4

The floorboard gives with a rusty groan.

I cough as a cloud of ancient dust puffs up, stinging my eyes. It smells like dry rot and secrets.

I reach into the dark hollow. My fingers brush against something cool and smooth. Not the crisp texture of cash.

My heart sinks.

I was praying for a stash. A rainy-day fund Nikos hid from the bookies. Enough to get Mick off my back, or at least buy me a bus ticket out of here.

I pull my hand out.

No money.

I’m holding a black leather-bound ledger and a cheap, plastic burner phone.

The phone is cold against my palm. It feels heavy, like a loaded gun.

I drop the phone on the mattress and open the ledger. The spine cracks. It hasn't been opened in a while.

I recognize the handwriting immediately. The jagged, hurried scrawl of my husband.

January 12th: $5,000. February 4th: $8,000. March 20th: $12,000.

I frown. These aren't debts. These are deposits.

I flip the pages. The numbers get bigger. The dates get closer to the day he died.

Next to the last entry—May 15th, $50,000—there’s a note in the margin. Two letters circled in red ink.

S.R.

My blood turns to ice.

Savage Reapers.

The Wolves’ sworn enemies. The men who deal in guns, girls, and misery. The men Sal warned me never to make eye contact with.

Nikos wasn't gambling. He wasn't losing money at the track or the tables.

He was selling.

He was selling club secrets. Routes. Shipment times. Names.

"You bastard," I whisper. The words scrape my throat.

I stare at the book, my hands shaking so hard the pages blur. He wasn't a victim of his addiction. He was a traitor. Every time he came home with a split lip and a sob story about bad luck, he was lying. Every time he let Drakon pay for our groceries, he was stabbing him in the back.

He played us all.

I throw the ledger across the room. It hits the wall with a satisfying thud, but it doesn't make me feel better. It makes me feel sick.

I look at the phone on the bed.

It’s an old flip phone. A relic.

I pick it up. My thumb hovers over the power button.

Drakon told me to check the floorboard. Did he know? Did he suspect?

I press the button.

The screen flickers to life, casting a sickly blue glow over my duvet. The battery icon is in the red.

One unread message.

Received: Yesterday, 4:12 PM.

Yesterday?

Nikos has been dead for six months. Who is texting a dead man’s burner phone?

I open the message.

Payment due. Deliver the girl to the warehouse, or we take her ourselves.

The phone slips from my fingers. It bounces on the mattress.

The girl.

Me.

I’m not a widow. I’m not a person. I’m a balance transfer.

Nikos didn't just sell secrets. He sold me. That’s what the fifty grand was for. That’s why Mick was here. That’s why the Reapers are circling.

I scramble backward, pressing my spine against the headboard. I can’t breathe. The walls of my tiny apartment feel like they’re closing in, crushing me.

"No," I whimper. "No, no, no."

I need to leave. I need to grab my bag, get in my car, and drive until the gas runs out.

I reach for the phone to turn it off. To destroy it. I want to smash it into a thousand pieces and bury it back under the floor.

BZZZT.

The phone vibrates against the sheets. A harsh, angry buzz.

I freeze.

The screen lights up.

Incoming Call.

I stare at the Caller ID. The letters dance in front of my eyes, mocking me. Impossible.

Hubby.

The room spins.

My hand moves on its own. I reach out. My fingers brush the cold plastic.

It rings again. Loud. Demanding.

Hubby.

Nikos is dead. I buried him. I saw the closed casket. I threw dirt on the grave.

The phone keeps ringing.

I flip it open. I press it to my ear. My hand is shaking so bad I almost drop it.

I don't speak. I can't.

Silence on the other end. Then, a breath. A sharp intake of air.

"Thalia?"

The voice is raspy. Familiar.

The voice of a ghost.

"Baby?" he says. "Are you there?"

I scream.