“That’ll cost—”
“I don’t care what it’ll cost!” I shout, cutting off Peter. “I want this done immediately. I don’t care how it gets done or how much it will cost. Get. It. Done.” I punctuate each word with a slap to the table and then I storm out of the room, loosening my tie as I make my way to my office.
I slam the door once inside and go to my coffee station that now doubles as a bar and pour myself a glass of whiskey. Staring at it, I decide the bottle is better, so I take it with me to my desk, sit, and take a mouthful. I hiss as it burns going down, but fix it with another. Then another and another.
This is bullshit. This whole week has beenbullshit.
Seraphine hasn’t spoken a word to me. She hasn’t answered my calls or opened her door when I banged on it. The men at the front desk assure me she is alive, as they’ve seen her coming and going. I demanded they tell her to call me when they see her. They say they did but she only laughed at them and kept walking.
Her friend has been there a lot but there haven’t been any men, which gives me a small semblance of comfort. Though, the staff could be lying to me.
I camped outside of her building in my car one night, but she never came out. And everyone I work with has turned into a goddamn imbecile, so if I want to keep my company running, I apparently need to be here every day.
Ian, of all people, made the mistake of asking where Seraphine was on Monday when he noticed she hadn’t been in all day. I nearly knocked him out. No one has said a word about her since. It’s almost like she never existed at all. Only I know that’s bullshit too. I feel her everywhere. See her everywhere. She is fucking everywhere and there is nothing I can do about it.
She’s upset with me, I understand that, but does she have to be so childish that she can’t talk about it?
I take another swig of whiskey, frowning when nothing comes out. I find the bottle empty. I drop it to the desk and run my hands through my hair, swinging my chair around to face the windows. Typical cloudy Seattle day.
I do nothing for the rest of the afternoon, hardly able to tolerate being in my own skin. When three o’clock hits, I grab my things and barge out my door.
“I’m going home,” I bark at Michelle.
“Of course, sir. Have a good night,” she calls after me.
Good night? That’s laughable.
Once I’m in my car, I don’t head home like I wanted to. Instead, I head toward my favorite bar. The one I found Seraphine in all those weeks ago.
“Afternoon, Mr. Caldwell. What can I get you?” the bartender asks when I take a seat.
It isn’t too busy right now, but the after-work crowd will start piling in around five. It gets really busy around seven. Hopefully I’ll be black out drunk by then.
“Whiskey.”
It’s in front of me in less than a minute.
I grab some bills from my wallet, maybe a couple hundred, and hand it to the bartender. He raises a brow at me, knowing I don’t pay for drinks when I’m here.
“Your tip for the night. Keep ‘em coming.” I down the drink in one go and put the glass down with a loud clack.
He gives me a knowing nod then refills my glass.
We continue this until I don’t know where I am.
“For as long as I’ve known you, this is the last phone call I ever expected to get,” Jack hisses at me as we walk out of the police station.
“Well, surprise,” I mutter, the sun hitting me right in the eyes and blinding me.
Of course, today, of all days, it chooses to be fucking sunny.
We reach Jack’s BMW and he opens the passenger door, gesturing for me to get in. I do, but only because I want to go home and shower, and I don’t want him to yell at me anymore. My fucking head hurts.
Time moves both slowly and quickly, and before I know it, Jack is slamming on the breaks and barking, “Your home. Get out.”
I blink my eyes open, and it takes a moment for everything to come into view. My house is in front of me, but I don’t remember getting here. Jack curses under his breath as he gets out of the car, storms around it and yanks open my door.
“Let’s go.Out.”
