Page 5 of Rising Heat

South End.

Boston.

A top floor apartment that’s been freshly renovated. The rent isn’t too bad for what you’d expect in the city, either. The listing reads MacAllister Properties.

I found it three weeks ago at two in the morning after a fight that was supposedly about paint colors but somehow ended the way they always did—with Brett laughing softly and telling me I was making something bigger than it needed to be.

I remember lying awake beside him afterward, staring at the ceiling while he slept before I pulled out my phone and did a quick search. I remember looking at the photos of the exposed brick and French doors and tall windows overlooking the skyline.

Bex must see my face change before I say a word.

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“That look. The one that says you’re about to make an impulsive, slightly unhinged decision.”

I look back at the listing. My pulse thumps hard enough that I can feel it in my wrists and my fingers loosen around the mug. For the first time all day, my shoulders drop an inch.

The room around me doesn’t feel smaller; it feels temporary.

I look back at my best friend. My mouth curves before I can stop it—small at first, then wider, wild enough that Bex’s eyes light up in recognition.

“What if,” I say, voice harsh with something that feels dangerously close to courage, “I did something insane?”

Bex sits up so fast her curlers visibly loosen.

“Oh, babe.” She points at the screen like she’s delivering a verdict.

“Tell me we’re ruining your life in a fun way.”

CHAPTER ONE

darcy

Morning arrives in pieces.

First, the stale hiss of the hotel heater kicking on before dawn. Then the soft scrape of tires on wet pavement twelve stories below. Then my own eyes blinking open to an unfamiliar ceiling with a water stain in one corner shaped vaguely like Rhode Island.

For a second, I have absolutely no idea where I am.

The room is washed in that flat gray-blue winter light that makes everything look like somebody forgot the final coat of paint. My neck aches from sleeping half-curled on top of the comforter with one sock still on. My hair has formed some kind of hostile knot near the base of my skull.

Then it all comes back—Boston, the apartment tour, the six-hour drive from West Chester with everything I own crammed into the back of my salt-coated Tiguan and no ring on my finger.

I stare at the ceiling.

My lungs expand like they’ve been waiting for permission.

I roll onto my back and wait for the other half of the bed to shift, but it never does. I do a quick scan of my own chest, like checking for damage after a near miss.

Still here. Huh.

I reach for my phone on the nightstand.

Mom

Call when you can.