Chapter 81
Samantha's POV
"Just need to pick up some things I left." I kept my tone light, friendly even. "Margaret home?"
"Nah, she's at her church group. Won't be back till ten." Jack shifted his weight, blocking the doorway slightly. "Look, I don't want any trouble—"
"Trouble?" I smiled. "Jack, why would there be trouble? I just need to grab a box from my old room. Five minutes, tops."
He hesitated, clearly torn between the instinct to refuse and the memory of what had happened the last time he'd crossed me. Those men I'd hired—the ones who'd made very clear what would happen if he ever touched me again—had done their job well.
"Fine," he finally muttered, stepping aside. "But make it quick."
I brushed past him, heading up the stairs to the small room that had been mine for three years. My old closet was still there, and when I opened it, I found the shoebox exactly where I'd left it.
Inside: photographs. Movie stubs. A pressed flower from the corsage Lucas gave me at homecoming. His old jersey, still faintly smelling like his cologne. And at the bottom, a folded note in his handwriting: "Samantha—you make me feel like I can be myself. Love, L."
Love. He'd written that. He'd meant it.
I clutched the box to my chest, feeling something sharp and possessive curl in my stomach. This was real. Our relationship was real. Not some childhood friendship like what he had with Ellie, but actual adult love that he'd chosen for himself.
I just needed to make him remember that.
When I came back downstairs, Jack was in the kitchen, pulling a beer from the fridge. He glanced up as I entered, then quickly looked away.
And that's when the idea hit me. Fully formed. Perfect.
"Hey, Jack?" I kept my voice casual, setting the box down on the counter. "I feel bad about... you know. How things went down last time."
He froze, beer halfway to his lips. "What?"
"I was angry. Made some choices I'm not proud of." I bit my lip, channeling every ounce of remorse I could fake. "Those guys... I shouldn't have sent them after you. That was too far."
Jack stared at me like I'd grown a second head. "You... you're apologizing?"
"I'm trying to." I moved closer, carefully maintaining unthreatening body language. "Look, I know we've never gotten along. But we're still technically family, right? Adoptive siblings, even if neither of us wanted it." I gestured to his beer. "Let me buy you a drink. A real drink, at that bar you like downtown. Call it an olive branch?"
Suspicion warred with confusion on Jack's face. "Why?"
"Because I'm tired of having enemies," I said simply. "I've got Lucas now, got my own place, got my life on track. And I'd rather have you as... maybe not a friend, but at least not someone who flinches when I walk in the room."
It was a good speech. Sincere-sounding. The kind of thing that appealed to Jack's simple worldview—forgive and forget, let bygones be bygones, have a beer and call it even.
I watched him process it. Saw the moment he decided to believe me.
"One drink," he said finally. "But you're buying."
"Of course." I smiled, and this time I let it reach my eyes. "Give me ten minutes to drop this box in my car, and we'll head out."
The bar Jack chose was exactly the kind of place I'd expected—dim lighting, sticky floors, a pool table in the back where men in stained t-shirts argued over their games. The bartender barely glanced at my ID before sliding two whiskeys across the counter.
"To family," I said, raising my glass.
Jack clinked his against mine, still looking uncertain. "To family, I guess."
We drank. He grimaced at the cheap liquor. I pretended to.
"Another round?" I signaled the bartender before Jack could answer. "My treat, remember?"
He shrugged. "Sure, why not."
I watched him relax incrementally with each drink. Watched his shoulders loosen, his laugh come easier. By the third round, he was talking—rambling, really—about his job at the auto shop, about Margaret's latest attempt to get him into community college, about some girl he'd been seeing who'd ghosted him last week.
"Women, man," he muttered into his fourth whiskey. "Can't figure them out."
"Most men can't," I agreed, signaling the bartender again. But this time, when Jack wasn't looking, I slipped the small pill—dissolved in water, completely tasteless—into his fresh glass. Rohypnol. I'd bought it weeks ago, planning for... well, I hadn't known what for. Just that it might be useful someday.
Claire Underwood would approve. Always have the tools ready before you know you need them.
"You know what, Samantha?" Jack's words were starting to slur slightly. "You're not so bad. I mean, you were a bitch in high school, but... maybe you grew up or something."
"Maybe we both did." I sipped my own drink—actually just Coke, though he was too far gone to notice I'd stopped drinking alcohol after the first round. "You seeing anyone now?"
"Nah. That girl I mentioned, she was just..." He waved his hand vaguely. "Whatever. Women don't want guys like me anyway. They want the rich douchebags like your boyfriend."
"Lucas isn't a douchebag," I said automatically, but without heat. "He's just... lucky."
"Yeah, well." Jack drained his glass, and I saw his eyes starting to unfocus. "Some people are born lucky. Rest of us just gotta—" He blinked, swaying slightly. "Whoa. Feel weird."
"You okay?" I put on a concerned expression. "Maybe you should slow down."
"Yeah, I..." He gripped the bar for support. "Maybe I need to sit."
"Come on, let me help you." I slipped under his arm, guiding him toward one of the corner booths. He was heavy, stumbling, barely coordinating his movements. The drug was working faster than I'd expected.
Perfect.
I'd made the call twenty minutes ago, while Jack was in the bathroom. Crystal—a sex worker I'd found through a very discreet online forum, the kind where you could arrange... specialized services. I'd paid her 500 dollars upfront.
She was waiting in the booth, dressed exactly as I'd requested: short skirt, low-cut top, heavy makeup. She looked the part perfectly.
"This him?" Crystal asked as I deposited Jack onto the cracked vinyl seat. His head lolled back, eyes half-closed.