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With my hands free of their confines, I get dressed. Every move is painful, but I can’t let them know who I am. My determination drives me to get out while Missy continues ranting on and on.
“I don’t even know why I’m here. To have her call me—her! You’re a real piece of shit, Jay.”
I look up at her as I get dressed. “You’re right; I am. That’s why I’m going to move out, and it’s over between us. This isn’t healthy.”
Her eyes grow wide in hurt as she realizes I’m serious. I pull the tape off my wrist and slide out the needle of my IV. She stands immobile and unspeaking as I pull off the clip on my finger and pop off the heart monitors and blood pressure cuff. The machines start beeping like crazy, and I know I have to get moving before the nurses come in to fix it. I pull on my shirt and adjust my pants as I quickly slide into my shoes.
I groan in pain as I walk past her to the door. “Keep the condo. I’ll help you cover the mortgage for the next three months. Then you’re on your own. Get the shit in your name, I’ll cover fees or closing costs. I’ll be by for some stuff later, and next weekend I’ll get the rest.”
She opens and closes her mouth yet doesn’t speak. I’m probably giving her too much, but frankly I need out before I do something I can’t take back. I don’t look back as I make my way out of the hospital with the hope I won’t run into anyone.
Chapter Four
I sit in my black Chevy Impala with a cup of coffee, waiting with my notebook, waiting for him. He’s first up of the five to watch.
The man: Adrian.
The house: 732 East River Drive.
The schedule: He leaves the house between seven and seven-fifteen in a suit and tie. He gets into his brown Volvo and doesn’t buckle his seatbelt. I assume he is careless and believes he is untouchable.
I know that’s not true. Everyone is touchable.
He is approximately five foot ten and bald. He has a round, clean-shaven face; beady brown eyes; and is mostly expressionless.
I stare at the picture taped next to the information before logging the time and turning the page. I wait for him to pull out of the driveway, knowing he hits the gym before he heads to his office.
Next . . .
The man: Jack.
The house: 8736 East Malloy Road.
The schedule: Eight a.m., he rushes out with two girls who are not twins. They are about seven years old, each blond and dressed in a little red and blue plaid skirt with blue cardigan. He loads them in the car, taking time to do so. I assume he is helping them with their safety belts. That’s what a good father would do.
He is short, about five-six, with dark blond, buzzed hair. He is also clean shaven and wears a suit just like the last guy.
He takes his girls to Saint Anne’s every morning, a private Catholic school, before heading to his office.
I jot down the time. It’s exactly the same for the past two months.
Next . . .
The woman: Charlotte.
The house: 7930 Brown Avenue.
The schedule: At eight-thirty a.m., the garage door opens, and the sleek black BMW reverses out of the driveway and quickly onto the street. She’s careless. She doesn’t even look behind her half the time while she applies lipstick in the rearview instead of using it how it is intended. She throws it in drive and speeds away.
I follow her because she is far too worried about her makeup to notice she is being watched.
She pulls into her office parking lot and jumps out of her car with a black briefcase hanging off her shoulder and a cellphone stuck to her ear. She is wearing a navy skirt and matching blazer. She is thin and tall in her four-inch heels. Her dark hair is twisted up and away from her face perfectly.
I click a picture on my camera phone. This is the closest I have ever been to her. I will print it today and attach it to her page.
Next . . .
The man: Waters.
The house: 746 Wesley Drive.
The schedule . . .
“Shit,” I mutter as I pull down Wesley Drive and see the white Lexus SUV pass me. I glance at him, hoping like hell he doesn’t notice me.
His hair is slicked back, and he has dark sunglasses on.
“Eight fifty-five, eight fifty-five,” I repeat over and over so I don’t forget the time to log his departure.
I look at the clock. If I hurry, I can make the next one, and then tonight, when I am sitting in bed, I can try my damnedest to narrow down my list.
The man: Hill.
