“Who did you call,” he asked. The question landed heavy with implication. I looked at the phone glowing in his hand and felt my pulse spike.
“Did you track my location,” I asked quietly. He looked away for half a second before answering. “Do not be dramatic,” he said. “We share accounts.”
I crossed my arms and said, “That is not an answer.” He shrugged and replied, “I needed to know where you were.” His voice hardened as he added, “Do not embarrass me by involving the wrong people.”
My phone vibrated again. “I am here,” Julian texted.
A small sedan pulled in behind my car and Julian stepped out quickly. He walked toward us and stopped beside me, his presence calm but unmistakably protective. “Are you okay,” he asked, looking directly at me.
Malcolm stared at him and said, “Who is this.” Julian extended a hand and answered, “Julian Moore. Her cousin.” Malcolm ignored the hand entirely.
“This is between me and my wife,” Malcolm snapped. Julian replied evenly, “She asked for help. I came.”
I took a breath and reached into my wallet. When I unfolded the lottery ticket and held it up, the air between us shifted instantly. Malcolm froze, his eyes locked on the paper.
“That is real,” he whispered. His voice cracked as if the numbers had stolen his balance. I met his gaze and said, “Now tell me who you are before I decide what you get.”
