Page 127 of Saint Céline
“That’s cold.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“No, you’re not.”
My fingers froze over the screen. His voice softened then, which was worse.
“I heard you’re doing well.”
My pulse moved once, hard. “Who told you that?”
“People talk.”
“What people?”
“Rich town like Blackwater, girl like you pretending she was born into it.” He laughed again. “Wasn’t hard.”
A chill slid down my spine. Blackwater. He knew I was in Blackwater. He knew enough. My thoughts moved too quickly after that, sharp and useless. My mother. The Montgomery estate. The staff cottage. The dorm. Sophia in the living room. Anya in the kitchen. Miss Astoria on my bed. Every place I had told myself was safe began rearranging itself in my mind: doors, hallways, windows, locks.
“Do not come here,” I said. The words were quiet.
His silence lasted half a second too long.
Then he said, “Now why would you assume that?”
Because I know you. Because men like you do not call unless they already have a hand on the door. Because I was five years old, the first time I learned to sleep without fully sleeping.
“I mean it,” I said.
“You always did have your mother’s mouth.”
My stomach turned.
“Don’t talk about her.”
“Still protective.” His voice sharpened slightly. “That’s sweet. She protect you too? Or did she just run off with you and let some rich family turn you into a little liar?”
I stood up immediately. Miss Astoria jumped down from the bed with an offended chirp. “I’m hanging up.”
“You got money now?”
The question landed exactly where he intended. I went still.
“There it is,” he said softly. “There’s my girl.”
I almost threw the phone. Instead, I held it tighter.
“I don’t have anything for you.”
“That’s not what I heard.”
“You heard wrong.”
“I heard you got rich friends. Rich boyfriend too.” A pause. “Or maybe not anymore.”
My blood went cold. “What did you say?”
“People really do talk.” He laughed under his breath.
