Tasha Zima

Chapter Two

She’d just discovered the fan belt had snapped when headlights bloomed in the distance. Rosa straightened slowly, heart giving one hard thud against her ribs. She was suddenly aware of everything. The open hood. The lonely stretch of road and the fog clinging to the fields before stretching endlessly into blackness.

Who was driving out here this early in the morning?

Serial killer?

Long-haul trucker?

Corporate hitman with insomnia?

She snorted softly at herself. She was glad she’d changed out of the uniform before leaving.

“This is Ashby Lake,” she muttered under her breath. “It’s safe.”

Then her brain chimed in helpfully: That’s what all the victims of serial killers think. She rolled her eyes at herself but reached for the heaviest wrench in her toolbox anyway.

The approaching car slowed.

It was expensive enough that the headlights didn’t just illuminate the road. They claimed it.

The engine purred low and smooth, almost too quiet against the empty road as it rolled to a controlled stop several feet behind her hatchback.

Her spine went straight. The driver’s door opened, then she heard the voice.

“Need a hand?”

Deep. Cultured. Edged with impatience. Like the man behind it was stopping because some internal code of conduct demanded it.

Rosa did not face him immediately. She shifted her stance, wrench hidden but ready, and then swung the flashlight beam toward him. The light caught the car first.

Sleek silver body. Flawless paint. The kind of car that did not belong after midnight on a foggy country road.

Then the man. Sharp suit, even at this hour. Blinking against the sudden glare before lifting one elegant hand to block it.

“Would you mind?” he asked dryly.

She knew that tone. Authority without effort. Wealth without apology. She lowered the beam just enough to see him properly. Strong jaw. Immaculate posture. Eyes assessing her the way a chess player studies a board.

No. It couldn’t be him.

“Nope,” she said lightly. “Thanks, though.”

His brow lifted.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’ve got it handled.” She leaned casually against her car like her engine hadn’t just betrayed her fifteen minutes ago. “Appreciate the concern.”

He took a slow step forward. The fog shifted behind him. Not drifting. Gathering.

Her grip tightened on the wrench. His gaze dropped briefly to her hands. She was not the helpless roadside damsel he might have expected.

“Your vehicle stalled. On a rural road. With no cell reception. At an unreasonable hour.”

“Wow,” she replied, tilting her head. “You deduced all that?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. Not quite a smile.

“I am offering assistance.”

“And I am declining.”

The shadows moved strangely across the fields, stretching too long before snapping back when the wind shifted. He studied her longer this time.

“You’re not from Ashby Lake.” He said it with the certainty of someone who already knew.

Her pulse skipped once.

“Nope. You’re Montgomery Marcon, right?”

He straightened slightly.

“Yes.”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Montgomery Marcon. Billionaire. Industrialist. Tabloid fixture. Exactly the kind of powerful man she had promised herself never to trust.

And absolutely not the person she ever wanted to meet. What were the odds that the one car driving this stretch of foggy nowhere at two a.m. would belong to Montgomery Marcon?

She forced her jaw to unclench and offered him a bright, almost teasing smile.

“Oh, yeah. I’ve heard of you. Didn’t you date Melia Tunbridge? The actress?”

His eyes narrowed a fraction.

“Not exactly my finest moment.”

Interesting.

“Look,” he continued, irritation sharpening the edges of his voice, “did you want a lift into town, or would you prefer I examine the problem?”

He said it like both options were inconveniences he was tolerating for the sake of decency. Rosa nearly laughed. Monty Marcon. Standing on a gravel shoulder in polished shoes. Offering to inspect her broken hatchback like it was a minor engineering curiosity.

“Do you have any pantyhose?” she asked instead.

He blinked.

“What?”

“Pantyhose.” She pointed the flashlight toward the engine again. “My fan belt snapped. I can thread pantyhose through and limp the car into town.”

He stared at her. Then at the open hood. Then back at her.

“I don’t carry hosiery,” he said slowly.

“Shame.” She shrugged. “No one does anymore. Unless they’re into drag.”

The last part she let drop casually. He paused.

“You’re remarkably calm for someone stranded.”

“And you’re remarkably unhelpful for someone offering assistance.”

A flicker passed through his expression. Amusement, maybe.

“You’re certain it’s the fan belt?”

“I’m certain something expensive just happened,” she replied. “And I’m equally certain I’m not accepting a ride from a billionaire I met thirty seconds ago on a dark road.”

His mouth curved faintly.

“Sensible.”

She shifted her weight, wrench still steady in her hand. The flashlight beam danced across chrome and shadow.

