Page 157 of His Good Girl

I called Jules.

She answered on the first ring. “Hey. I was just about to text you. How was?—”

I made a sound. She stopped immediately and I heard her voice go suddenly serious.

“Avery?”

“I need you,” I sobbed.

“I’m coming.”

“I’m fine,” I lied, because panic made me stupid.

“You are absolutely not. Stay on the phone.”

“Jules—”

“Stay on the phone.”

So I did. I stayed on the phone while she put on shoes, cursed at one shoe for hiding, grabbed her keys, and left her apartment. I stayed on the phone while she speed-walked the four blocks to my building. I stayed on the phone while she buzzed to come up, while I stood on shaky legs and let her in, while she climbed the stairs and appeared in my doorway with wind-tangled hair, no lipstick, and a face so frightened I almost started apologizing. She stepped inside and grabbed me before I could speak.

Jules was not a soft hugger. She hugged like she was trying to pin you to earth by force. Her arms wrapped around me, tight and fierce, and for a few seconds I let myself collapse into her because she was Jules. My Jules. My best friend. The woman who had bullied me into sending the email, dressed me for dinner, laughed with me, asked the questions that mattered, and somehow always knew when to bring wine and when to bring weapons.

“What happened?” she asked into my hair.

I shook my head.

“Okay.” She pulled back just enough to look at me. “Couch. Now.”

“I’m not a toddler.”

“Couch.”

I went because arguing took energy I did not have. Jules took off my coat for me, which should have been insulting and was instead the most merciful thing anyone had done for me all day. She put water in my hand. I held it and did not drink. She sat beside me on the couch, angled toward me, with one knee tucked under herself and her hands folded too tightly in her lap.

“What happened?” Jules asked again, softer.

I told her everything. The story came out in ugly, disconnected pieces, accompanied by tears and a running nose and tissues. Jules sat very still and just listened. I noticed, but I was too deep in my own panic to understand why.

“They don’t care about us,” I said, gripping the water glass with both hands. “They don’t care that he’s my boss. They don’t care that he was my dad’s best friend. They don’t care about the age difference or the sex or the godfather thing except as a headline. They just want Hartwell. They want Callum to back down.”

Jules’s face had gone pale.

“They have photos,” I shouted, my voice cracking on the word. “Not just the usual stalking type ones. There’s a drone photo. From the office when we were having sex against the window. It’s grainy, but clear enough that everyone knows what it is if they see it.”

“Jesus,” Jules whispered.

“And there’s information.” I pressed the heel of my hand to my forehead. “That’s the part I don’t understand. The pictures are horrible, but I understand how a horrible person with a camera gets pictures. But they know things. Some of it could be guessed, maybe. Some from public records or timing or whatever. But some of it feels too close. Like they knew where to look before they looked.”

Jules did not move. Her hands were clasped in her lap so tightly her knuckles had gone white. Her lips were parted. She looked like she might be sick.

“Jules?”

Her eyes filled immediately and my stomach dropped.

“No,” I gasped.

She closed her eyes.