Rebound (Boomerang #2)(67)

My phone buzzes in my hand, startling me. I drop it and search through the folds of the heavy comforter for it. Finding it, I see that it’s Philippe.

I’m almost crying as I answer. My lips feel numb. I can’t feel the phone when I lift it to my ear.

“Jesus in a hand basket,” Philippe says over the line. “It’s Armageddon around here. What happened?”

For a second, I can’t speak. I don’t know what’s happened, and it’s like I’ve been turned inside out and emptied of everything.

“What’s going on?” I manage, and my tongue feels thick in my mouth. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he says, sharply. “But are you? You sound weird, Ali.”

“I’m . . . fine. What’s going on?”

“Rhett just kicked us out of the offices. The whole team.”

“What?” This would be the part where I jump out of bed and start putting on clothes, go into emergency coping mode. But I’m too busy drifting on my mattress—so much white everywhere. It feels like the absence of everything—not just color but life.

I make myself focus, try to home in on Philippe’s words.

“He didn’t look happy about it, but yes. He came in about fifteen minutes ago and told us we had to go.”

“Had he talked to Adam? Did he say?”

“No, but I assume the order came from on high. Isn’t he there with you? How’s your ankle?”

“It sucks,” I say. “All of this sucks.”

“Ali-girl, what’s going on? You don’t sound right.” The concern in his voice makes the tears come for real, and then I start to sob. My body’s wracked with it. I can’t breathe for a long moment. I can’t make sense of anything.

“I don’t know. Adam just left. He threw a bunch of money at people to look in on me and disappeared.”

I hear Philippe’s intake of breath and then a long moment of quiet as he tries to process. “That doesn’t sound good.”

“No,” I say, shakily. “It doesn’t.”

“What can I do?”

“I don’t know yet,” I tell him. “I guess just clear out and—”

“Already done.”

“Okay. Tell the team I’m sorry.”

“There’s no reason for you to be sorry. Something’s fishy here. I’ll dig around, try to find out what’s up. And I’m going to call your dad.”

“No, wait—” I start to say. If my father gets involved, he’ll want information from me. Want me to tell him everything I know. But I need him to help me get out of here. And I need to get out of here.

“Go ahead,” I tell Philippe, and we end the call.

Family’s everything, I hear his voice say. We need to choose each other every time.

But I haven’t chosen family. I’ve chosen Adam.

And look where that’s gotten you, the voice in my head tells me.

My phone buzzes in my hand again, and I know without looking that it’s my father. I put it on speaker. I’m too tired to hold the phone anymore.

Vaguely, I hear him speaking to me. His tone is soothing, solicitous.

“ . . . can’t believe that jackass left you there . . .” I hear, and I want to argue, but I can’t believe it either.

“Alison, honey,” he says. And his voice is quiet, confidential. “I’m getting on Thad Weaver’s private jet, and we’re coming to get you. Give us a few hours, and we’ll come take you home. Okay, sweetheart?”

I nod, though I know he can’t hear that. I want so badly to be at home, curled in a ball in my bedroom. I want my mom and dad. I want not to hurt anymore, not to feel the grief and anger carving into my high.

“Tell me what’s going on,” my father says, in that same gentle tone. “What did you find out?”

Collapsing back against the pillows, I look around the suite. The snow’s died down. The room is quiet, filled with Adam’s absence. Not a trace of him. Like none of it happened. Anger sweeps through me, searing away everything else.

“Nothing, Dad,” I say, but I start to cry again, and I know he knows I’m lying.

“Alison,” my father repeats, and his tone is so gentle, so wheedling. “I’ll be there in no time, but you have to tell me. What did you get on Blackwood?”

I’m tired. So tired. And I can’t think of a reason to protect Adam. He’s not here. He’s not the one who’s going to bring me home. I look down at the phone for a long, long time.

And then I tell my father everything.





Chapter 38



Adam


Thirty hours after leaving the resort in Jackson, I’m finally getting to my house in Malibu. There were no flights, so I rented a car and drove. Stopped at a roadside motel to grab a couple hours of sleep when my eyes wouldn’t stay open. Hit five different states trying to avoid road closures. Barely remember any of it.

As I step into the kitchen, rich, fragrant smells flood my nose. Grey’s standing at the stove, stirring something in a small saucepan. He’s set the table, and on the island, I see a carved turkey, mashed potatoes, string beans, and rolls.

My brother’s pretty much a screw-up, but he’s a decent cook. Bizarre for a nineteen-year-old kid, but something just translates when he touches food.