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Before my heart even has time to sink with a disappointment I feel down to my pores, I read the other one, from Jarrod.
I’m unexpectedly out of town, so I’m going to have to delay our meeting. Next Thursday. 11 o’clock.
Thanksgiving Day. Figures.
I write:
It’s Thanksgiving. I’m having people over.
I think of the spreadsheet, and the little turkeys Mira started making out of construction paper this morning, because she’s officially gotten to the level of boredom where she’s making construction-paper turkeys. Then again, I’ve seen her bar. I imagine it’s the kind of thing she’d do for fun anyway. I’ll bet Izzy would enjoy crafting with her. Maybe we could—
My phone buzzes again.
Eat late.
It’s the kind of message a man would only dare write his employee if he felt certain he owned that man’s soul. It flares something inside of me—some buried sense of resentment, of the need for revenge against someone, something, because my existence is spinning so thoroughly out of my control.
So I send another message.
Then I sit on the bench where Mira rode me, numb, looking out and trying to find a glimmer of light.
All I see is darkness.
ChapterThirty-Two
Mira
He’s still not home.
It’s two in the morning, and he’s still not home.
I’ve sent him a few texts he hasn’t answered. Called a couple of times. Nada. Zilch. Zero.
My worry escalated to panic hours ago.
I’ve already talked to Azalea, and she said he left the bar before Daphne did. According to her, he looked pissed. So at least his ex-girlfriend didn’t drag him into the bathroom to have makeup sex.
Probably.
But what the hell happened? Where is he now?
My mind suggests a few options and then throws each of them out—he wouldn’t bring his problems to Ruthie, and his friendship with Shane is probably too strained right now for him to have gone there. If he were holing up with either Burke or Leonard, my sister or Shauna would have let me know. I’m desperate enough that I fleetingly consider the possibility that he might be in the apartment downstairs, finishing up his meeting with Big Mike, which Azalea said got interrupted.
Then my anxious mind finally finds a groove that fits—a place off the Blue Ridge Parkway. A bench with little letters carved into it.
I know what my sister would say.
She’d very reasonably point out that it’s two in the morning, probably not the best time to go out for a joy drive, and even if I manage to find the right spot, I’m just as likely to accidentally run Danny over as I am to help him. But I’m itching to do something. I’ve exercised my ankle and my arms and my good leg. I’ve made half a dozen fucking paper turkeys. I’ve even made a signature Thanksgiving sangria and sent a few group texts to the Thanksgiving crew.
I’ve acted like a woman obsessed with Thanksgiving, when the only thought I usually give it is as a stumbling block on the way to Christmas.
I’ll go out of my skin if I don’tdosomething. I’ll probably dress up as a turkey and go around gobbling at people.
“I’m doing it,” I say, grabbing my keys off the side table and starting toward the door with the crutches. “I’m fucking doing it.”
The empty room doesn’t respond to me, and there’s a creepy fullness to its emptiness, almost as if it’s a shadow creature that should have a name.
“The hex was broken,” I tell the shadow creature. And it’s official—I’ve gone around the bend into full madness.
