Page 2 of Old Money

“To the city,” the man in the back with me says, and the driver nods. I have no idea where I’m going or who I’m with. I have no way to contact anyone. I have no idea how many of my friends, my professors—anyone on campus, for that matter—are dead or alive.

My body starts to shake. I’m not crying. I’m not screaming. I’m not speaking. I’m just shaking.

I feel a hand reach across and take mine, and I turn to him. It’s the first moment I’ve had to really look at him. He seems to be the man in charge. Not the most opportune moment to notice, but he’s beautiful. He has dark-brown hair that’s speckled with gray, with a matching beard and slight wrinkles around his eyes that make him look distinguished. But his eyes themselves, big and chestnut, have something soft about them. He feels familiar, but I don’t have any brain power left to dedicate to figuring out why.

“Hey,” he whispers as his grip tightens on my hand, “what’s your name?”

“Uh, it’s Sawyer,” I stammer.

“Sawyer,” he says, his eyes and his hand never leaving me. “My name is Julian. Can you look at me?”

I raise my eyes from our interlocked hands to his. Julian. Why do I know that name?

“You’re safe. I’m going to bring you to my apartment in the city, okay? We will figure out what to do next from there. We will just take this one step at a time. Alright?”

I nod, clenching onto his hand. I have no idea how much time has passed, but before I know it, I’m in the middle of New York City. Campus is only about an hour away in Connecticut, and on the very rare occasion, I’ve made my way into Manhattan a few times with some friends.

God, my friends. I hope they’re alive.

I reach my free hand down to my pocket, patting my pants on either side. I look up at him.

“I…I lost my phone. Oh, God. My mom… I lost my phone.”

“It’s okay,” he says, squeezing my hand. “It’s alright. We’re about to be at my building. Let’s go upstairs, and you can call her once we’re out of the elevator.” The two men open our doors, and the one on my side leads me around the car to where Julian is waiting for me. He takes my hand again, and one of the men scans a badge to let us into the building. We walk down a small hallway to an elevator that readsPenthouse, and he scans the badge again, then again once we get inside.

I can’t move. It feels like an elephant is sitting on my chest, and my feet feel like they’re made of cement. Finally, as we zip past all the other floors, the doors open.

“Come on, Sawyer,” Julian whispers, leading me out and into a palatial penthouse suite. It’s the most beautiful apartment I’ve ever seen, with the most amazing view, but I can’t even begin to take anything in. I just stand there.

“Mr. Everett, the phone is for you, sir,” one of the men says, and then it hits me.

Everett.

Julian Everett, of Everett Enterprises.

As in, one of the heirs to the multi-billion-dollar Everett Enterprises empire. As in, everything in this room is worth more than I am. Julian takes the phone.

“Hello, yes, we’re safe,” he says. “No, please don’t reach out to the press. No. No one needs to know I was on campus. Yes. No. This isn’t about me. Do they have any information? Jesus. Okay, thank you,” he says, hanging up. He walks toward me.

“There’s no information yet. Campus is locked down, but the gunman is still at large. Here, call your mom, and let her know you’re safe. Then if it’s okay, I’m going to have a doctor come up to take a look at you. I think you might need stitches.”

He nods toward my head, and I reach a hand up to feel the wet, sticky blood on the side of my face. I hiss when I touch the gash just below my hairline. I’m not even sure what it’s from—bumping into people or falling. I nod, taking the phone.

“Come,” he says, ushering me farther into the apartment. “You can use the study.” I follow him into a massive office with floor-to-ceiling built-ins, a huge desk, and an even bigger view. “I’ll wait outside.”

I wait till he closes the door then shakily dial my mom’s number. She never used to answer strange numbers, but ever since I moved across the country, she answers everything.

“Hello, this is Emily Willis,” she says, her voice shaky, and I can tell she’s crying.

“Mom, it’s me,” I say, and I hear her bark out a sob.

“Oh, my god,” she cries. “Oh, God. Oh, thank you, God,” she says, and for a moment, it’s just the two of us sitting on the phone, crying. “Tell me what happened, baby. Where were you? What did you see?”

I wipe my tears on my jacket sleeve and sniff.

“It…it happened right after I hung up with you. I saw him, Mom,” I say. “I saw…” My voice trails off, and I can’t stop crying.

“Oh, baby,” she says. “I’m coming. I know there are some bad storms right now, but I’ll get on the next flight?—”

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