“I’m sorry,” Amanda told her.
“You’re sorry?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I’m sorry your boyfriend broke up with you before you could give him his Christmas present. I know you put a lot of thought into it.”
She took a step back before she dropped her towel to the ground; she wanted Talia to see every inch of what Townsend had gotten instead. Where Talia was taut and toned, with her tiny, boyish breasts and skin stretched like Saran Wrap over sinewy muscles, Amanda was all youthful curves, all woman. She could see Talia taking note of her soft body—likely wondering,Isn’t Townsend disgusted by all that pinchable skin?—and quietly understanding the truth: It didn’t matter that she had sculpted her body into its most inoffensive shape. Talia’s hunger could not compete with Amanda’s well-fed form. At last, once it was clear that Talia had nothing to say back, Amanda turned—ever so slowly—and made her way to the shower stalls.
Scrubbing her skin under the hot water, Amanda felt so pleased with herself, so powerful. She’d pulled off some real Queen Guinevere shit. And at the time, she figured she’d never have to see Talia and her prissy little face ever again. She should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. That girls like Talia are cockroaches. They keep coming back until you smash them under your heel.
Chapter Twelve
Townsend
Outside the window, Townsend can see it again: that dirty white Honda Accord with the cheap-looking Gemini-symbol decal, parked on the street across from his building. It’s the third time he’s seen it in as many weeks, and he feels certain now: Either he is losing his mind or Amanda is back in town. If she ever even left, that is.
Back when he was a portfolio manager at Bonnell Trust alongside his dad, Townsend could always manage to focus (though the steady stream of Adderall provided by his deskmate, Imran Patel, helped). But since leaving to dedicate himself to AutoInTune full time, his concentration has turned to shit. The silence in his home office is too loud. The walls? Too close. And the internet: too full of pornographic content he can’t help but peruse during work hours. That’s why Townsend tends to work on the sixth floor of his building, either in the library or in one of the executive meeting rooms. At least in these shared spaces he’s forced to keep his hand off his dick and his eyes on his laptop screen. Except for those moments when they drift out the window and notice his ex-girlfriend’s car parked outside, once again. Just sitting. Watching.
Work can’t happen right now—at least not while Townsend feels like he’s under surveillance—so instead, he types “Amanda Reade” into his search engine, curious what, if anything, he’ll find. Along with herInstagram (still untouched since March) and a press release about her disappearance from the Travis County Sheriff’s Office website (brief and uninformative), Townsend notices a Reddit thread among the top results. He follows the link and is startled to find his own name on the screen in front of him.
There’s a screenshot of an Instagram Story, seemingly written by Amanda’s sister and posted from Amanda’s account. He scans quickly through the message: ...filed a police report ... Amanda’s most recent boyfriend, Townsend Fuller ... involved in Amanda’s disappearance ... I have proof.
This is bad,he thinks numbly, his brain unable to compute much else.Very, very, bad.But what’s worse is the parade of comments that follows.
The attacks on his appearance don’t bother him much—though it creeps him out to see that someone has pulled an old photo of him from Google (was that taken at the St. Augustine holiday party, like, four years ago?) and cropped out the people on either side of him so it’s just him, standing alone, grinning like an armless idiot.That’s a punchable face if I’ve ever seen one,writes one commenter.Wouldn’t leave my drink unattended around him,says another. And one person simply wrote,This guy 100% lies about his height on dating apps, which is almost funny to Townsend, because his above-average height has never been a source of insecurity, and it’s sad that this internet troll can’t even come up with a decent insult.
Honestly, the many commenters weighing in on his possible involvement in Amanda’s disappearance don’t irk him either. These people don’t know him. They don’t know anything about his relationship with Amanda. And they can writeI bet he killed heras many times as they want, but that won’t change the fact that Amanda is not dead or missing but is instead sitting outside his home—stalkinghim, threateninghim—at this very moment. Accusations mean nothing when your innocence is indisputable and easily proven.
