Fuggitiva & Flight Risks
Declan
The morning after that one night in Vegas.
The first thing I notice is the silence.
The second is the smell.
It hits me like a slap—sharp, sour, offensive. I crack one eye open and glance toward the window, light filtering in through heavy hotel curtains. Then I glance down.
Barf.
All over my lap.
“Che schifo…” I mutter in Italian, grimacing as I slowly shift upright. It’s dried. Cold. And everywhere.
“Maddy!” I yell. Where the fuckis my wife?
No answer.
I reach for my phone on the nightstand, careful not to move too much and smear whatever this is my wife left behind. It’s 11:03 a.m.
Not surprised I slept like the dead after the night we had. After what we did.
Hell, I barely remember crashing into bed. Just remember her body, her laugh, the way she agreedthis doesn’t feel crazy at all.
My wife.
I grin like an idiot for half a second.
Then frown.
Because the room is… quiet. Too quiet. Empty.
I glance to the bathroom—door open, lights off.
The floor is clean.
Her clothes are gone and, by the looks of it, my littlefuggitivatook my sweater.
My wife is gone.
I look down at my lap again.
And all she left behind… is vomit.
“Fucking hell.”
Happily ever after? More like happily never even got her number.
Chapter twenty-one
Part Two
Eslin
Let’s get everyone caught up, shall we?
