Last Girl Ghosted(98)

I dress slowly, my body aching, my heart pulsing. The lace of the undergarments you chose is sexy but soft. The dress slips over my shoulders and fits perfectly, clinging to and glancing off all the right places. The wrap is heaven. A velvety pair of flats slip onto my feet; I don’t recognize the designer but they’ll be pricey. You despise the flashy brands—Jimmy Choo, Louboutin, Chanel, Valentino. People without style buy those things to communicate wealth, nothing to do with beauty or art. Just, Look at me and what I can afford to buy.

I step out into the hallway and walk toward the great room.

I already know that there are only two doors, both dead-bolt locked, no windows that open. That those windows are double-paned, argon-filled, impact glass and will bear two hundred mile an hour winds and most things that wind might hurl at them. They won’t be broken by a chair, or desperate pounding. Another lesson I have learned the hard way.

I know that there is no other property for miles. That there is no way for anyone who might be looking to track me here. I am only a few hours from The Hollows, but I might as well be on the moon. You have disposed of my car. The gate is locked. This property, this home is utterly off the grid.

And now I know what happened to Bonnie, Melissa, and Mia.

I know because it’s happening to me.

I sit at your table and you bring two glasses of wine, place one before each plate. The liquid is bloodred, the crystal gleaming. Aromas from the kitchen waft, heavenly, and my mutinous stomach rumbles.

I resist the urge to break the glass against the table and lunge for you with the sharpened edge. You are far stronger and faster than I am. You don’t trust me anymore and you’re on guard. This is yet another bitter lesson I’ve learned—over and over. It’s finally sunk in. I am as obedient as a schoolgirl.

My hands are shaking.

You light the candles, glance at me with dark, loving eyes.

You favor Chopin Nocturnes and, suitably grim, the music plays softly in the background.

Anyone peering in through the window would think we were an elegant, loving couple sharing a beautifully prepared meal. I could post this moment on social media, filter it: #romance #datenightathome. I’d be the envy of all my followers.

When you return to the table with our plates—a beautiful filet and delicate sliced roasted potatoes, brussels sprouts cooked with bacon and drizzled with aioli—you place the food before me and take your seat.

“To a fresh start for us, my love,” you say and raise your glass.

“Yes,” I breath.

We drink.

I pray.



forty-seven


Bailey rings the bell, and Jax opens the door looking cored out and frazzled—her cloud of dark hair piled high, fastened by some mystery of scrunchie and hot pink headband. Her black T-shirt slips off her defined shoulder. A bit of a Flashdance thing going on, Bailey thinks.

Jax doesn’t say anything, just tugs at her violet leggings, moves aside so that he can pass into Wren’s town house.

Ben and Jason, the Dear Birdie zen master and PI respectively, are at the dining room table. Jason lifts a hand, and Bailey nods. The three friends have turned Wren’s dining room into a war room, every surface occupied by a computer, a spread of photos, property surveys, newspaper articles, police reports. The search for their friend has been long and exhaustive. And they all look a bit frayed, a bit red around the eyes, defeated. Welcome to my world, he thinks.

“What did you find out?” Jax asks, taking a cross-legged seat on the couch.

He runs down his conversation with Marty, with Beth, then the news that the ghost was back on Torch. It lands hard; Jax’s eyes go wide, she seems to shrink.

“What does that mean?” she breathes. “Does it mean that he’s—moved on?”

Bailey shakes his head, feeling the weight of the question. “I don’t know. But I have an idea.”

“An idea.”

“Let’s make a match for him.”

Jax gasps, then releases a long slow breath.

“I’ll do it,” she says. “I’ll swipe.”

“No,” say Ben and Bailey simultaneously.

The two men regard each other. Bailey likes all of these people—Jax is a staid and reliable friend; Ben is a good-hearted hard worker. Jason is a young, tech-savvy PI. They all love Wren. Together they’ve been managing Dear Birdie, the media storm that followed Wren’s disappearance, and have launched their own investigation. They have become Bailey’s unofficial team since Turner and Ives pulled the plug on his case, on him.

“I’m not firing you, Bailey,” Nora had said during their last conversation. “You’re the best investigator I’ve ever had. I’m trying to help you. There’s always one case in every career, you know. I’ve had mine. Diana hers. The one that hurts too much, that destabilized the process. This is yours. Recover and come back. Work on something else.”

“You’re telling me I care too much,” he’d said, injured, angry, frustration lodged in his solar plexus. “That’s bullshit.”

A breath drawn and released.

“I’m telling you that your judgment is off. That you’re not the man for this case.”

“Who is?”

“Whoever Henry Thorpe hires next. Did you forget about the client? The one who’s paying the bills? That’s my point.”