“I hope you’re dialing an ambulance,” another client called out from a treadmill, “’cause if that motherfucker touches Jo, he’s going to need one.”
Before Jo could turn back around, he came at her with his shoulder dropped slightly, as though breaking down a door. The force sent Jo stumbling back a few steps. Then she surged forward, her body acting of its own volition. She smashed the heel of her hand into his face, grabbed his arm, and effortlessly flipped him over her back. He landed faceup on the floor, his head pinned to the mat by the heel of Jo’s Nike trainer on his neck. Blood gushed from his nose and ran in rivulets down the sides of his face. Rage and fear coursed through Jo’s body. Every part of her vibrated with energy. The muscles of her raised thigh shook with it. She could destroy him. And she wanted to. When she pressed down harder with her sneaker, the release felt almost orgasmic.
The women watching were riveted. They’d all been in her place at one time or another. They wanted her to kill him, too.
“Don’t.” Nessa’s soft, soothing voice washed over her. “Not now.”
Just then, Jo sensed new eyes on her. She glanced up, past Nessa’s worried face, and found a woman standing frozen on the staircase. Rosamund was one of the gym’s warm-weather clients. Jo couldn’t recall ever seeing her in the winter. In late spring and summer, Rosamund showed up every afternoon at four o’clock and pounded the treadmill for ninety minutes straight. She’d exchanged fewer than two dozen words with Jo—or anyone else at the gym, as far as Jo could tell. When she ran, Rosamund didn’t wear headphones or watch TV. She kept her eyes focused on an imaginary spot in the distance, and only the alarm on her smartwatch would bring her to a stop.
Now she locked eyes with Jo. Her fingers were latched onto the staircase railing so tightly that her knuckles were white. There was little doubt she was the one being hunted. Jo nodded and her client bolted down the stairs, out the door, and into the evening. Flashing red lights swirled on the ceiling as a police car pulled up in front of the gym.
Two officers entered. One was an old hand named Tony Perretta who’d gone to high school with Jo and whose youngest son was classmates with Lucy. At his side was a lanky kid named Jones who looked far too green for his uniform. Perretta escorted the intruder outside while Jones stayed indoors and nervously scribbled notes as Jo offered her account of the incident. She kept an eye on Perretta in the parking lot, where his conversation with the suspect quickly evolved from professional to practically chummy. A few minutes later, the older cop returned to the gym, leaving the man leaning casually against the side of his car, dabbing at his bloody schnoz with a Kleenex.
“What the hell are you doing!” Jo demanded. “That asshole barged into my business and attacked me and you’re leaving him out there on his own?”
“Jones, go outside and keep an eye on our guy while I have a word with Ms. Levison,” Perretta ordered the younger man. Then he gestured for Jo to join him away from her clients and employees.
“He shoved me, Tony,” Jo argued once they were on their own. “I know the law, goddammit. That’s assault.”
When Perretta replied in a low voice, Jo knew he was going to piss her off. Men always lowered their voices when they tried to talk sense into you. “He claims you were blocking the exit and he was just trying to get past you.”
“And you’re taking his word for it? Did you bother to ask any of the fifty women who witnessed what happened? Would you like a look at the security tapes? Who is this guy, anyway, Tony? One of your fucking poker buddies?”
The cop raised his eyebrows to let her know she was pushing it. “His name’s Chertov, and I’ve never spoken to the guy before in my life. I’ve made it pretty clear that he’ll be in deep shit if he ever comes back here. Though considering the ass-kicking you gave him, it seems pretty unlikely he’ll try. I don’t think you need to be concerned for your safety, Jo.”
“He was hunting for one of my clients. What are you going to do to protect her?”
“You’re talking about Rosamund Harding?” Perretta asked, and Jo nodded. “Then there’s no need to protect her. Chertov works for her husband.”
“I don’t give a damn who pays the thug’s salary. She bolted out the door when she saw him. She obviously didn’t want him to find her.”
Perretta sighed wearily and leaned in closer. “Look, I’ll arrest Chertov if you ask me to. But he’ll be out in less than an hour—and you’ll be starting something you might not be able to finish. Take my word for it, Jo, you don’t want this to go any further.”
“Why not?”
“Your client’s husband is Spencer Harding,” the cop said.
“So?” Jo demanded. “Is that name supposed to mean something? Who is he?”
“You know that empty lot down on Ocean Avenue—the one where the Italian restaurant used to be?”
“Yeah,” Jo said, bemused by the sudden turn the conversation had taken.
“Five years ago, the man who ran it was out for a jog with his dog. A passing car swerved and hit the dog. It could have been an accident, but the driver kept going—didn’t even bother to stop. As you can imagine, the dog’s owner was pissed as hell, so he did some detective work and found a surveillance camera that had caught the whole thing. He got the car’s license plate and filed suit against the owner. The case was settled for a few thousand dollars, and the guy figured everything was over and done with. Then, the same day he received the settlement check, he got word that the building that housed his restaurant had been sold to an anonymous buyer, and he had two days to vacate the premises. The same night the restaurant closed for good, the building was bulldozed. It’s been an empty lot for the last five years.”
“Let me guess. The car that hit the man’s dog was owned by Spencer Harding?”
“That’s right, and Chertov is his bodyguard.”
“His bodyguard?” Jo scoffed. “Who the hell is this guy—some kind of mobster?”
“No,” Perretta said. “Just a man with enough money to always get his way.”
Days later, Jo was still infuriated. Even the smoothie in her hand and Nessa’s presence couldn’t cool her down.
“What was I supposed to do?” she asked as they drove along the winding road through Nessa’s neighborhood. “Lose everything I’ve built over the last three years just to make a point?”
The two women had become fast friends, despite the fact that they had nothing in common. Less than a week had passed since they’d met, and they’d already developed a routine. Each afternoon, Nessa would walk down to the gym, they’d work out for an hour, then grab Purple Haze smoothies before Jo drove Nessa home.