“And you? Do you always patrol Ontario backroads at two a.m., Mr. Marcon?”

He held her gaze.

“Sometimes I like to see what the rest of the world looks like without an audience.”

That was unexpectedly honest. Or carefully crafted. With him, it was impossible to tell. She felt the faintest prickle along the back of her neck.

“My cousin’s farm isn’t too far,” Rosa said lightly, stepping back from the hood and closing it with a solid thunk. “I’ll leave the car here and walk. Once you’re on your way, of course.”

She made it sound casual. Like the idea of trekking down a pitch-black rural road was merely cardio.

Monty did not move. Instead, he studied her.

“Your cousin’s farm. The only one within walking distance of this stretch would be Goat Haven, the Munroe farm.”

The night seemed to tilt, the cold settling heavier against the back of her neck. She resisted the urge to look toward the fields as if a witch might step out and claim credit.

He knows her family. Fantastic.

“Gillian and I are friends,” Monty continued.

Rosa barked out a laugh.

“Gillian Munroe and Montgomery Marcon are friends?” She shook her head. “I don’t fucking believe that.”

His jaw tightened a fraction.

“I don’t make a habit of fabricating friendships.”

“Sure, and I don’t make a habit of trusting billionaires who appear out of nowhere on spooky highways. Whatever your game is—”

Monty didn’t argue. He simply reached into his jacket, withdrew his phone, and turned the screen toward her. The light illuminated them both.

Gillian. Grinning. Standing in the barn loft. Next to Monty Marcon. Close enough to suggest familiarity. Comfortable enough to suggest something more than coincidence.

The world narrowed to the glow of that screen.

“Oh.”

Monty’s mouth curved slowly.

“You’re… actually friends.”

“Gillian seems to have a habit of befriending people.”

Her stomach tightened.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket, never breaking eye contact.

“So, shall we revisit the idea of assistance? Or are you intent on hiking through the dark at this hour?”

Wind moved through the stalks beside them, whispering like it knew something they didn’t.

Because if Montgomery Marcon was connected to Gillian… then whatever was folded inside her duffel bag just became a thousand times more dangerous. Rosa held his gaze for one long beat. Then, without warning, she pulled out her phone.

Click.

The flash cut across the dark road. Monty blinked.

“Did you just take a photograph of me?”

“Yep.”

She angled the screen toward herself to check it. Billionaire caught mid-assessment.

“Why?”

“In case we get a signal.” She slipped the phone back into her pocket. “At least my murderer’s picture will auto-upload.”

There was a half-second pause. Then Monty laughed. Not a polite social chuckle. A real laugh.

His eyes flickered with something like appreciation.

Rosa crouched to gather her tools. She kept the heavy wrench and tucked the rest into the toolbox. The metal case thudded into the trunk. She turned off the flashlight and tucked it in as well. The wrench, she kept. She didn’t bother locking the car and wiped her hands on the back pockets of her jeans. Monty visibly winced.

“Engine grease is remarkably persistent.”

“Oh?” She arched a brow. “Should I apologize to your upholstery in advance?”

She let just enough disdain slip into her tone that he tilted his head toward the night sky for a moment, as if asking the universe for patience.

“It’s fine.”

He stepped toward his car and opened the passenger door for her. Old-school courtesy.

“You haven’t told me your name.”

She hesitated only a fraction of a second.

“You’re right. I didn’t.”

She met his eyes directly.

“Rosa Clark. Luna is my mother’s cousin.”

The faintest shift moved across his face. She slid into the passenger seat, wrench resting casually against her thigh.

“Don’t worry,” she added sweetly. “I only swing when provoked.”

His eyes dropped to the wrench in her hand. For a split second, something cold slid down her spine.

The door shut with a clean, expensive sound. The car purred to life. The interior smelled faintly of leather and something crisp. Clean, with a faint metallic note beneath it she couldn’t place.

Rosa buckled in without being asked. Monty pulled smoothly back onto the road. For a moment, there was only the hum of the engine and the sweep of headlights over empty pavement.

“Saving money?”

She glanced at him. “Mm?”

“You’re staying with the Munroes to save money?”

“Is that surprising?”

“No. But it’s imprecise.”

She smiled faintly. “You must be exhausting at parties.”

“I rarely attend parties without purpose.”

“That explains the Page Six girlfriend rotation.”

“You do your research.”

“Hard not to. You’re practically a public utility.”

He huffed something that might have been amusement.

“So,” he continued, eyes forward, hands steady on the wheel, “you left… where?”

