Page 170 of Irreversible

“Everly.” Queenie presses the back of her hand to my sweat-damp forehead. “Hey. Talk to me, Angel Baby.”

I curl into a ball and sob.

“Oh, honey…” She wraps her arms around me and holds me tight as I shatter into pieces.

But they’re not the arms I want.

It’s not her words I need.

It’s just another wall I can’t break through.

42

“Detective Tanner, please.” I pad circles around my apartment in wide-leg jeans and a tight tank top, my hair pulled up in the world’s largest messy bun, as my cell phone wobbles against my ear.

“Hi, Everly.”

I pause my steps. “Hey, Astrid. I’m that recognizable, huh?”

“It’s the prominent irritation inflected whenever you say his name.”

Frowning, I mouth the name Tanner multiple times, realizing I do say it with an edge. “Sorry.” I clear my throat through a chuckle. “Is he around? It’s kind of important.”

“He should be. I’ll transfer you.”

Two minutes pass, and I glance at my Apple watch, noting that I’ve managed over one-thousand steps just in unproductive pacing.

A voice answers. “Tanner.”

The moment he picks up, I plop down in a kitchen chair and ramble off a frazzled monologue all in one breath. “Hey. It’s Everly. Everly Mayfield. I’m damn-near confident Isaac is following me. Stalking me while avoiding me at the same time; it’s an art form, really. And it’stheIsaac—not Grandpa Isaac—sodon’t even bother. Have you been hiding him? Is he a criminal? Are you both criminals? You better start talking, because I?—”

The call disconnects.

Son of a bitch.

I stare at my phone screen, my eyes narrowing to slits.

I’m petty enough to call right back.

Astrid sighs through the speaker. “Hey. He told me to tell you he’s catching a plane to Aruba, and he won’t be returning. Ever. Please don’t kill the messenger.”

“Aruba’s great. A pioneer of purified water technology.” Gritting my teeth, I force my tone to stay pleasant as I stand from the chair and start cleaning my countertops for the seventeenth time. “Can you transfer me again?”

“Sure thing.”

Straight to voicemail.

I growl out something unintelligible and toss my phone onto the counter, then press forward on my hands. Frustration courses through me in volatile waves. It’s been a week since my on-stage meltdown-slash-panic attack, and Queenie encouraged me to take the week off to focus on my mental health.Valid.Apparently, putting off my therapy appointments hasn’t been wise.

I’m spiraling.

And my stalker situation isn’t helping.

For weeks, I’ve felt a presence. Eyes on me. It would be natural to worry that my captor or someone working for him is after me, but the truth is…I’ve never felt unsafe. I’ve felt the opposite.

Protected.

Now, given the mysterious man popping in and out of my orbit lately, I’m led to believe that my instincts have been right all along.

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