Page 85 of Rocket's Red Glare

We all have thoseWhere were you when?moments in life, like the Kennedy assassinations or 9/11. Tristan and I were sitting on his back porch sipping twenty-three-year-old Pappy and telling stories about Meg when one of those moments stopped me in my tracks.

Unknown Callerrang through on my work phone.

“Phillips.”

There was a pause on the other end, then a voice saying, “I’m so sorry.”

I felt the tears welling up, colliding with the furious sound of my heart throbbing.

For a good ten seconds, I willed the image of Meg lying in her casket to disappear. It wouldn’t go away.

Tristan looked at me, perplexed, and mouthed,What gives?

“You’re an evil fucking person, Rowan Anderson,” I said in the most measured voice I could muster, “and I will kill you very soon.”

“Nat, I am so sorry. You don’t understand. They made me do it. You must believe me,” she begged.

“Who, Rowan? Who the fuck made you shoot me and kill Meg?” I felt my emotional temperature rising sky fucking high.

“Meg?” she questioned. “I didn’t kill Meg—I swear. I had tomake them think I tried to kill you, but I purposely let you live.” There was panic in her voice. “I swear to you, Nat.”

“You’re lying and I am going to kill you,” I said, my voice rising with every syllable of the threat before I hung up.

Tristan figured it out pretty quickly and just nodded as I tried to breathe. He opened the bottle and poured three fingers into my glass. It was a nice burn as the bourbon hit the back of my throat.

The phone rang again.Unknown Caller.

The fucking nerve.

“Don’t ever fucking call me again.”

“Mr. Phillips?”

A woman’s voice. But not Rowan Anderson’s. The voice sounded authoritative. Senator Tabitha Doyle, maybe? I went into recovery mode.

“I am so sorry, ma’am,” I said humbly into the receiver. “I thought it was somebody else calling. Who is this, please?”

“Mr. Phillips, my name is Theresa Larson. I believe my uncle Alexander told you I would be in touch. We have much to discuss.”