Page 4 of Best Served Cold

“He does like to be the best,” I say on an exhale.

“His own brother hates him,” he adds.

“His brother’s a dick.”

Rob is Jonah’s half-brother, from their father’s first marriage. He’s only a year and a half older than Jonah—thirty-one to Jonah’s thirty. Rob’s mother went to rehab for the first time when he was eight years old and afterward she only had visitation, so the two of them basically grew up in the same house. They didn’t get along growing up, and they barely speak to each other now.

Rob’s a musician—a “free spirit,” Jonah’s mother always says with a pinched expression. I’ve only met him half a dozen times, including at Christmas last year. I tried to be kind to him—and even sewed him a new guitar strap as a gift—but it’s obvious his dislike of Jonah extends to everyone connected to Jonah. He calls me Pollyanna. At first, I figured he got my name wrong, but my great-aunt clucked her tongue and told me to use “that Google you’re so fond of.”

“That Google” informed me that a Pollyanna is a woman who puts a positive spin on everything. It was obviously intended as an insult.

He’s not entirely wrong about me. After my life blew up when I was sixteen, I made a promise to get along and play nice. I’ve lived up to it, even though life has been full of more downs than ups. But he isn’t right about me either, dammit, and every time I see him, I feel an inexplicable itch to prove it.

“Rob’s not all bad,” Otis says, scratching his nose. “We bumped into each other at Buchanan Brewery one time, and he bought me a beer.”

“You only enjoyed yourself because you were both bad-mouthing Jonah.”

“Maybe. But I’ve seen him at a couple of his shows, and he was nice then too.” Otis takes another swig of his beer. His gaze lingers on my face. “You’re not crying.”

“I must be in shock.”

“Or maybe the glass is shattering,” he says. “You’re realizing what Gram and I have known for months: that Jonah is a controlling douchebag. A liar.”

I feel Otis symbolically tugging at my silver lining, and part of me is tempted to protect what’s left of it. “There could still be an honest explanation.”

“Text them,” he says, acting surprisingly invested. “Do it now.”

Hand trembling, I click into the SilverStarBabe chat.

This isn’t Jonah, but I have his phone. Who are you?

Three dots appear instantly.

Did you kidnap my boyfriend????? What do you want?

I glance at Otis, who is unabashedly reading over my shoulder. “She says…”

“Tell her.”

Finger shaking, I type:

I’m Jonah Price’s fiancée, Sophie. We’re supposed to get married in four months. Who are you?

She starts typing, but I switch to the chat with BigCatchBabe, because I know my cousin is right. I took one of those personality quizzes a couple of months ago, and it informed me I was an ostrich. If I stop digging now, before I have irrefutable evidence, Jonah might be able to talk me around. Because I really, really want to believe this isn’t true.

Taking a deep breath, I send BigCatchBabe a message too.

This is Jonah Price’s fiancée, Sophie. Who are you?

There’s a knock on the front door, and my eyes lock with Otis’s.

“Hide the phone, man,” he says. “Put it in the freezer, or stuff it in your boobs or something.”

I look down at my flat chest, distracted for half a second before I shake my head. “I’m not hiding from this.”

A surge of anger breaks through the shock and hurt. Jonah is always talking about the pressures of his job. He’s always gone. Working, he says. But it’s starting to look like the only thing he was working was me.

The phone buzzes in my hand, and I glance down.

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