YOU HAVE TO HANG ON

The Sample

Prologue

Something crashes into the trees along the driveway where I’ve embedded myself, trying to be close but invisible. I shiver the split second after I hear the sound, because someone else might think it’s a car backfiring, but I know better now. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up and goosebumps prickle my arms.

And then I hear it again.

And then I run.

I run faster than I’ve ever run before, but I’m too far, and I’m not fast enough. In the driveway, the driver’s side door to the SUV opens and Sofia leaps out.

She passes behind the back of the car, only a hundred feet ahead, but faster. The garage is lit up by overhead lights, though the nightmares I’ve been fighting since I was a kid come in fast and hot, the bone deep knowledge that no matter what I do, it won’t be enough.

My legs pump faster, so fast I don’t think they’re touching the ground. My breathing is ragged, the fabric damp against my lips. I yank the mask, freeing my nose and mouth. The cold night air is sharp in my lungs, and when I reach the garage everything stops. This exact moment feels long compared to the seconds that came before, even though I know it’s a trick of my mind.

I blink and the scene comes into focus, the bodies on the ground. The blood.

The regret.

But the sacrifice has to be worth it because of Olivia. The only true innocent in this.

I scramble into the garage.

Part 1

Three Weeks Earlier

Chapter 1

Harriett

The Bastard is definitely cheating.

He’s good at it—I’ve yet to actually see him with another woman—but all indicators point to infidelity. Not just the things The Client noticed—the passcode on his phone, a new tendency to work late, a penchant for working out replacing his proclivity toward sloth, unusual cash withdrawals, and the intangible but significant gut feeling—but the things I’ve documented, too. Repeated visits to the same boutique hotel, purchases of flowers that never made it to The Client, the professional development workshops he signed up for but never attended.

The hidden bank account.

I shift in the front seat of my car—parked in the lot of his office—trying to restore blood flow to my ass. If I don’t get out soon, my legs will tingle and bite when I stand, slowing me down and distracting me. And I hate being distracted. Distractions crack the insulated container in my brain dedicated to my work, the one thing that makes me happy-adjacent. And they’re risky. Dangerous in the wrong situation.

Normally he walks out at 12:01 exactly—a creature of adulterous habit. I’ve been leaving the building next door at 12:02 every day for weeks to establish my pattern, allowing me to blend into the nondescript monotony of his day as I catalog his movements. I track him before work, during lunch, and after work. In between I have other cases, including a particularly nasty catfishing project, but The Bastard is my main focus. 

The clock flips from 12:29 to 12:30.

There’s only so long I can sit here pretending to be on the phone before I become noticeable to the various people in and out of the buildings of this suburban office complex during lunchtime. And visibility is a private investigator’s worst enemy.

A black Mercedes parks behind me. Same make, model, and tag as the one owned by the woman I suspect is The Bastard’s mistress. The one car that was always at the hotel at the same time The Bastard was and can’t be tied back to an employee—and I know, because I logged every single car every single time and ran the plates.

This is a surprising change, since they always meet at the hotel. An escalation in risk that shows either complacency, confidence, or arrogance, but either way, that may work to my advantage.

At 12:44, The Bastard’s receptionist walks out the front door, right on time, and I enter the data in my log. One hour, sixteen minutes until her return. And she’s never returned early.

The door of the Mercedes opens. A spiky heel emerges before a long, toned leg, followed by a curved body. The tits were clearly paid for, maybe the ass, too.

I pull the phone from my ear and snap a few pictures before she hurries into the office. He never meets with clients during lunch, so it’s probably a liaison, but opportunity and proximity don’t equal proof. I need more.

I turn the car on and back up, then pull out. I need to stash the car somewhere The Mistress won’t see it again. The donut shop behind the complex should work.

I pull into the parking lot and slide into a spot, grabbing my digital camera. When I’m satisfied no one is looking, I duck into the bushes and cut through the tiny stretch of woods that encircles the office complex. I’ve walked this path daily to get a glimpse of him in his office, building a complete registry of his day. Wet leaves buffer my footfalls, but the late winter branches do nothing to hide my movement as I approach the line of trees ringing the small clearing that abuts The Bastard’s building.

He may be a member of the lucky sperm club, having gotten his millions from his daddy and lucrative investments instead of from his own work, but that doesn’t make him smart. The Bastard doesn’t close his blinds, likely assuming no one would be looking in from the trees. White men are so comfortable being seen, and assured of own safety.

But today someone is looking. And today, hopefully, there will be something to see: the one thing I need to finish this project and give The Client the leverage she seeks.

Proof.

I pull up the hood of my sweatshirt, slinking toward the building. I have to be fast, but even if someone spots me, I’ll be gone long before any police arrive. I’ve never been caught doing surveillance, but my PI’s license is the free pass if I do.

The brick is cold through my sweatshirt as I flatten my back against his office. I need eyes inside, so I hold my phone up, reversing the camera to selfie to get a surreptitious peek at what’s happening.