Chapter 3
After I got back from David Cole's hometown, Vivian called me into the studio.
She slapped a contract onto the table, eyes shining. "Jonathan's new short film series, he specifically asked for you, and he wants you on set."
My hand jerked, and coffee spilled across my old keyboard.
"On set?"
I knew exactly what that meant.
I'd have to face him over and over again, and keep myself in check the whole time.
"It's triple the market rate, Emily."
Vivian could barely contain her excitement, and I didn't want to make things difficult for her.
Three days later, I was dragging my suitcase onto a flight to Southridge with Jonathan's team.
On the plane, he sat a few rows ahead of me, his back straight and lean.
For a moment, he looked just like the boy who used to hold me seven years ago.
I found myself staring at him without realizing it.
Once we were in the air, his assistant came over to switch seats with me. "Ms. Summers, Jonathan wants you up front so it's easier to coordinate."
I forced myself to walk over. He glanced up at me, his tone cool.
"I've had the assistant send you the script. We start shooting tomorrow, so keep up with the editing schedule."
I nodded. Then I heard him ask quietly, "What's your husband's name?"
My chest tightened, but I kept my voice steady. "David Cole."
"Does he treat you well?"
"He does."
He watched me for a few seconds, his voice edged. "Working you day and night on edits counts as treating you well?
"Emily, if you're going to lie, at least try a little harder."
I looked up and saw his gaze fixed on the medicated patch on my hand.
Without thinking, I pulled my hand back and turned my face away.
"It's not what you think.
"Just don't ask."
He fell silent and looked out the window.
He didn't say another word.
*****
Once the plane leveled off, I drifted into a dream about those days when the debt collectors came after us.
It was the day after Robert ran off. Only Laura and I were left at home.
And the red paint smeared across the walls.
A man with a rough, smoky voice dragged me out of the bedroom and took my phone.
My lock screen was a photo of Jonathan and me, our heads together, both of us smiling.
"Well, look at you, still dating," he said. "He looks like he's got money."
I lunged for the phone, but he shoved me back into the wall.
The back of my head hit a picture frame, and shards of glass got caught in my hair.
Laura screamed and rushed over, only to be grabbed by another man and forced into a chair.
"A daughter pays her father's debts. That's just how it works."
The camera flash was blinding.
Laura's cries, the men's jeers, the sharp clicks of the shutter all blurred together.
"Go on, run," the man with the rough voice said, kicking me as he cursed. "See if you can get as far as your father did."
I jolted awake.
The cabin was quiet except for the steady hum of the engine.
I was breathing hard, my forehead damp with sweat.
Jonathan turned toward me and handed me a tissue. "Bad dream?"
I took it without answering.
It carried the faint, cool scent of him.
He spoke again. "The location in Southridge has poor reception. No one's going to chase you there."
My grip on the tissue tightened.
The echoes of that dream still rang in my ears, yet somehow, in this moment, I felt at ease.
Jonathan looked at me, his gaze deep.
He knew.
He must have always known.
Why I ran, why I came back, why I needed the money.
"Thank you."