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“There’s a burner and a charger in there,” I said. “Also a few numbers on a note card. If you ever need to run, call them in numerical order. They’ll arrange a private flight to get you out. The worst case scenario we hopefully never come to, but I’ve got a way out. You deserve one too.”

“I get what you’re saying,” she said. “And I appreciate the thought. But I can’t take handouts like this⁠—”

“Because you think I might hold this over your head one day, and I won’t.” I grabbed her hand from her side, set it on top of the bag, then wrapped my fingers around hers. “I promise you, I won’t. That’s why I want you to take it far from here. Somewhere I don’t know about, so you have some sense of security.” I continued before she could argue again. “It’s not fair, the way things are right now. If I wanted to leave, if I wanted to turn you in, I could pack and be gone by the morning. And you can’t. Not without this. If shit ever hits the fan, you’re screwed. And that’s not how relationships are supposed to work. I’m able to offer you some insurance, and if I’m going to call myself anything close to a decent partner, it’s not just about ability. I’m obligated to do that for you. Just like I know you would do for me if the roles were reversed.”

That often cold, blue-eyed gaze grew lighter and warmer with each passing second. But she still hadn’t spoken.

A different route then. “It’s actually as much for my benefit as it is yours. If you have a way out, I know you’re doing this because it’s what you want. Not because it’s your only choice, not because I have dirt on you and you’re afraid of leaving me. I know you’ve been there before, and I don’t ever want you to feel like that again. I don’t want you to be afraid of me. I want you to be with me because you want me, because you love me, and nothing else. I want you to have security, Gwen.”

Her frown deepened. “You know I want you. I loved you before I knew you were rich.” I laughed, and she smiled. “And before I knew you had dirt on me.”

Touché. “Still. It’s just a formality, Gwen.”

Sighing, she fastened the zipper. “I won’t need it. We’re going to get away with everything we’ve done.”

“That’s the plan,” I said. “But you don’t carry car insurance because you’re sure you’ll crash. You get it in case you do.”

“Fair enough.”

“So you’ll take it?”

“Since you’re putting me in a position I can’t refuse,” she said. “Now come on. We have a party to get to. Let’s go back to pretending like we’re normal.”

27

GWEN

We took my car. I drove, Sebastian sat in the passenger seat, and Simone squeezed in the back with Lizzie and Junie. The kids did most of the talking.

Lizzie informed Junie she’d know Gabby at the party—Mallory and Chris’s daughter. She and Junie were in the same grade. They probably had some classes together.

Only then did Simone chime in with, “Wait, Mallory Jacobs?”

“That’s the one,” Sebastian confirmed.

“Oh, I do know her,” Simone said. “I do her hair.”

Which meant I was the only person in this car with no knowledge of the people whose party we were attending.

I didn’t mind, though. Sebastian said he’d gone to this New Year’s Eve party every year since he came back from college.

For the last year, I’d considered Black Pines home. But this felt like a private invitation to one of its inner circles.

The Jacobs’ home was exactly what you’d expect of a small family in an even smaller town. Its craftsman character suggested a century of standing, while the fresh white trim on the porch and window shutters showed the care they’d put into maintaining it.

The inside proved the same. Refinished cedar planks lined the floors, butting up against wainscoting stained to match. The pretty green wallpaper above it, paired with the laughter that sounded from the living room, and the children tripping over toys as they crossed the hallway straight ahead, brought warmth to my chest.

Definitely not the rager Simone had feared.

“Who’s here?” a woman called from somewhere in the distance, tone teasing.

“Who all did you invite?” Sebastian hollered, stomping off his boots on the entry rug.

“Beats the hell out of me.” Her footsteps peddled from the living room on my right. She came into view, and I had to assume she was our host—not because of anything she said. Just because she looked like a Mallory.

Lean, but not skinny. Blonde, but not bleached blonde. Jeans and a T-shirt, but in a way that felt casual, not messy. Pretty, with a smile as warm and inviting as her home.

“You must be Gwen!” Holding her cup of red off to the side, she came in for a hug. A tighter hug than I’d expected from a stranger. “It’s so nice to finally meet you. We’ve heard so much. It’s great to put a name to a face!”