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Jace
I’d tried counting to ten.
I’d tried taking deep breaths.
I’d even done a simple meditative exercise. But I was still fighting the spike of adrenaline that had flooded my system the instant I laid eyes on my girl swaying at the edge of the scaffolding in that thin white dress.
She said she didn’t remember much—I guess that was a good thing. Unfortunately, I remembered every moment of today in photographic detail, and the violent urge to destroy anything and everything around me, to crush the very universe that gave Greer back to me and then tried to yank her away again, won’t subside. The last time I was this angry, I beat my father to death. So, it’s probably best I wait it out in the car before going back in to check on her. I focused on the glow of the overhead light fixture in her bedroom window. I couldn’t see her, but I knew she was safe. It was enough for right now.
I’d had a few hours to calm down. I wanted to go inside and comfort Greer. Hold her in my arms. Draw her head to my chest, to the tattoo that seemed to throb whenever she was near. Make sure she was okay. But every time I looked at her, I was reminded of what had almost happened. And I saw red.
I’d shown up at Richmond House earlier today with good intentions. I’d gotten the call this evening that Greer was officially free and clear of both Linus Hawkins’s and Danny Amato’s murders. It was over. Greer could move in with me, work on her book or whatever else she wanted to do, and we could finally just be together. Or I could move into Richmond House if she wanted. I shuddered at the thought of touching anything that pedo had ever touched. Hell, I shuddered at the thought of living without Wi-Fi, but if that’s where she was, that’s where I wanted to be.
No matter how pissed I was at Greer, after she’d opened her eyes—thank God—and given me a coherent, if not jumbled, explanation, I was relieved. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was afraid I’d pushed her into a corner. That I’d forced her to be with me, that she knew I’d never let her go, and she was prepared to free herself by any means possible. That she’d realized I wasn’t good enough, but also that there was no turning back. Once I talked to her, I knew she hadn’t been suicidal. Just spooked.
Fucking Marina and her ghost-story bullshit.
I was angry at Greer, though. Maybe I shouldn’t have been, but I was. When I first met her all those years ago, I knew she was struggling through something I didn’t understand. Something to do with creating comfort for herself in a world that was anything but comforting. The patterns, the taps… After Sterling manipulated me into cruelly breaking things off, I’d spent years tracking her career, hoping she was okay. And when she’d shown up again, a grown-ass woman seemingly in complete control, I’d assumed she’d gotten better. That she’d dealt with her demons and had slain them.
Come to find out, she was hiding that shit from me all along. Even last night when we’d promised each other—promised—to hold nothing back from each other, she was holding back. She was holding back a lot. She had some sort of anxiety that had to be treated by a psychiatrist for fuck’s sake. She hadn’t been sleeping at night. I knew she was scared she might go to jail—not that I ever thought she actually would—but I had no idea she was hearing things. Seeing things. I had no idea she had a prescription for benzos.
I wasn’t mad about that. I was glad Greer had sought help for her anxiety. If the medication helped, I was all for it. But she’d lied to me. She’d hidden that part of herself away. A brief image of my strung-out mother propping herself up against my tire on that freezing night earlier this month flashed before my eyes. Secrets make you sick, right? I couldn’t handle that happening with Greer.
I tried relaxing my balled fists only to discover the remnants of Greer’s necklace still in my palm. I looked around for a place to keep it safe, settling on my briefcase which was still on the front seat. Knowing me, I’d put it in my pants pocket and accidentally send it through the wash.
I was typing a note on my phone reminding myself to get with Eugenia about fixing the broken window when it rang in my hand. The number wasn’t saved, but I recognized the last few digits. The rehab center.
“Blackwell,” I answered automatically, apprehension tightening my voice. I honestly didn’t know how much more I could take today.
“Mr. Blackwell, this is Doug. I’m the attending nurse here at The North Coast Recovery Center. How are you today?”
“Doug, with all due respect, just tell me what’s going on. Has she relapsed? Escaped? Tried to fuck an orderly?”
On the other end of the line, Nurse Doug paused.
“Uh…no. None of those things, Mr. Blackwell. I’m calling to let you know that your mother…I thought I’d call and ask if you wanted to pick her up.”
“Pick her up? You’ve discharged her? It’s only been…two weeks? She was supposed to be there a full thirty days.”
“Mr. Blackwell, we’re a voluntary treatment facility. Last night, your mother indicated that she considers herself cured and would like to leave. Unfortunately, we can’t stop her.”
Fuck me. Cured? Hardly. This was going to be a shitshow.
“Let me talk to her.”
“As long as she’s still a patient here—which she technically still is for another half hour or so—she’s not allowed personal phone calls.”
“Isn’t there anything you can do? Talk her into staying?”
“She’s adamant. She doesn’t have a ride—again, I thought you’d like to know before I called a ride service.”
“Yeah, thanks. I’m on my way. Listen, did she say anything about what her plans were? In terms of where she would live, what she wanted to do?”
“Mr. Blackwell, I’m a nurse, not her therapist. And even if I did know, I couldn’t tell you. I’m sure you can understand.”
I started the Range Rover. “Just…tell her I’ll be out front.”
“Will do. You have a blessed day, Mr. Blackwell.”
