Page 44 of Wicked Heat

“They could get it.”

I grimace. She’s right. My parents aren’t cash-rich, but they do have a ton of equity in a very snazzy Manhattan brownstone which has been updated to the hilt. It’s worth a fortune… but it’s also my parents’ only asset. No way am I asking them to take out a loan. They’d do it—they’d justify it by saying that one day it will be mine—but I can’t ask.

“I’m not going to ask them,” I say. “Even if I wanted to let them know about all this shit, you know I can’t ask them. They need that money.”

“Hopefully not,” she says, her voice gentle.

I stare into my mug and shrug. My dad’s been showing signs of Alzheimer’s. It’s not bad yet, and the doctors are optimistic. But if he needs special care, that equity is what will pay for it. And even if it weren’t a health issue, I want my parents to be comfortable in their old age. And that equity is the bulk of their retirement.

That’s not all of it, though. As important as it is to me that my parents are comfortable as they grow older, it’s even more important to me that they never learn the truth. They know I was kidnapped. Hell, the whole world knows that, though it’s the Stark name that really gets the attention, leaving me—thankfully—in semi-anonymity.

But they don’t know about the rest of it. The touching. The drugging. The things on that tape. Things I’ve been dreaming. The dreams that I now think are memories.

“You should talk to them,” Aria says when I remind her of that. “They love you. They won’t judge you. And you quit talking to Teresa. You have to talk to someone.”

“I talk to you,” I say, ignoring the elephant in the room. The one that’s painted with Aria’s mantra that I should go back to weekly therapy. But I don’t want to. Teresa’s on my speed dial for emergencies only now, and she’d agreed that if I was comfortable with that, it was a good step.

My bestie isn’t so sure.

“Talking to me is great,” Aria says. “You know I’ll always be here for you. But I’m not a shrink.”

“Neither are my parents. And I don’t want to tell them. It was hard enough telling you. And there is no way on earth I would ever ask them for money without giving them a reason.”

“Say you’re starting a business.”

“Dammit, Aria!”

“Fine. Sorry. I get it.” She puts her mug down and sighs. “They probably couldn’t help, anyway. I mean, the money’s in the real estate, not a safe. They’d have to get an equity loan, and that takes time.”

“Yes,” I say, relieved she’s taking my parents out of the equation.

“But that leaves you with only one option.”

Ash.

Neither of us say his name, but I can see it hanging mid-air between us in a crazy neon font, like the focal point of some thirty-second ad spot for a really crappy new soft drink.

I sigh. “I’ll ask him for the money,” I tell her. “Just as soon as I figure out how I’m going to bring it up.”

I look up from my bagel to see her frowning. “Oh, what now? You’re the one who just said he’s the only option.”

“I didn’t actually say⁠—”

“And the clock starts running in less than an hour,” I add, cold fear rushing through me with that pronouncement. “Noon, remember?”

“Of course, I remember,” she says, as I look pointedly at the clock mounted on the wall in the kitchen. Eleven-fifteen.

Seventy-two hours and forty-five minutes.

That’s all the time I have to gather three million dollars.

I look to Aria with panic. “What am I going to do if he says no? I can’t raise three mil by myself. It’s impossible. It’s⁠—”

“He won’t say no.” Her words are firm. As if she’s giving an order to the world.

It’s ridiculous— Aria has no more insight or power than I have—but her certainty calms me.

“You’ll talk to him after the interview,” she says firmly. “You’ll commiserate about what a bitch Maggie is, and you’ll ask him for this one teensy favor. Then it’s like we already said—if he’s innocent, he’ll help you out because that’s who he is. If he’s guilty, he’ll help to hide his guilt and keep you close so he can watch you squirm.” She shrugs. “Either way, you’ll have the money.”