Page 71 of Man of the Year

“And you know him how?” I probe.

Rich shakes his head, irritated, then looks around the café like a thief.

“Listen here.” He beckons me closer, and I lean in, going along with him for now. “If you’re trying to get intel here, it won’t work. That’smygig.Mymoney, okay? But I’m willing to share. You want a payday, sweetheart, you do exactly what I tell you. Unless you want to end up like the others.”

The comment jolts me upright. “Excuse me?”

This sounds like a direct warning.

His phone makes a weird honking sound, which I assume is a notification. Suddenly, Rich’s eyes widen at the screen so dramatically that they appear ready to fall out of their sockets.

“Oh, shit.” His amused chuckle sounds like a screech. “Will you look at that.”

Why do I have a feeling that this guy has a list of blackmail options?

Rich clicks his tongue. “Payday!” His face lights up, and he gets up abruptly, almost knocking his chair backward. “There come my twenty million,” he says with a satisfied grin. “I don’t need you. Ciao.” He starts walking away but pauses at the door and turns around. “Oh!” He nods at me. “I suggest staying away from that mansion.”

In a second, he’s out the door, like he’s never been here.

I sit dumbfounded.

What was that about twenty million? Does that mean that Rosenberg messaged him back? And now this soon-to-be-rich douchebag doesn’t need me?

The questions keep swirling in my head as I wave off the cashier who’s motioning for the coffees that are ready. I dart outside. I want to know more. I want to know if the twenty million he just brought up are actually coming from Rosenberg and if Rich is still going to give me the inside information he promised.

Suddenly, a loud honking sound and the screech of tires slice through the air. A loud scream follows. A man in a black hoodie, jeans, and blue sneakers, darts away from the intersection and disappears around the corner.

The sounds of multiple cars braking and honking fill the street.

Someone shouts, “Help!”

Rich is nowhere in sight, but people start trotting toward the intersection, a crowd gathering fast, and I make my way toward it, curious, looking over others’ shoulders to see what happened.

“He walked right out,” someone says.

“He got pushed,” someone else suggests.

“Yeah, there was someone behind him.”

“That guy with blue sports sneakers, where did he go?”

“The ambulance is on the way.”

“He’s dead, definitely dead.”

A van stands sideways in the middle of the road, blocking traffic. My eyes catch sight of the body splayed on the pavement in front of it, the legs and arms contorted in an unnatural way. The head is turned to the side, and the growing pool of blood under it is jarring—the guy is definitely dead.

I feel bile gathering in my throat—not just any guy. It’s Rich.

FIFTY-FIVE

NATALIE

I’m staring at the dead man, fear gripping me as the crowd thickens.

“Didn’t he just come out of the coffee shop?” someone asks.

“Yeah! He was there with someone. I saw him through the window.”

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