As I stepped out of the elevator into the lobby, the hordes of press were still hanging around outside, hoping to draw blood, to scrape another fragment of misery to fulfil their shitty little lives. I spun on my heel and beelined for the service entrance.
Once I’d checked the coast was clear, I put my head down and strode onto the street that ran behind my building. Soon, the busy street filled with New Yorkers swallowed me up. Luckily, they were too involved with their own lives to take much notice of a desperate woman with bloodshot eyes and rounded shoulders in their midst. I kept searching for Joz, praying I’d spot him in the crowd. Deep down, I knew the chances of that happening were somewhere between no chance andare you fucking stupid, but that didn’t stop me scanning the faces for the one I yearned to see the most.
I must’ve walked ten or so blocks when my phone rang. I reached into my pocket and pulled it out. I almost dropped it, snapping out a hand just in time. My stomach plummeted at the caller.
Mike.
I swiped the screen. “Mike. Any news?”
“He’s in Bellevue.”
The ground disappeared beneath my feet, and I stumbled, hooking my arm around a street light to steady myself. “What happened?”
“He OD’d. Housekeeper found him lying on the bathroom floor of a motel in Harlem this morning.”
“I’m on my way.” I hung up, frantically flagging down a passing cab. He drove right by. “Goddammit!” When a second one didn’t stop either, I called my driver.
The five minutes he took to arrive at my location were the longest five minutes of my life. Joz OD’d.He’d OD’d. A fresh torrent of hatred for the person who put him in this situation coursed through me. I fervently believed in personal accountability, but I also believed that when something you thought was the worst thing that could happen to you actually happened, it had the power to derail even the strongest of people.
The private investigator I’d hired last night came highly recommended. I doubted it would be long before I knew who was responsible for stealing and then leaking Joz’s diary. They would rue the fucking day they crossed me.
What I couldn’t figure out was whether it was someone who hated Joz, or hated me. It just so happened he had a more checkered past than I did, and someone took a shot that there might be a skeleton or two just waiting to be discovered. Then they’d broken into a private residence and hit pay dirt.
Joz’s building was secure, though, which meant the person who did this was either known to him and had access to his apartment, or they were some fucking master criminal.
My thoughts were running riot, and I let them. Anything to take my mind off the crushing fear that if Joz survived, he’d sinkfurther into depression and, as a byproduct, he’d begin regularly using again.
Not on my fucking watch. I would not let drugs steal him from me. I would not allow a vicious stranger to take away the man I’d fallen in love with to further their own ends, whatever they were. Joz was mine, and I was his. One way or another, we’d make it through this. We had to. I couldn’t face the alternative.
As my driver turned onto the road leading to the hospital, my phone buzzed.
Mike: He’s on the fourth floor. Room 7B.
I typed out my thanks and was out of the car before my driver had come to a complete stop. No sign of the press. Good. The news mustn’t have broken yet that Joz had been admitted, although it wouldn’t be long before it was all over the wire.
I beelined for the elevators, texting Sam on the way and apprizing her of the situation. If anyone had the skills to spin this the right way, it was my head of PR. Stuffing my phone in my pocket, I jabbed the button for Floor 4, my fingers impatiently tapping the sides of my thighs.
Room 7B was halfway along the corridor on the right-hand side. A man stood to the right of the door, and as I approached, he moved in front of it.
“May I help you?”
“She’s okay.”
I glanced behind me as Mike drifted down the hallway with two cups of something hot in his hand. He passed one of them to me. “Didn’t know if you took sugar.”
“Thanks.” I took it from him. “Is he awake?”
Mike nodded. “They gave him naloxone, and there’s a nurse in there with him monitoring his vitals.”
Panic swelled within my chest, the thoughts of what could have happened overwhelming me. “He could’ve died, Mike.”
“I know. But he didn’t. Physically, the doctor said he’ll make a full recovery.”
“How long are they keeping him in?”
“He should be released tomorrow. They want to observe him and make sure there are no lasting effects. Plus, he took a bang to the head when he fell, so they’re watching for any signs of concussion.”
I nodded, then reached for the handle. Mike gripped my arm, stopping me.
