Page 61 of Spin Control

Once that’s out of the way, I relax into my couch, relishing the relief of not having to fight off reporters looking to write about me this weekend.

And refusing to acknowledge the sinking feeling that is being an entire ocean away from Wes Grant.

I don’t leave my apartment until Saturday afternoon.

I was up at an ungodly hour for the comms team meeting and then watched qualifying, where Wes ended up in P3 and Freddie came in at P7. After putting together my daily media monitoring report, I had been up for hours but still had an entire day ahead of me.

So I switched gears. And now, I’m the owner of an evidence board dedicated to an international scandal. After spending a solid hour staring at the giant “WHY” I wrote in red beside Elio Rocca’s photo and the bounty of question marks that surround the words “Druvia” and “Reverie,” I realize that I’m hyper-fixating—which is never a good thing.

So I book a yoga class and get off the couch. Though the tiny, toned instructor kicks my ass, I feel infinitely better, both mentally and physically, when I leave the studio. Not ready to head home yet, I swing by a juice bar where the cashier thoroughly heckles me for wearing a Red Sox cap in Yankees territory. I hadn’t even realized I grabbed Wes’s hat as I walked out the door—but I did. And I really don’t want to know what choosing it subconsciously says about me.

Once my juice is in hand, I head out into the glory of a late-June afternoon in New York City, making my way east until I hit the park. I mosey through, marveling at the weather and smiling at the many dogs out on walks with their owners.

My phone vibrates and I hope it’s Chalondra calling to fill me in on all the paddock gossip. But my vibe goes from carefree to red-alert when an unknown number is on my screen. My spine straightens. My pulse quickens. But my mind clears in a way it hasn’t in weeks.

“This is Elizabeth Jacobs.”

“Hello, Elizabeth.” The voice is raspy and the English is accented—Eastern European, I think. “I got your message.”

My blood freezes in my veins, but I don’t let my steps falter. “So you did.”

Stas Dubinsky lets out a low chuckle. “I heard you’re unflappable.”

Though I’m very aware of how hard my heart is beating, I manage to keep my voice even. “I’m glad I’m living up to my reputation.”

Despite the plethora of information available online about Stas and his racing history, the man is still an enigma. He doesn’t open up about his personal life, rarely discusses his family, and refuses to speculate on anything in the world of motorsports. Everyone has always assumed he’s just private and unafraid of being seen as an asshole. But his arrest and association with organized crime puts his reticence to share anything personal in a very different light.

A couple gets up from a bench and I rush to it, sitting before anyone else can claim the coveted seat.

“Why are you in New York instead of Spielberg?” Stas asks without preamble.

I don’t even consider dodging the question. “I’d be a distraction the team doesn’t need this weekend.”

He hums thoughtfully. “The team? Or Wes?”

There is nothing unflappable about the way my body reacts. Every cell lights up in anticipation of an attack. “My job is to ensure Martine Racing is unscathed by whatever it is you and Elio are caught up in. Not to create more drama.”

“Ahh, but you’ve already done that, haven’t you?” Stas says. “I’m guessing you didn’t know people were listening in when you gave Wes that motivational speech?”

I inhale sharply. “No.”

“Would you have done it if you knew?”

The question catches me off guard. Somehow, I haven’t wondered whether knowing those comms are public would have changed what I said or how I said it. I nearly tell him that it’s not worth dealing in hypotheticals. But when Wes asked for me over the radio, I sprinted through the garage and over to the pit wall, where Paul sits, so that I could speak with him.

And there it is: the truth. “Yes.”

“Good,” Stas says, his tone warm now. “I’m glad he has you.”

I don’t know what to make of that. But just like Stas has confirmed a suspicion he had about me, I’ve also now confirmed something vital about him: he wants to protect Wes Grant.

I have so many questions for Stas. I’m desperate to know about Elio’s involvement. I want to ask point blank if the Bugatti is the key to finding whoever is distributing Reverie. I want to know whether Stas’s uncle is who Alice Abrams believes he is. But it’s not like I can ask any of this as I sit on a bench in Central Park, where anyone could overhear this conversation. So I grit my teeth and ask, “Is that why you called? Just to find out whether I care about Wes?”

“No. I need to give you a warning.”

My stomach drops. “Oh?”

“Elio is not happy that you bested him in Monaco,” he says. “He is well-connected. Be careful.”