At 8:05, the phone started buzzing nonstop.
Hope's name flashed on the screen. Call after call after call.
One. Two. Three.
I watched, stone-faced. Didn't need to guess what she was scheming.
She was sprawled across a king-size hotel bed in Miami right now, hammering my number over and over.
She wanted to badger me into caving. Wear me down until I dragged myself to the office, unlocked the doors, and covered her shift.
Even if I didn't pick up. Even if I flat-out refused. She wouldn't care.
She was betting on the next domino: the moment nobody showed up and Mr. Greyson discovered the warehouse unmanned, he'd call me, guilt-trip me about "the bigger picture," and force me to clean up her mess.
I stared at the screen and smiled. Cold.
"Guilt-trip me? Please."
I switched the phone to airplane mode and shoved it under my pillow.
Meanwhile, on a beach thousands of miles away in Miami, Hope listened to the automated voice telling her the number she'd dialed had been powered off. Not a flicker of panic. She laughed out loud.
"You want to go up against me? That's the best you've got, Hailey? Playing dead and turning off your phone?"
She tossed her phone onto the beach lounger.