Page 35 of Restitution
KADE
When I bought this place and realised I had too much money that could get swallowed up by the system if I died, I made a will. When my untimely passing happens, I’ll split half my money between my family. They can argue among them who gets what amount.
The other half will go to Stacey, along with the ownership of the dogs, my Stirling apartment, and my bike and car. She already has a few of my accounts that Barry gave her when they moved to America.
My savings – all thirty million dollars hidden in a separate bank account – goes to Barry. It means college fully paid for his daughter and any future kids, and he’ll have fullcontrol of my business and all guards.
Base is basically richer than royalty, and Dez is probably going to marry Tylar, who’s also filthy rich from her parents owning an architecture empire. They don’t need my shit.
I sit at the kitchen counter, “Cities” by Toby Mai (featuring Two Feet) echoing through the surround-sound speakers all over the house, and watch my phone screen – the dogs are running wild in the backyard, and the manor workers are trying to catch them. They look happy, barking and rolling around with each other.
I miss them.
A message pops up, and I sigh.
Bernadette: Kill her this time, do you understand? I can see through CCTV and track you with the bug in your phone and hear you through the earpiece – you can’t try any funny business.
Bernadette: A deal is a deal. I will clear your files of any criminal activity, and you’ll be free. Just get rid of her.
You’d think she’d want me to ask about her daughter – why does my family have Cassie in the lodge and why is she still breathing? My dad is there, so I’m shocked Cassie isn’t buried in a shallow grave by now given his impatience and lack of medication.
Stacey messages me, and it shifts my mood completely. My heart races in my ears. All she’s sent is her location. A little blue dot on a map, moving down the A9. I keep the app open and grab a glass of water, downing some of it and rushing to my bathroom to check my face and hair.
There’s no fixing the latter; it’s too long and wavy, and my face is ripped apart with bruises, little cuts from Jason hitting me and the hideous scar that’ll probably scare her.
I don’t want to scare her.
The instant twisting in my gut has me vomiting into the toilet bowl – my eighth time being sick today, I think. It’s been happening for a while, but it goes away after a bit or I push through the nausea.
Before I leave, I brush my teeth then settle at my kitchen counter again with a pen and paper. It’s addressed to everyone, I guess. I scribble down words that have me pausing every few paragraphs, and when I write to Stacey, the ink runs out.
Must be fate.
I don’t have time to find another pen, since Stacey is close to the location.
She won’t be interested in what I was going to say anyway.
I leave the note sitting on the counter and turn out the lights, fixing my phone onto the handlebars of my bike and pulling my gloves on. Material over my mouth, I shove the helmet on and press the button on my app to open my garage door.
As I drive off, I watch her little blue dot draw closer to me.
It shouldn’t make me more nervous, but it does. Anxiety is clawing at my chest, begging to rip me to shreds. I slow down, speed up, wind between cars, the cracked skin of my knuckles rubbing against my gloves.
Twenty minutes later, she pulls into a gas station not far from me. I speed up to catch her, pulling in and stopping beside one of the tanks to fill up.
A black SUV sits alone in the station. One of mine. She must’ve snuck off under everyone’s noses, because if they knew she was here, I’d be toast by now.
Remembering the look on their faces when they rushed to Stacey after I took that shot, they truly believe I want to kill her, thatI’ve gone off the deep end. Even my own brother beat me up for it.
They no longer trust me.
I fix my leather jacket and keep my helmet on as I head into the building to pay. My pulse pounds when I see her. Like my teenage crush from back in the day returns and I’m unable to even form a word in front of her – to look her in the eye without imagining us spending the rest of our lives together. My hands shake, and I fist them.
For over a year, I’ve imagined the conversation we’d have. Twelve months of waiting, finding different ways to get to her. Fifty-two weeks of torture while Barry and my team kept her safe. It all boils down to this moment, when she glances over her shoulder and gives me a tight smile out of friendliness, not knowing it’s me.
The one who shot at her.
The ex-boyfriend who would burn the world down for her.
