The first page is a printed email. The sender’s address isn’t familiar, but the recipient line saysF. Lawrence, and the date is from over a year ago.
My eyes scan the text:
Freddy,
Good news. Spoke with Michel and the situation is handled. Our friend’s daughter won’t be finding work in Boston anytime soon, so she should be open to options elsewhere. I’d expect her to land in Rosebrook within a couple months if the boyfriend plays his cards right.
C sends regards. Drinks soon?
Brutus
The room tilts.
I read it again. And again.
Spoke with Michel.
Situation is handled.
Boyfriend plays his cards right.
They’re talking about me. Theyhaveto be talking about me.
My hands are shaking so hard I almost drop the folder.
Art. My Art. The man who held me while I cried about losing my job, who told me Boston wasn’t good enough for me anyway, who offered me a fresh start in his small town like it was a gift.
Did he know?
I flip to the next page, hoping for an explanation, or a sign that I’m reading this wrong, but there’s nothing else. Just an old email to Frederick from someone named Brutus, a name I’ve never seen before but that sits wrong in my gut, like maybe Ishouldknow it. I snap a quick picture, before shoving the folder back in the drawer and slamming it shut, bile rising in my throat.
My hands shake as I call Art, but it goes straight to voicemail.
I hang up and try again. Same result.
Of course he’s not answering. He’s with Lance, doing whatever it is they do that’s more important than me.
Well, fuck that.
If he won’t answer me, then I’ll hunt him down. I just have to figure out where the hell Lance lives. Art told me once Lance liked being off grid as much as possible, and his family bribed the county to build a cabin in the park. It was close to some overlook…the one where Frederick shot himself.
Upside Down Rock?
Whatever.I’ll figure it out when I get there.
I slip out of the office, half expecting Rosalie to be waiting, but the hallway’s empty.
The night air hits me as I cross the parking lot to my car. My hands are still shaking when I jam the key into the ignition.
This is insane. I’m about to drive into the middle of nowhere to hunt for a house I’ve never seen, hoping to find my boyfriend so I can scream at him about a secret file that insinuates my entire relationship might be a lie.
What kind of person does that?
Me, I guess.
The roads get darker the farther I go from town, my headlights carving tunnels through the blackness, but I don’t stop because Art said Lance’s place was out here somewhere.
If I drive around long enough, maybe I’ll find it.
