ADDICTED

4

LEAH

The musty, sweet aroma of hazelnut roast coffee and salty fries mingled in the air while I weaved around people just standing around, following Isabelle through baggage claim and out to the ground transportation parking deck. Incessant chatter surrounded us, impossibly loud for arriving on a weekday morning.

"I hate this airport," Isabelle grouched over her shoulder, just barely loud enough for me to hear.

"I second that," I muttered.

Other travelers crowded the wide corridors of the airport, talking loudly, or pushing each other around as they moved from arrivals and departures. There were always too many people in the Hartsfield-Jackson airport, regardless of the day or time.

At last, we passed through the external doors and stepped into the chilly afternoon air. Checking both ways, we crossed to the parking deck and started towards where my Benz was parked. We piled our bags into the trunk before settling into our respective seats.

I had just turned the car on when my phone rang. It was an unknown number so I dismissed it. I was mentally, physically, and emotionally exhausted. Whoever it was, could wait.

"Alright," Isabelle huffed as I steered us out of the deck and towards the interstate. "Are you going to tell me what happened at that restaurant? You've hardly said a word since."

Swallowing, I shifted in my seat and trained my eyes on the asphalt. "I've been, you know, processing some things."

"Processing what? Did his family forgive you or not?"

"His mother was nice. She said she didn't hold any of it against me," I finally said. "The dad . . . not so much."

"Well, you tried at least." Isabelle shrugged. "Did you get to talk to the brother? He seemed pretty upset you were there. And he's hot. Like, damn. I never would have guessed Jarrod got the short end of the stick. Who's allowed to look hot at a funeral anyway?"

I shot her a look. "Yes, I talked to James. He's not even that hot by the way—not compared to how big of an asshole he is."

She arched a brow at me.

"He's seriously in denial about Jarrod," I continued while focusing on getting us out of the parking garage.

"What do you mean? I saw how hostile he was but he can't think that his brother was the victim in all this."

"Somehow, yeah. James said I'm a 'conniving bitch' who just tells lies and speculations. He doesn't think that Jarrod killed Anne. I know they couldn't pin it on him in court but he literally confessed to me!"

Isabelle nodded glumly. "Yeah, the judicial system sucks ass. Anne was a crazy psychopath but her family deserved closure."

"And justice," I muttered.

"Well," she sighed, "at least it's over with. You never have to see those people again."

—(—)—

It was only an hour later, when I was finally home and alone in the bath, that I received another call from the same number. They hadn't left a voicemail the first time so I assumed it was probably spam. I dismissed it to voicemail again and sunk deeper into the hot water.

My phone beeped with a text. Sighing, I sat up, dried my hands, and checked the text. It was from the unknown number.

UNKNOWN: This is James. Call me ASAP.

My stomach dropped. James? As in, James Muller, the brother of my deceased ex who hated my guts?

I couldn't imagine what he could possibly have to say to me, but I had to admit, I wanted to know. For some sick reason, I felt a fleeting burst of anticipation at his text. I called the number back and listened to ring it once before picking up.