He was dead. Her mother didn’t need to say it. Nat knew it in her bones.

“He seemed to have moved on and put the past behind him. But recently, he’d been drinking a lot, hanging with a bad crowd.”

Suicide? A car crash? A drunken brawl? It would be something like that. To Nat’s surprise, tears welled in her eyes and emotion clogged her throat. A small part of her blamed herself.

“And then . . . he just left.”

“Left?” Nat’s tears and emotion evaporated. “What do you mean, he left?”

“He’d been living with his parents. They came home from work to find he’d packed a bag and gone.”

“So . . . you’re calling to tell me Cole took a vacation?” Her grief instantly morphed into irritation.

“He didn’t take a vacation, Natalie.” It was Allana’s turn to sound annoyed. “He left a note. His mom wouldn’t tell me exactly what it said, but his parents think he’s gone to New York. They think . . .” Her mom trailed off, took a ragged breath.

“They think Cole’s trying to find you.”

14

The Bistro

Nat sat in the back of the town car, her eyes transfixed by the twinkling lights of Manhattan. Usually, she commuted into the city in a cramped, smelly subway car. Now, she was being chauffeured in the back of a sumptuous Lincoln that smelled of leather and wool and expensive cologne. The uniformed driver (she vaguely recalled meeting him the other night) had greeted her officiously in accented English, had held the door open for her to enter the sleek vehicle. Now, he was whisking her into the city to meet a handsome, older man at a chic, uptown restaurant. It all felt surreal . . . because it wasn’t real. It was a transaction.

She had vowed to put Cole out of her mind, for tonight, at least. There was no proof that he was in New York, that he was looking for her, that he was still angry with her. And even if he were in the city, how would he find her? The apartment was in Mara’s name. Nat had paid fifteen bucks for a new cell number upon relocation. She had blocked Cole from her social media accounts after he’d posted angry rants calling out her abandonment, her duplicitousness, her lack of loyalty in the most colorful terms (selfish cunt, cheating bitch, lying whore). Even if he created a fake account to access her Instagram or Snapchat, she never posted anything personal. When she’d first arrived in New York, she’d shared a bunch of touristy photos: the Brooklyn Bridge, the 9/11 Memorial, the Statue of Liberty taken from the Staten Island Ferry. Her limited presence on social media would provide no clues to her whereabouts. She could almost relax, could almost feel safe . . . Except Cole knew where she went to school.

The thought made her feel hot, sweaty, mildly nauseated. She grabbed the plastic water bottle from the console beside her, cracked it open, and drank. It was tepid and tasted like chemicals, did nothing to cool her down or soothe her anxiety. She tried to breathe her way through the panic fluttering in her chest—closing her eyes, inhaling slowly through her nose, out through her mouth. Even if Cole came to the School of Visual Arts, he wouldn’t attack her in front of the entire student population. He wasn’t that violent, nor that impulsive. But Cole might observe her, follow her, discover her recent lifestyle choice. And with that knowledge, he could destroy her.