Travis had shoved me.
Blake had watched.
Then Blake had bent down, taken the leather satchel from my shoulder—the one with my company laptop, keys, wallet, and the stack of documents I had brought—and said, in the same calm voice he once used to ask whether I wanted oat milk in my coffee, “You should’ve let this go, Lena.”
After that, the truck doors slammed, tires spun gravel, and the two men I had trusted more than anyone on earth left me in a wash that wouldn’t see another car until after dark, if I got lucky.
If I got unlucky, it wouldn’t see one all week.
Continue on the next page:
