Page 143 of Beautiful Liar

I glance at the phone, debate whether to call Fionnella to tease out a more specific date for when I’ll next see Q.

The phone vibrates just then, making me jump.

Quinn.

My heart leaps for a different reason. Hands shaking, I answer the phone.

“Hi.”

“What’s wrong?” The coarse rasp of his voice holds a layer of concern.

I suck in a deep breath. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“Don’t lie to me, Elyse.” Steel layers over concern.

I rub my forehead in agitation. “I did something. And it’s catching up to me.”

“Are you in danger?”

I squeeze my eyes shut for a second. “I’m trying my best not to be.”

“And how are you doing that?” he fires back.

How can I tell him that I’m selling my body to pay off the pimp whose empire I destroyed? “I’m still trying to work that out.”

Quinn stays silent for a minute. “Would you consider my help?”

My heart flutters like mad. “Thanks, but no.”

“You would offer me relief, but won’t take help in return?” he presses.

The differences between us charges up like an invisible wall. I’m not sure exactly what his issues are, but mine will land me murder and arson charges should they ever get out. “This…it’s not the same. You advised me to run not too long ago. I think it’s only fair that I tell you to do the same.”

“Why?”

I rub harder. “I’d hate for you to be caught up in my shit, Quinn.”

“Too late.” The way he says it, soft, deadly, like a coiled, poisonous snake fat with venom, just itching to sink its lethal fangs into something.

I shiver despite the ambient temperature. “It’s not—”

“We can table this discussion for another time, but don’t waste more words on this. I want to see you today.”

I should say no. I should. I should stay inside, hide from Clay.

A broken piece of me picks itself up off the floor, stabs at the fear. “Okay. I’m not sure what kind of company I’ll be though.”

“Leave your mood to me. I’ll pick you up at eight.”

He hangs up, leaving me with yet another head full of questions.

I don’t call Fionnella. And I slap a to be continued sticker on my puzzling feelings about Q and shove it to the back of my mind.

But there’s one call I’ve been putting off. I dig out my backpack, pull out the picture of Ma and me, and turn over the frame. The alphanumeric code I wrote translates to a phone number, and I dial it with shaking hands.

“Hello?” A tentative voice answers.

“It’s me. Elyse.”

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