Page 36 of The Breakup Broker

Books surrounded me in their familiar rainbow rows, their spines creating the kind of comfort only well-loved stories can provide. The romance section caught my eye—or rather, I caught myself avoiding it, the way I had since Henry left. Mom still ordered the latest releases, arranged them with care, probably hoping one day I'd stop wincing at happy endings. Tonight, even the cheerful covers seemed to mock the unease in the air.

"Savannah." Mom's voice had that undercurrent she reserved for delivering bad news—the same one she'd used to tell me our ancient tabby, Marmalade, wouldn't be coming home from the vet. Her fingers fidgeted with the reading glasses hanging from their chain around her neck, a nervous habit I hadn't seen since the last time the rent went up. "Your father had a phone call today."

Dad turned, and I saw grease stains on Mom's pristine counter for the first time in my life. Paul Honeysucker might live and breathe engines, but he'd never bring marina grime into Mom's literary sanctuary. Not unless something had rattled him enough to forget his own rules. The smudges looked like black butterflies against the polished wood, each one marking a moment his hands had clenched and unclenched while he waited.

"The building inspector came by," he said, his voice holding something dark. "Found some interesting problems that weren't there last month." The words came out like they'd been caught in a failing transmission, grinding against each other.

"Interesting." The word tasted foreign, off somehow. After what James had told me about Richard Kingston's plans, 'interesting' was about as fitting as calling a hurricane a light breeze. "What problems?"

"Electrical issues." Dad's hands clutched the edge of thecounter. "Foundation concerns. Violations that could shut down a business or move you out of your home." He paused, his following words careful, each measured like he was adjusting a delicate valve. "The problems that appear right after someone powerful makes them appear."

My phone buzzed again—Henry.

"When did this happen?" I tried to keep my voice steady, but it wavered like a boat in choppy waters.

"About an hour ago." Dad's fingers drummed against the counter, leaving tiny grease prints like morse code. "Walked through the whole place like he knew what he was looking for. Said we'd have to close immediately, that you'd need to move out of the apartment?—"

"But then James Morrison called." Mom's cardigan was practically a straitjacket now, wrapped so tight I wondered if she was trying to hold herself together or stop herself from throwing things. She paced behind the counter, her sensible shoes clicking against the hardwood in an anxious rhythm. "Said not to worry about the orders yet. That he was ... handling things."

"Handling things?" The words came out awkward and unfamiliar, like trying to read a book in the dark.

"He said to sit tight until we hear from his contacts." Dad's voice held equal parts worry and wonder. "Something about building department records getting temporarily misplaced." His weathered hands spread flat on the counter now as if bracing himself for impact.

"And then he told us everything else." Mom's hands twisted in her cardigan, her wedding ring catching the light with each nervous movement. "About Richard Kingston's threats five years ago. About why Henry left. About?—"

"His father threatened to destroy everything if hedidn't," I finished for her. "I know. James told me today. That's where I was—at Madison Center."

Dad's eyes met Mom's over my head, one of those silent conversations they'd perfected over thirty years of marriage. The kind that usually preceded either good news or bad news. And given that Dad was at the bookstore instead of fixing Mrs. Mitchell's Volvo, I had a pretty good guess which this was. The air between them seemed to crackle with unvoiced concerns and shared fears.

My phone lit up again. Henry.

"You should probably answer that," Dad said, his voice low—the same one he used when telling customers their engines were beyond saving. Steady, careful, meant to cushion the impact. He hesitated, then added, even gentler, "You’ve heard James’s side. Maybe it’s time to hear it from the source."

I exhaled slowly, forcing the knot in my chest to loosen. I wasn’t ready to face him but avoiding him hadn’t solved anything. The silence between us had stretched too far, and now it threatened to snap. My head shouted no, insisting I keep my distance, but that small, stubborn piece of my heart he still owned whispered yes.

Maybe I didn’t have all the answers, but I knew one thing: I couldn’t keep running from this. I wasn’t letting him back into my life—I was just getting the details on why he left. That was it. I didn’t have to be open or kind or even civil. I just needed to hear what he had to say and take it one minute at a time. Or so I told myself.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Henry

Fifth call. Still no answer.

I sat in my car outside Madison Center, the glow from the screen throwing streaks of light across the dashboard. My call history showed five attempts, each ending in the same dead air. My thumb hovered over her name again, my grandfather’s words from earlier settling over me like a lead blanket.

Of course, she was—after all these years of silence, what right did I have to expect anything else?

But I couldn’t stop. Not now. Not after what James told me—what I saw this morning.

I pressed redial. Sixth call.

The line rung once. Twice. I braced for the click of voicemail, the inevitable defeat. Then, a voice.

“Hello?”

I froze. Her voice was cautious and neutral. My heart kicked into overdrive, pounding in my ears like an alarm.

“Savvy, it’s me,” I said before she could hang up.

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