“I’m putting the phone down,” he says, and I’m left alone in my apartment, the worry that twines through me contrasting with the hum of music, drinking, and general revelry filtering back to me through the phone line.
Finally, he comes back on the line. “The license plate was easy—he has a card key for the garage, so we have his vehicle information.”
“That’s great.”
“Tracking the car’s another story.” He sighs. “Look, Syl. I’ve got a friend in intelligence who owes me a favor, and I think he could manage it. But it would put his ass on the line. But if you really think Jackson’s in trouble, then I’ll do it. You just have to say the word.”
I open my mouth to tell him to yes, yes, please find Jackson.
But the words don’t come. Because the truth is that it’s not Jackson I’m afraid is in trouble, it’s the two of us as a couple that I’m worried about.
And until I find him—until he holds me in his arms again—then I’m the one who really isn’t okay.
six
By the time four a.m. rolls around, I am seriously considering calling Ryan back and telling him to yes, please call his friend in intelligence. Hire a hacker. Contact the fucking CIA. Just do something to find Jackson before I go completely out of my mind.
I don’t, though.
I do, however, send an email to Damien telling him that I’ve terminated Jackson. Since he’s not an employee but a contractor, I don’t have to deal with human resources, thank goodness. Then I shoot an email to Aiden, my immediate supervisor in the real estate division, telling him that I’ll be working from home today. Fortunately, I’ve already asked Rachel to cover Damien’s desk for the rest of the week. Not because I expected to stay up all night, but because I’d planned to spend a good part of the week with Jackson, working on the details of the resort.
Now, of course, I still need the time, because the entire project is a mess and I need to get all my architectural ducks in order.
My eyes are scratchy, and despite my worry, I cannot stop myself from yawning. I’ve been sitting at my kitchen table, a pad of paper in front of me so that, ostensibly, I can make notes about the resort. The pad is entirely covered with doodles.
I get up, use my Keurig to make a cup of coffee, and then go to my sofa. I wedge myself into the corner, pull a blanket up to my shoulders, and hold the mug in both hands. It’s the warmth I want the most, because I feel cold. A bone-deep chill that I haven’t been able to shake since Jackson walked away, leaving me alone in his office.
I know that I should sleep, but I can’t bring myself to move to the bedroom. Everything around me is spinning wildly out of control, and I know that if I sleep, my nightmares will come.
But it’s more than that. Somehow¸ letting sleep take me feels like giving up. He has to call soon. He has to, because I need to know that we’re okay. I need to see his face and know that, despite the guilt that seems to cling to me like glue, he doesn’t blame me for firing him.
That’s what this is about, of course. That’s why I have to find him. Have to see him. That’s why I can’t sleep. Why I am a wreck.
Because I’m afraid.
I’m so terribly, terribly afraid that despite the passion that twines us together and despite having already overcome so much, the foundation of our relationship has shifted, and nothing is ever going to be the same.
“Just as well he stays away. He’s not the only one with secrets.”
I blink, confused, and push myself up on the couch. The garage-style door to my patio is rolled up, and Bob stands on the threshold looking at me, one hand pressed casually against his crotch, and his camera hanging from a strap around his neck. His silky black hair is pulled back with a leather band, and he’s smiling at me. “We’ve got a lot in common, you and I. We both want Jackson Steele.”
He reaches up and slides his hand over the top of his head, and my stomach tightens with revulsion as his hair slides off. It’s a wig, and he drops it negligently on the ground. “That’s not me anymore. I’m a long way from that man. I’m Robert Cabot Reed, and I have all the power now. But you don’t, do you, little Elle?”
I want to yell at him. To tell him my name is Sylvia. And that he’s nobody. Just some slimy photographer from the Valley who’s playing at making movies. But the words won’t come.
“You don’t have anything at all,” he continues in that singsong voice. “Not even Jackson.”
“No,” I say. “That’s not true.”
“Do you think he’ll still want you when he knows your secrets? My little Elle said she told him the truth, but you didn’t tell him all of it, did you? Still got your secrets, don’t you?”