Page 99 of Regards, Mia

I grab my phone and check the connection. Sure enough, no wifi.

Hope soars in my chest. No wifi means my text to Jay didn't go through. He isn't responding for a reason.

My fingers fly over the screen, scrolling to settings to turn on my data plan. I'm about to click the button to turn on my data plan when my doorbell rings.

My heart races and I jump up from my chair. Jay is here.

As I reach for the door, I peek through the peephole, but it's too dark to see more than a large male shape. I think to check the camera feed on my security system, but the wifi is down.

I pull open the door, ready to launch myself at Jay, and tell him my plan for a new start when I see it isn't Jay.

It's a tall man with graying hair and broad shoulders. His handsome features look familiar, and then I recognize him.

Eric Mattson. Warner Mattson's dad.

I narrow the gap in the door and take a step back. “What can I do for you, Mr. Mattson?"

He’s aged since the last time I’d seen him sitting next to his son in the courtroom. His hair has gone gray overnight, and his cheeks are sunken, but he musters up a snake oil salesman smile and steps closer to the gap in the door. “Why don’t you let me in? We can have a nice long chat.”

Fear tremors through me like an earthquake, but I hold my ground. “I don’t think so. I have company.”

His smile turns into a snarl. “That’s a lie counselor. Like all the other ones you told.” The silver barrel of a handgun flashes in the darkness as he pushes it into the crack of the door. “Let me in.”

My stomach clenches, and I try to remember everything I’m supposed to do in a fight, but my brain freezes. Eric Mattson slams his hand against the door, and I have no choice but to stumble backward and allow him in. I feel like I’m back in college again, helpless and confused. But then I remember I’m an adult, and I have a lot more experience dealing with assholes of the world like Eric Mattson.

He might think he has the upper hand, but I’m not helpless. I’m not terrified like I was when the boys from the lacrosse team threatened to hold me down until they were done with me. I’ve been dealing with criminal minds for years.

“Can I offer you something to drink?” I ask, moving toward the kitchen and my phone.

Eric Mattson takes a look around my apartment, holding his gun in front of him and gesturing with it. “This place is a dump,” he says.

“You think so?” I survey my boring apartment with a nonchalant glance. “I think it’s nice.”

He points to a stool by the kitchen counter. “Sit down.”

My heart is pounding out of my chest, but I take a deep breath and slowly make my way to the stool. My phone is on the desk next to my laptop, only a few feet away. If I could manage to grab it…

“Don’t even think about it,” he says, giving me that fake smile again. He points to the stool and drags a backpack off his shoulder.

When I see the backpack, my blood runs cold. I can only imagine what he has planned for me. Nothing good, I know that much. I start talking. Anything I can think of to get him distracted. He seems eager to spill his story and starts blabbing about what a good kid Warner was. How he was just like his grandad. Good at baseball, the women loved him, he could talk anyone into anything. Blah, blah, blah. As he waxes on about how amazing his son was, my mind whizzes into action. He has a gun, but I’m younger and smarter.

When he pauses to remember the details of Warner’s homecoming football game, I slide off the stool and saunter into the kitchen. “I have a good chianti waiting to be opened,” I say. “Maybe you’d like a glass?”

He hesitates, his eyes glassy with far- off memories. There’s a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead and his skin is so pale it has a greenish tint. He nods, wiping the back of his hand over his brow. “Wine would be okay,” he says.

I open several drawers, pretending to look for the opener as I palm a vegetable peeler and push it under the sleeve of my sweater. The peeler isn’t much use against a gun, but maybe if I get him relaxed and drinking wine, I can take it from there.

“Warner could have been somebody,” he says. “He wanted to run for president. Did you know that?”

I struggle to keep my eyebrows in place. Just what our country needs, an attempted rapist in the most powerful position of government. “Wow,” I say, schooling my features to seem impressed. “That’s ambitious.”

I grab the bottle of wine and consider chucking it at his head, but he’s too far away, and my aim is terrible.

The doorbell rings and both of us freeze. Hope bursts in my chest, because this time it has to be Jay. But did I send thatmessage before Mattson rang the bell? I can’t remember. It doesn’t matter. It’s the opportunity I need.

Eric storms across the room and grabs me by the shoulder. It’s the first time he’s touched me since he came into the house, and it makes my skin crawl. “Answer the door,” he says, dragging me through the living room. “But don’t try anything funny, or I’ll shoot you.”

He positions himself behind the door and waits while I look through the peephole. My chest fills with hope as I see Jay standing on my doorstep. The darkness cloaks him, but I recognize the set of his broad shoulders, the way he holds his head. Everything about him is familiar in the most reassuring way.

---