I was as a kid. No one would ever accuse me of being soft or vulnerable now, but even I can’t match the cold bitterness of Amber’s voice and expression.
Life hasn’t been good to me. For the past seven months, it’s been actively trying to kill me. But I suspect it’s been even harder on Amber.
“I don’t have any money,” Amber adds, her voice brittle.
Despite my annoyance at her assuming I’m looking for a payout, I can’t help but lower my eyes to Amber’s designer clothes, shoes, handbag, and jewelry. Her purse alone almost certainly cost more than my car.
“The money is his,” Amber explains, reading my expression correctly. “Not mine.”
I wouldn’t know anything about Amber’s life now had I not regularly researched her online. She’s shared absolutely nothing with me. But her current boyfriend is both wealthy and well-known. They’ve been living together in DC for at least a few months. They’re engaged to be married.
William Worthing. That’s his name. He has a family legacy as notorious as ours, but the Worthings have been much smarter with their money. They’re wealthier than they were a hundred years ago, and they’re known primarily for having a lot of very good-looking male heirs.
Amber lets out a breath and adjusts the large sunglasses that are resting on the top of her head. “If I ask him for money, I need a reason. He’ll give me money to buy a piece of jewelry or a new car, but then he’ll expect to see the necklace or the car. He may have money coming out of his ears, but he’s going to want to see evidence of what I do with a pile of cash. I’m sorry, Jade. I simply can’t give you any money.”
That actually makes sense to me. I don’t think she’s lying. “As I said before, I’m not asking for money. I’ve been trying to reconnect with you for nine years. I’m not here for the money.”
“I know. But I wanted you to know I’d give you some if I was able.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that. I guess money might help, but it’s not what I’m looking for. I just want to… feel safe again.”
Seven months ago, I started getting red roses. One at a time. On my welcome mat. On the hood of my car. On the table where I always sat on weekend mornings in my favorite coffee shop.
At first I was confused and intrigued since aside from the occasional one-night stand with a stranger, I don’t do any sort of relationship. Who would even notice me, much less give me roses like that?
After a couple of weeks, the roses continued but got creepier. They showed up on my desk at work. Inside my car. In my shopping cart at the grocery store when I left it for just a minute to grab something from another aisle.
I went to the police. They did nothing.
Then I started getting texts and phone calls. They weren’t threats. They were asking about my day and what I was watching on television, as if we were on friendly terms. The police told me to change my phone number. I did, but soon the calls and texts began again. And this time they were scarier, using details from my daily routine that no one should know.
Since the cops weren’t doing anything, I hired a private investigator who was able to trace the calls and track the stalker.
Vince Montaigne. A wealthy but seemingly normal guy in his thirties. The week before I started getting the roses, he came into my jewelry shop to order a custom piece for his mother, and I met with him for about twenty minutes to get the details on what he wanted.
That was it.
That one encounter turned into this.
His family has money and a lot of connections in Houston, so my attempts to do something legally ran into nothing but dead ends. So I moved, subletting a cheap studio. Started using nothing but prepaid phones. Eventually quit my job and waited tables at a diner.
For almost a month, I could actually breathe, thinking I’d finally shaken him.
But then Detective Curtis showed up in the diner. I recognized him from my attempts to get the police to help. I’d always suspected he was friends with Montaigne because of the way he talked to me, but soon I knew it for sure.
The next day, Montaigne was sitting at a booth in the diner with a smirk on his face.
I went back to the kitchen and quit my job then and there, giving up a week’s pay just to get out of there quickly. I hurried home, gathered up my stuff, and left my new apartment.
I got a room in a cheap, long-stay hotel that accepted cash and didn’t care that I was giving them a fake name.
That was five weeks ago. I’ve been living on my savings ever since, not daring to get another job, but now my time and my money have run out. I have no other resources, and I’m too tired to try the same thing again.
