Lizzy says he’s drowning in gambling debt because he can’t stay away from blackjack. So he’s a gambler and a drinker. Isn’t that lovely?

I wonder what made Adam a drinker. Was it anxiety? I think that was a big part of it.

My thoughts are wandering to what my parents think about the news that Adam and I split, when I step out from beneath a copse of oak trees and I see the shrubbery maze, twisting like a square worm in the darkness. A few more steps, and I can see the shrubs are tall—easily taller than six feet—and in the warm breeze, their little leaves dance.

It would be stupid to go into a maze as it’s getting dark. I’d probably get lost. And yet, I step in. The situation resembles my life right now so much, I almost hope I will get lost, just so I can have to work my way back out.

SURI

By the time I get back into our suite, I’ve decided that I’m leaving tomorrow. I’m not helping Cross, I’m not spending any time with Lizzy, and I’m startling at every turn, worried about whether an encounter with Marchant Radcliffe would result in me slapping him or jumping his bones.

I’m tucking clothes into my suitcase, about to put in a call for the plane to get me in the morning, when the door opens and Lizzy sticks her head inside.

“Suri?” Her eyes double in size. “What are you doing?”

“Liz, I’m sorry, but I just can’t—”

“Suri—Suri, no.” She steps in, shaking her head vehemently. “No. You can’t go now. I need you here!”

Her proclamation irritates me. “That’s ridiculous. You just spent the night with your gajillion hooker friends.”

It’s mean, okay? I know it’s mean. But it’s not that mean. So when Lizzy sits down on the bed, drops her head into her hands, and starts to sob, I’m shocked. I step over and throw an arm around her.

“Lizzy—hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so harsh, it’s just, I saw Marchant Radcliffe and—”

“I’M PREGNANT!”

“…What?”

“I’M PREGNANT! No one knows! And earlier today, Hunter said children are…a blight!”

So that’s what she’s been so weird about. “Oh, Lizzy. Oh man. This is big news! But it’ll be fine.” I rub her back as she sobs. “You’ll change his mind. He loves you and you’re getting married.”

“No we’re not! We can’t! I’ll be too fat to—” she hiccups— “I’ll be too fat to wear a dress!”

I pull her into my arms and hold her while she cries about stretch marks and pushing out a “ten pound vagina bomb” and try not to think about Marchant Radcliffe.

It’s going to be a long night.

MARCHANT

I’m in the kitchen, about to pop an Ativan, when I hear a knock on the back door. I know it’s Hawkins. I can feel it. And this time, I can shoot him, because he’s trespassing.

I run downstairs and punch the glass out of my gun cabinet, grab a .38 and load it quickly. By the time I get to the kitchen, I’ve stuck the gun inside the back of my jeans, because I’ve managed to convince myself it’s only Hunter. Or Rachelle. Or someone else coming to check on me.

But when I open the back door, I find myself staring at Hawkins—the little fuck.

He hits me in the face. Then two thugs grab me by the shoulders and haul me up against the stone wall of my house. I manage to reach my arm behind myself and dig my hand into the waist of my jeans. I work my sweaty fingers around the gun, and when I pull it free I point it toward Hawkins’ legs. I am stunned by the boom as the bullet hits him in the foot. Blood sprays like a fucking geyser.

He howls, and the goons rush to his aid. I dart back inside my kitchen, slamming the door behind me just in time for the bullet that punches through it to miss me.

I look out the square window, and I see one of the goons pointing a pistol at me. I’m slightly surprised to find that I’m not worried. Then I see Hawkins holding up his hand to them—a silent ‘stand down.’ He grimaces as Goon One helps him stand, and I see that my wild shot probably just grazed him. Pity.

Hawkins hobbles to the door and presses his face against the glass, and his panted breaths makes clouds of fog. “You’ll pay for this Radcliffe. I’ve given you more breaks…than I’d give my own damn cousin.”

And I realize for the first time that it’s not Monday. I don’t know what day it is, but I know I missed the deadline to pay Hawkins. I even had the money moved—but I lost track of time.

Fuck!

Hawkins spits on my door, and then he and his crew turn to go. I realize, belatedly, that they’re wearing dark clothes—hoods, even, unless my eyes are playing tricks on me.

It takes me a few minutes panting, chugging vodka from a bottle in my freezer, to calm down, and when I do, I realize I should call security. But as soon as I wrap my hand around my phone, someone bangs on my door. I mean really goes at it.

Shit. So the little bastard came back for another round. I chug some more Gray Goose and palm my gun. Then I pull the door open, stunned to see it’s Juniper, wearing nothing but thigh-highs, a thong, and a lacy dark blue bra.

Her eyes are wide, her hair a mess. She waves her arms and screams, “MARCHANT! COME NOW! THERE’S A FIRE!”

MARCHANT

I don’t need shoes or a shirt. I don’t need anything but my gun. I clutch the .38 as I dash behind Juniper, cutting through the grass beside my cottage and following her willowy form toward the pond. I can smell the smoke already. We come around a few oak trees and I see the flames. They’re bright—so bright they almost blind me. It’s surreal.

I feel nothing but the burning of my muscles as I run toward the main house—nothing but that and the determination to get everyone out.

By the time I get within ball-throwing distance, the fire has engulfed most of the back left side of the building, and people are pouring out two sets of rear doors toward the right, even though our fire plan directs them to the front. I don’t see Rachelle, and I feel a sick jolt of fear for her.

Where is Hunter?

Where is Suri Dalton?

Where is Hawkins?

My throat knots up as I realize this fire is his doing. My doing. If someone dies, it will be my fault.

I lean down in the bushes to be sick, then push through a frenzied group of escorts, clients, and staff, and run through one of the flame-framed doorways.

Heat engulfs me. My first breath burns my lungs, makes me cough on the exhale, makes my eyes tear.

Shit is falling from the walls and ceilings. Shit that’s burning. The damn black smoke clouds the place so thickly I can hardly see. As I move past the bar into the great hall, where the stairs are, I catch something hard and heavy on my shoulder. It erupts in searing pain that burns itself out as I dash around bookshelves, past couches, screaming, “IS ANYBODY IN HERE?”

Fuck, it’s hot. My bare chest and back feel like they’re burning. I turn a circle in front of the elevator, struggling to get my bearings.

The ranch can’t be on fire. It can’t be burning. 

I’m on the move again a second later. I find one of the chef’s assistants covering her face with a towel in a downstairs hall and shove her out an emergency exit at the end of it. I find one of the newer girls—Bree—in a first-floor room, sobbing and screaming into her phone. I break the glass out of a window and send her out, shoving her a little as she crawls over the windowsill, into the grass, which is burning in some spots.

I’m coughing badly now. Every breath is more difficult to pull than the last. I’m dizzy—yeah. I realize that. I just don’t care.

Getting upstairs is surprisingly easy. There’s a hidden, staff stairwell near the exit door at the end of this first-floor hall that doesn’t seem to be burning yet, and that’s the route I take.