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Hold up. Rewind. Shit, shit, shit.
Winnifred.
She knows that Grace was pregnant. How must she feel, after struggling with her own infertility?
Glancing at my watch, I see it’s already well past eleven. I call her anyway. She’s up till late, what with her show schedule. Still, she doesn’t pick up. I send a text message.Answer me.
Nada.
I call again. It occurs to me that something very bad could’ve happened between the last time we saw each other and now. Why did she send the package? Why not bring it over so we could both hate on Grace and Paul over a bottle of wine, like civilized people, before fucking each other’s brains out?
Sure, I told her not to, but since when does this woman listen to anythinganyonehas to say? Least of all me.
What if Bumpkin is in trouble?
The thought unsettles me more than it should. I grab my keys and head to the parking lot, taking the stairs three at a time. The elevator may take several minutes, and time is of the essence.
I try to call her as I drive toward her apartment. The call goes straight to voice mail. It’s like the time I went to identify Grace at the morgue all over again, but somehow, a thousand times worse. I’m appalled by my reaction to Winnifred not answering me, how out of proportion it is in comparison to the way I felt when I went to look at my fiancée’s dead body in the middle of the night, all calm and collected.
I park in front of her building and run up the stairs, convincing myself the entire time my sense of responsibility stems from everything we’ve been through together, and not, Science forbid, because I’ve developed those pesky things called feelings. I just want to be on the safe side. The woman is obviously distraught after hearing about her dead husband’s love child. I’m just being a Good Samaritan.
You? A Good Samaritan?Riggs’s voice chuckles in my head as I fling myself over the banister to save time.If the world depended on your good intentions, it’d have detonated a thousand times over.
When I get to her door, I pound on it with both fists. Hysterical is not my most attractive look, but I’m not here to chase tail.
“Bumpkin!” I roar. “Open the goddamn door before I kick it down.”
Tonight may or may not end in my arrest. I will never live it down if Christian releases me on bail.
“Winnifred!”I rap the door again. I can hear movements coming from behind nearby doors. People are probably peering out through their peepholes, trying to gauge how much danger I pose to their beloved neighbor.
“Answer!” I slam my shoulder against her door with a growl.
“The damn!” I thrash into it again.
“Door!”
Finally, I hear a door creaking open. Unfortunately, it’s not the one I’m assaulting. A woman appears on the other end of the hallway. She is wearing a green face mask and has rollers in her hair.
“As much as I appreciate the romantic gesture—and don’t get me wrong, I totally do, unless you’re here to collect drug money—Winnie’s not here.”
“What do you mean, not here?” I spit out, panting.The Seagullshould’ve ended two and a half hours ago.
She tightens her bathrobe over her waist. “I saw her leave maybe a couple days ago with a suitcase.”
“A couple of ...what?” I jeer. “She couldn’t have. She’s in a goddamn show.Myshow. I pay her a salary. We have a contract. She can’t leave.”
“Well, she did.”
“That’s impossible,” I insist. “Where’d you get this dumb idea?”
“Don’t shoot the messenger.”
Then don’t tempt me.
“I wonder why she left, though. You seem like such a great boss.”
“The little, reckless, egotistical, sh—”