No, what really makes him sick to his stomach are the comments about AutoInTune—and though there are far fewer of them, thesementions seem far more pointed. One of the top comments, written by a user named LivingstonTheDream, even feels personal.I work in VC and he pitched his healthcare startup, AutoInTune, to us last week. It was kind of a shitshow TBH.Did Brett Livingston’s brother Orson write that, that motherfucker? Are these comments questioning the legitimacy of his business just bullshit—the result of an indignant, indulgent internet pile on—or is someone actually out to get him?
It’s still in its early stages, sure. But what these people don’t realize is that Townsend has put more work into this company than anything he’s ever done—and that includes his undergrad degree from Penn and the decade he spent toiling away at Bonnell Trust. Since launching to consumers earlier this year, AutoInTune has earned nothing but positive attention, including a spot onAustin Incubator’s “Top 25 HealthTech Start-ups to Watch.” He has a staff of nine. He has an interdisciplinary team able to help patients with over forty different autoimmune diseases. He has a meeting tomorrow with telehealth giant Sage Clinic for an employer partnership. But he also has a problem: Fewer people are signing up than he’d anticipated. Like,farfewer people.
Is the $225-per-month membership fee too steep? It seems reasonable to him, considering everything AutoInTune has to offer. (Nutritional assessments! Curated content! Twenty-four seven access to a dedicated care team!) But he knows not everyone can afford it; he’s aware of his financial privilege, despite what people may think. His hope is that he can secure the partnerships (and the funds) needed to lower out-of-pocket costs.
And if he has to inflate his membership numbers a bit to achieve those goals, then so be it.
Scrolling back to the top of the page, Townsend sees that the thread has generated nearly a hundred responses. His head pounds with red-hot fury tinged with a drop of anxiety. He hates to even entertain this possibility, but he wonders if this goddamn Reddit thread could be the reason why two separate venture capital firms canceled meetings with him. No one wants to deal with bad press. And speaking of bad press ...Townsend puts his fingertips to his temples and stifles a groan. Mother will absolutely shit if she gets word of any of this. The last thing he needs right now is to be accused of tarnishing the family name, especially if he wants access to his trust anytime soon.
Townsend’s phone buzzes on the table next to him, and he jumps. But it’s just the front desk calling.
“Ms. Danvers is here to see you,” reports the doorman. Townsend recognizes the warbly, watery voice—it’s the older dude with the limp whose time at the Austinite predates Townsend’s but whose name he can never remember, if he ever learned it in the first place.
“Send her up,” he says. It’s growing dark, and there’s no chance of him getting any more work done today, so he might as well meet Talia at his place. Gathering up his laptop, he takes one more glance outside. There it is, sitting just outside the yellowish orb cast by a nearby streetlight: that same fucking car. He flips the bird to the window (though who knows if she can see him; he certainly can’t see her from here) and then heads to the elevator.
Talia is already outside his door, chewing on a thumbnail, when he arrives on the forty-eighth floor. The nail biting is strange, Townsend thinks. Talia isn’t someone who’s easily flustered.
“Hi there.” He offers her a kiss on the cheek, which she accepts but doesn’t quite acknowledge. “You okay? You seem upset.”
As though remembering herself, Talia pulls her hand away from her mouth and uses it to tuck her hair behind her ear. Another nervous tic of hers. “I’m okay. But can we go inside? I need to talk to you about something.”
Fuck. What now?Townsend wants to ask, but instead he says, “Of course.”
He lets Talia ahead of him into his condo, where she kicks off her shoes and settles on the couch, her bare feet folded in her lap. He loves how comfortable she feels here, how well she complements his space. It reminds him that—no matter how shitty everything seemsright now—he has at least one thing that’s going right. He takes a seat next to her, and she hands him her phone.
“What am I looking at?”
“Just read it.”
Townsend reads aloud the message that fills up her screen. “‘I know you’re with Townsend now, and I know it’s not going to last.’ Who sent you this?” He checks the sender before Talia can respond. “Who is Amy Stake?”
