Page 140 of No Headlines Please

At some point, he'd apparently stopped explaining himself. The earlier stories described a man who argued with everyone. The newer ones mostly described a man who said nothing at all.

These days, he never gave interviews. He avoided social media. And he treated public relations the way most people treated telemarketers.

After the wedding disaster, things had only gotten worse. His family had publicly distanced themselves. Several articles suggested he'd been cut off. Others insisted he'd walked away voluntarily. Nobody seemed to know for sure because Maddox himself never said anything.

The man simply didn't explain himself. He hadn't defended himself after the wedding, and apparently he wasn't interested in defending himself now – which was either incredibly dignified or beyond suspicious, depending on who was talking.

After days of reading, I still wasn't sure who Maddox McGuiness truly was.

I was still studying the photo on my screen when I heard a familiar knock at the cabin door. Walt. Still clutching my phone, I called out, "Come on in!"

The door had barely shut behind him when he looked at my phone with a frown. "What happened to writing?"

My face warmed. Oh, crap. That's right. I'd told him I was going to spend the day working on my next book. Instead, I'd spent the entire time obsessing over Maddox.

I hadn't been lying. I'd intended to write.

It just never happened, that's all.

And now Walt was laughing. "Hey, check it out." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a tightly crumpled sheet of paper.

When he tossed it toward me, I caught it on instinct. "What's this?"

Looking smug, he said, "Open it up. You'll see."

I unwadded the sheet and took a look. It was a note, written in big bold ink. It contained only three words. Told you so.

I looked up with a laugh. "Oh, shut up."

But Walt was right. He did tell me so. Just before going out fishing, he'd actually bet me that I'd be as productive as the hydrangea, which sat accusingly on the kitchen table, where my laptop should've been.

Instead, the laptop was still in its case, I was still on the couch, and my word count for the day was exactly zero.

Walt said, "You know what you gotta do, right?"

"What?"

"Ask him." He didn't need to say the name. Maddox.

I stared. "Ask him what?"

"Everything." Walt started counting off. "Why the picture? Why the business card? Why'd he never tell you his last name? Why'd he move your car?"

"Hey, I don't know for sure he moved my car. It was just a theory, that's all."

But Walt just kept on going. "Why was he looking for you? Why'd he keep showing up? Why was he so sneaky with the penthouse?"

"Wait…sneaky?"

"Yeah, acting like the place was his when it really wasn't."

Why indeed.

Walt threw up his hands. "Why all of it? That's all I'm saying."

I bit my lip, but said nothing. These were the same questions I'd been asking myself for days.

No. Not days.