Lie, Lie Again(22)
She flung her eyes open. No! She couldn’t think of him that way. What the hell was wrong with her? She was acting like a desperate addict. That description fit too well. She was addicted to her feelings for him. Was this how alcoholics felt when they vowed not to take one more drink, but the beer or whatever was right there, close enough to grab, yet doing so would only send them down a dark rabbit hole of despair? Because nothing good was coming from these mixed-up feelings. Nothing whatsoever. She set her purse on the table and took the stolen headshot from it. Brandon’s eyes appeared to be staring right at her. It was a wonder he wasn’t a major Hollywood heartthrob yet. How would Embry feel when he did make it big? She would have to endure watching him on the big screen, making out with any number of beautiful actresses. Was that what had made her sad tonight? The thought of Brandon kissing a soap star? That’s all they seemed to do on soap operas—kiss, marry, and, well, murder. She stuffed the headshot back into her purse. She’d have to find a good hiding place for it. Or better yet, she should sneak it into the back of Brandon’s truck so it looked like he’d dropped it. That was the best way to go. If she kept it here, she’d probably start talking to it like it was real.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Well, it was only a sprain. Sylvia almost wished for a cast instead of the ridiculous brace that made it look like she had a robotic arm. A cast would suggest a real injury—one that warranted her reaction to the pain.
But maybe the pain was phantom, transferred to her wrist from the unsettling feelings that twisted through her. Hugh hadn’t responded. No text, no call. Nothing. She stared absently at the wall. Her eyes slid onto a puddle that spread across the kitchen floor. Had she inadvertently knocked over a glass? She stood to investigate where the water was coming from. A trail trickled down from the window. It was open just a crack but apparently enough to create a flood. Just what she needed! Grabbing a rag with her good hand, she awkwardly began mopping up the spill. It was her fault for leaving the window open, but she wanted someone else to blame.
She pushed the window closed and chucked the rag into the sink, where it landed with a thud. It had been years since she’d witnessed a storm like this. Maybe even decades. If this kept up, the damn stair would only get worse. She picked up her phone and clicked on Jonathan’s number. He was the perfect recipient for her anger. But after four rings, his voice mail came on. The idiot. He was clearly screening his calls.
At the beep, she began speaking. “Hello, Jonathan, this is Sylvia in apartment D. You said you would do the repairs, and yet my stair is still broken. As it is, I’ve already had a nasty fall on the wet asphalt. The cracked stair will only worsen in the rain, and I’m certain you don’t want me to take a tumble and break my neck. That would create quite a mess for you, wouldn’t it? I would be dead, so I suppose it wouldn’t matter to me, but nonetheless, I suggest you get right to it.” That should do it. The man was an imbecile, but he wouldn’t want a dead body on his hands.
She stared out the window at the slamming rain. What a fun-filled night it had been. Sliding onto her favorite spot on the sofa, she flicked on the TV. She scrolled through the channels distractedly, her mind occupied by Hugh once again. What the hell was going on with him? As she had waited at the urgent care, worst-case scenarios raced through her mind. Car accident? Hit by a bus in the crosswalk? Or something even more tragic?
Even though there were signs posted all over the urgent care waiting room prohibiting phone use, she had ignored them. If anything was urgent, it was finding Hugh. She had called all three of the area hospitals, and no Hugh Martin had checked in to any of them.
As she had waited in that horribly sterile place that reeked of antiseptic and bleach, she realized she knew nothing about Hugh except his name and address. That and the type of car he drove. When she’d asked to friend him on Facebook, he’d laughed and said he was a dinosaur. “I don’t do social media. I’m happily existing in the Dark Ages. Don’t wake me from the dream.”
How delighted she’d been with his quirks. “You make a good point. Social media sucks.” And that had been the end of it. She should’ve asked more questions.
None of this would’ve seemed strange if that drippy little man hadn’t insinuated that Hugh was some kind of squatter. He was a wealthy man, for God’s sake.
Leaning forward, she popped the cap off the Tylenol bottle and took two more. It’d been a good five hours since she’d taken it last—plenty of time to warrant another dose. She certainly didn’t want to OD and have to go back to a medical facility. Dreadful places. Being at one hadn’t helped her peace of mind. She pulled a throw blanket across her lap. Riki had been right, though. The urgent care was much easier than the ER.
How strange that she had brought books with her, as though Sylvia were a child. Maybe it was because she was a teacher, and that was how she dealt with emergency situations. She could picture Riki scooping up an injured child from the playground. Come along, honey, she’d say. Let’s go get you a nice book to read, and we can put a nice ice pack on your head. Nice, nice, nice. That seemed to be her favorite word. She was an odd one, that Riki. Embry and Brandon were from the south, so their gooey sweetness was easy to understand. But Riki? It was like she was from another universe, as if Mary Poppins herself had raised her. Or more likely, nice parents. Though Jonathan had had a wonderful mother, and he was a dick.