Behind Closed Doors (Behind Closed Doors #1)(7)

My cell phone rings and I grab it, glancing at the number to find Ella on my caller ID. I hesitate for several rings, afraid my need to tell someone what is happening will win, but remind myself I need to work on my own poker face, or rather my courtroom face. “Hey,” I answer. “What happened to your hot date?”

“Oh, ah . . . nothing. I was just thinking about you.”

“Well then, he can’t be that hot,” I tease.

She’s quiet a beat. Then two. “Look, Skye. I tend to create a bubble around me and I think I pulled you into it. You wouldn’t let me buy the unit and—”

“You can’t spend your money on my unit.”

“I talked you into this.”

“I made the decision. I’m strong-willed. You didn’t decide for me.”

“But you don’t have the money to spare.”

“And you do?”

Another beat of silence. Then another. “Thanks to you following me to the auctions, I know where you live. I left the cash under your doormat.”

“What? Ella—”

“Like I said, I pulled you into my bubble.”

This is not the vivacious Ella I know. “What bubble? What’s wrong?”

“I need to run. But get that money so no one will steal it.”

“Ella—”

The line goes dead.

I frown, staring down at the phone, not sure what to make of Ella. I barely know her but I like her, and now I’m worried about her, though I’m not sure why. It’s just a gut feeling. I can’t believe she left cash under my mat and I’m suddenly worried about it. Shoving off the bed, I rush down both levels of stairs and stand at my door. Never in the six months that I’ve lived here have I been nervous about opening my door, but for the second time in one night I punch in 911 on my phone and hold my finger over the dial button. I then flip on my porch light, inhale, and open my door. Quickly, I squat and lift the mat to grab an envelope in a split second, and am back on my feet in another. I’m just about to shut the door when movement across the street to my left catches my eye. Searching the shadows, a chill runs down my spine as I realize someone is next to a tree, but dressed in all black and wearing a hoodie, and I can’t make them out. But I’m pretty sure they’re staring at me.

I slam the door shut and lock it, my heart thundering in my chest. Whoever that person was, they were looking at me because I turned on my porch light and opened my door. That’s all. That’s why. I leave the light on and race up the stairs and don’t stop until I’m on my bed again. I need a gun. Of course, I need to learn to shoot one first. Or . . . I could just pull the trigger. I open the envelope and find seven $100 bills. Guilt overtakes me, and I clear the emergency number and dial Ella. Her phone goes straight to voice mail. I try twice more and leave her a message.

Sighing, and starting to calm down, I stuff the envelope in the drawer of my simple black nightstand, which doesn’t have to match my headboard because I don’t have one. I drag my MacBook to me and since it’s my boss’s property, I suddenly remember why I wanted this auction thing to work. I’m ready to make something of my life.

Shaking off the disappointment the idea stirs in me, I prepare to deal with the lingering problem that $700 won’t solve. I google stolen World Series poker chips but find nothing, though I wonder if it would be made public. I try several other searches and finally find a brief reference to a tournament a year and a half ago that came up short a high-dollar chip that was never found. Suspicions of cheating were floating about but were unproven. I search for the amount of the chip but can’t find it. Shit. Shit. Shit. I think I have the chip.

I read the note again.

Jason, It didn’t have to end like this.

There are only so many ways to take those words, considering where they were found, and blackmail seems pretty darn obvious. I mean, no one could cash in a stolen chip without being put in jail, so it has to be blackmail. Right? But did the poker player in question steal the chip or is he being set up? I am not lost to the irony of this being about gambling, considering my past, but that isn’t the cause of the sick feeling coming over me. I didn’t grow up protected or a fool. This is dangerous territory I’m treading, and people kill for far less than what I’ve stumbled onto. I stand up. I need to go to the police. But it’s after ten, and the idea of going out, in the dark, on Freddy Kruger Street is not good. I’ll wait until morning. Today is Thursday and I took a long weekend, a rarity for me, which was supposed to be about making money, not fighting crime. Or ending up in the middle of it.

Sitting back down, I spend the next two hours digging through the paperwork in the box and pull out documents that tell me the unit’s owner was Stephanie Smith. I need this information for the police. Actually, they can have the box. They can decide what gets returned to the storage unit. I’m about to cave to the need for sleep but decide to try one more thing. I type in Jason and poker together in my search engine and discover there’s a professional poker player named Jason Wise. I click on the image files and just about fall over. It’s Trouble, my sexy blue-jean-clad stranger at the storage auction. I pull up his Wikipedia page and discover he’s thirty-two years old and one of the top-earning poker players on the planet, to the sum of $43,000,000 in winnings. The man doesn’t need a $50,000 poker chip. Unless . . . he’s cheated his way to winning? It’s a horrible thought, but then, so is blackmail. I press my hand to my face. What the heck have I gotten myself into?