“Toronto. Rent’s ridiculous. Tips in Ashby Lake stretch further. And family doesn’t charge utilities.”

“And you commute in a thirty-year-old hatchback.”

“It’s fifteen minutes,” she replied, gesturing out the windshield. “I’ve spent longer waiting for coffee.”

He glanced at her briefly.

“At two in the morning.”

She leaned back in the seat, crossing one ankle over the other.

“I stay late. Help close up.”

“Closing typically concludes by midnight.”

“Depends on the place.”

His silence was pointed.

She shrugged. “I clean. After hours.”

“Generous of you.”

“Paid,” she corrected.

He nodded once.

“You’re deliberately vague.”

She turned her head toward him slowly.

“You’re deliberately intrusive.”

His mouth curved slightly.

“Observation is not intrusion.”

“It is when you’re doing it from the driver’s seat of a silver spaceship.”

He considered that.

“Fair.”

They drove another stretch in quiet. The road curved gently, and she caught the reflection of herself in the window. Smudged eyeliner. Grease on her hands. A billionaire driving her home.

Absurd.

“So, why are you out here, Mr. Marcon? Lost your way?”

“I don’t get lost.”

“Of course not.”

“I live in Ashby Lake. Well, on the outskirts.”

She stiffened inwardly but didn’t let it show.

“Ah. Of course you do.”

“You assume I’m here to exploit something.”

“I assume billionaires don’t live just outside of small towns out of nostalgia.”

Another small silence.

“You’re protective of a town you just moved to?”

“I’m protective of people who don’t have teams of lawyers.”

His expression didn’t change, but something sharpened behind his eyes. Goat Haven’s lights appeared in the distance. She felt her shoulders ease just slightly.

The car slowed as they turned into the long gravel drive. Fog lingered beneath the tires.

“You can stop here,” she said, before they reached the house proper.

He did. She unbuckled but didn’t move immediately.

“Thank you for stopping.”

“You were holding a wrench. It would have been imprudent not to.”

She laughed softly.

“Goodnight, Mr. Marcon.”

“Goodnight, Miss Clark.”

She stepped out, gravel crunching under her boots. The porch light caught her as she walked toward the house. She didn’t look back. But she felt it. His gaze lingering.

The silver car idled for one more second before gliding back down the driveway and disappearing into the fog before the sound of the engine fully faded.

Rosa put the wrench in her back pocket and slipped inside the Munroe house like a ninja and turned off the porch light. The kitchen was dark now, only the faint glow from the stove clock cutting through the black. Half-past two.

She moved carefully. The floorboards barely whispered beneath her boots. Somewhere downstairs, pipes knocked softly inside the walls like distant footsteps.

In the bathroom, she flipped on the small light above the sink. It hummed faintly. She washed her hands with the heavy-duty degreaser she’d spotted under the cabinet. The soap was industrial, smelled faintly citrusy and was gritty.

Good thing her jeans were black. She wondered if she’d left any grease on his car seat and she grinned at the thought.

She studied herself in the mirror. Hair still in high pigtails. A faint crease between her brows she hadn’t had a week ago.

“Cute,” she muttered. “Real cute.”

She turned off the light and padded back to the spare room. The door closed quietly. Only then did she reach for the duffel. It sat at the foot of the bed like it was innocent. She knelt and unzipped it, pulling out the manila envelope. She spread the papers out just to check.

Everything was still there.

Names and dates that made her stomach flip. Redacted documents, official-looking police records, and photographs of missing people.

It was all laid out in black and white. And it was radioactive.

She looked out the window. Forests stretched beyond the farm.

Bury it out there? Twelve paces from the road. Mark it with a crooked fence post.

She snorted softly.

“Congratulations, Rosa,” she whispered. “You’ve officially watched too many crime documentaries.”

Her jaw tightened. She would not bring danger to this house. She gathered the pages back into the envelope and slid them inside the lining again.

Safety deposit box. That would have to do. She grabbed her phone and set an alarm for ten a.m.

She’d seen spare car parts in the barn earlier. Boxes stacked neatly along the back wall. Belts. Filters. Things Orion had probably salvaged from a dozen forgotten engines.

If there was a fan belt in there—

She could jog to her car. Install it. Drive into town. Get the box. Get the documents out of this house. Away from Montgomery Marcon.

She lay back on the bed without changing, staring at the ceiling. The farmhouse creaked softly around her. Old wood settling. Wind nudging the siding.

Her last thought before sleep dragged her under was sharp and steady:

Eight minutes in a silver car had complicated everything.