The garage had six levels, and the storm was drowning them one at a time.
I stood in the dark of Level B2 with floodwater around my ankles, holding my phone while the amber alarm lights blinked across the empty concrete. My husband's name lit the screen. Liam Walker. The man who had never once asked where the money for our lives came from.
He answered on the third ring, and I heard the party before I heard him: laughter, clinking glass, and Chloe's voice bright over the noise.
"Aria." He said my name the way you'd greet a telemarketer. "Bit busy. What is it?"
"Liam, the parking garage is flooding. The exits are blocked. I need you to—"
"Call a tow truck, then." A glass clinked near the receiver. "Or take a cab. It's one night of rain, not the end of the world."
"It's not rain, Liam.
