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This really has been the best weekend of my life.
Unfortunately, what goes up, must come down. That’s the saying, I think.
Chapter Nineteen
I receive a phone call on the way to work and my curious mind, despite the fact it says spam, doesn’t hesitate to answer. I transfer the call to Bluetooth and switch up the volume. My eyes remain firmly on all of my mirrors and the street ahead.
“Gwen speaking,” I sing song, my tone high and cheery.
“Hello, Guinevere.”
I recognise the voice but I can’t be sure who it is. “Sorry, the signal is choppy; who is it please?”
“My apologies, it’s Jackson. Are you available to talk?”
“Oh! Of course, sorry, I’m free.”
“Great.” He clears his throat. “I know you decided not to go through with my services but seeing as you already paid, I just couldn’t leave a job half done.”
“That’s fine,” I smile, confident that he found nothing.
“Normally I’d send my clients a file with details of when and where the person they’re looking in on have been, but I don’t feel I need to in this case.”
Even though I knew this would be the answer, my heart swells with relief and tears sting my eyes. “He’s a good man, isn’t he?”
“Yes, beyond his crazy work schedule, you, his kids, and visits with his mother, he doesn’t have a social life. No texts, calls, anything that can’t be linked to you, work or close family.”
That swelling in my heart freezes and my head feels fuzzy. “Just a second, I need to pull over.”
“Certainly, should I call back?”
“No!” I practically yell. “I need to… just one second.”
He goes silent as I pull over with trembling hands on the wheel, almost cutting off a man on a bike in the process. Fuck.
“Sorry, I’m good now.” Swallowing the lump in my throat I nervously ask, “His mother?”
“Yes.”
“Not my mother?” Please, please be my mother.
“No, a Mrs Patricia Weston.”
“You’re sure?”
“It’s my job to be,” he says a little haughtily.
“Sorry, I’m just a bit… how often do they meet?”
He goes quiet. “I’m sensing something here.”
“You’d be right,” I confirm, feeling my anger build, not with Jackson though. Definitely not with Jackson. “How often have they been meeting?”
“Every few days.”
“Oh my god.” That liar. “Every few days?”
“Give or take. Would you like the list? I took pictures too.”
“Please, if you would. I’d appreciate it.” My eyes sting with threatening tears. “Are they friendly?”
“Definitely,” he states, leaving no room to question. “Though he remained distant, your children seemed familiar with her…”
“WHAT?” I screech. “This can’t be happening.”
“I shouldn’t pry, but…”
“She’s an awful, horrid woman.”
The phone crackles on his end as he seems to move, probably to get comfortable. This is all just another day in the office to him. “Do you need my assistance further? I could squeeze you in if necessary.”
“No, no, I’m okay. I can take it from here. Thank you.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’ll call you if not. Please send over the photos if you can, as soon as possible. I need to see this for myself.”
“No problem, I’ll send it all over immediately. Are you certain you don’t need further assistance?”
Another thought jumps to mind. “Do you by any chance know when they’ll be meeting next?”
“I do actually; from his messages I’d say Wednesday.”
Wow… this private detective stuff really is invasive. “Wednesday?”
“Noon.” When he says this I have to choke back a sob. That’s the day Nathan is supposed to be going to a parent and child event with the kids while I work. He’s done nothing but lie to me. “I’m already placing it into the email with the rest of the information I have. I’m sorry this didn’t have the ending I expected.”
“Me too,” I murmur, embarrassed by my reaction, so I hang up as swiftly as possible. “Okay, deep breaths. It’s all just one huge misunderstanding.”
Then the email comes through and I’m unsure whether or not I want to open it or remain blissfully ignorant.
Too late now. When the email comes I don’t hesitate to subject myself to an entire world of pain and rage. There he is, just as Jackson said, in the park with my children and that vile bitch. What the hell is going on? Is this why he brought her up? Did he really want to tell me this? What is wrong with him?
I scream and bash the steering wheel with my fists. Have my children been around the abuser too? Or just the bitch? I need to know everything!
My phone rings, startling me from my steering wheel slapping and inside the car screaming alone match.
“Shit,” I curse, slamming my hand again against the steering wheel again. Pressing the button on the phone, I quickly blurt, “I’m sorry, I’m on my way.”
“You better be!” Is all Kerim responds and then hangs up.
I’m late. I’ve never been late.
Fuck you, Nathan.
