Instantly he gets a recorded message.
The number you are calling is no longer in service.
His pulse rate spikes.
He tries again.
The number you are calling is no longer in service.
He sits for a moment in the weak autumn-morning sun pouring through his window, paralyzed by the idea that this is far from over. He’s been terrorized, gaslighted. He’s been forced to wait in trepidation for a bomb to drop, and he has no idea when it will come whistling through the air above him. Or what it will look like.
He called in sick to work yesterday and the day before. Hewassick. Felt like crap. Still does. He lied to Daisy about the doctor needing a follow-up, so he had to follow through with a fake appointment yesterday. Daisy insisted on coming with, which made things complicated. She drove him and waited in the car while Jon walked in through the main hospital doors. Once inside the massive complex, he went to find the chapel. He sat there in the quiet in front of candles and waited his alleged appointment out. When Jon returned to the car, he told Daisy his doc said the blackout was likely stress induced. It happens sometimes. But to be safe he was being recommended to a specialist. The specialist would call to set an appointment. In the meanwhile, Jon was supposed to take things easy. Rest. Eat well. Hydrate. Get exercise. Keep stress low. Jon told Daisy he’d let all these things slide. Daisy held his hand and said she’d do what it took to help him. She reminded him they were a team. Jon felt the old love he’d once had for his wife. In that instant he believed it could still all come right. But now, in this bleaklight of dawn, he feels the pressure of the unknown hanging above his head, and he regrets he might already have blown it all.
He checks the time. He has a big meeting at work today. He needs to pull himself together. Jon showers, dresses, and goes downstairs.
He sees Daisy from the rear. He notices the weight she’s gained on her bum. She’s holding a large knife. It glints in the sunlight as she slices open a grapefruit. The two halves of the fruit split open, revealing glistening ruby flesh. Jon stares at the blade. So much sharpness. So much whiteness and glass and brightness. The red flesh. His head hurts.
She turns. Smiles.
He sees her teeth. The flush in her cheeks. Her belly. She wears a weird Halloween apron with a pumpkin on it.
He feels ill. It’s the lingering effect of drugs from the other night, he thinks. Combined with fear. And the cortisol pounding through his body like poison. His gaze locks on her belly. She’s due so soon. Their progeny growing, turning, kicking, sucking his thumb inside her. A baby boy. Kicking, kicking. A future little ski racer perhaps. Jon feels a bolt of sadness as he thinks of his own dad—that shitty example of paternal guidance and love. He makes a bargain with the devil. Or God. He’s not sure which. But he vows that if he’s spared the fallout from his terrible misguided mistake with Mia, he will be the best dad he can. For the rest of his son’s life. He will be there for him. He will be present. And he will love his boy.
Daisy’s smile fades to a look of worry. “Did you sleep okay? Are you sure you’re well enough to go in today?”
“Yeah. Got that big meeting.” He pours himself a coffee.
“I phoned a dietitian,” Daisy says. “And a personal trainer for an assessment. I told them your history, and—”
“Daisy, not now.”
She dials it back. She looks overly flushed. “What time will you be home?”
“Regular dinnertime.”
“Oh, you’ve forgotten?”
“Forgotten what?”
“Halloween dinner—Vanessa and Haruto’s thing tonight.”
“What? Christ, not tonight. I—”
“Please, Jon. For me. It might be good for both of us to do something different.”
He regards her in silence. He feels bad. For everything. He’s afraid he’s going to lose her. “Sure. Fine. My time is all yours.”
“Thank you. They said we should come around six p.m. for cocktails. I thought we’d pick up some flowers and some pie for dessert on the way over. Okay?”
“Sure. Yes.”
By the time Jon parks his Audi S6 sedan in the underground garage at work, his head is a little clearer. From his car he calls Jake Preston. He’s paranoid that the thing with Mia was orchestrated by Labden, or Henry, or perhaps even Ahmed Waheed. Threads of Mia’s sultry voice snake through his brain.
And who’s this rival, JonJon BergBomber?...How will you find dirt?
Jake picks up on the second ring. “Jake Preston.”
“It’s Jon Rittenberg. Have you got anything yet?”
