“Fine.” He motions for me to get out of the car. “I need to get back to New Jersey to finish off an IKEA manager, and you need to turn back into the Michael I know by the time I get back. I expect to hear fucking research and planned times of executions. Literally.”
I roll my eyes and step out of his car.
He speeds off the moment I shut the door, and I return to the Four Seasons. I know better than to revisit Meredith in the penthouse suite again—even though I’m tempted, so I request a different room. I also request that they extend her stay by a few days and set two aspirin, a tray of bagels, and a note from me on her nightstand in the morning. (It’s common fucking decency. It doesn’t mean anything.)
When I make it to my room, I turn the air conditioning on to the coldest setting. I open all the windows—letting in as much of the freezing night air as possible, and then I set the ceiling fan on high.
Taking off my clothes, I lay at the center of the mattress and shut my eyes for as long as I can bear it—hoping that for once, just once, sleep will come and stay for more than five hours.
Just once.
I drift off into a dream that feels like it’ll finally last a long time, but by the time my eyes flutter open, I look at my watch and realize that it’s been exactly five hours.
Fuck.
The flames of my past are still burning hot and bright, and I know they won’t stop until I finish that damn list. Until I can completely focus on putting it behind me.
I dress again and prepare to check out. As I’m walking to the elevator, my second cell phone buzzes in my pocket.
No one has this number yet, and I’ve installed software that prevents robo-calls.
Confused, I hold it up to my ear. “Yes?”
“Um, hi.” Meredith’s soft and raspy voice comes over the line. “It’s me, Meredith.”
What the fuck? “How the hell did you get this number, Meredith?”
“You opened your phone and texted the concierge at some point last night.” She sounds like she’s still in bed. “I have a photographic memory.”
I smile, impressed and completely caught off-guard. I never picked up on that while following her, so I mentally add that to my list of “Interesting observations about the Thatchwood Girl.” It can go right under “Sexy as hell without even trying,” “Unafraid of a little darkness,” and “Enjoys talking about books and authors for hours at a time.”
I rush her off the phone—shutting down any idea of meeting up with her again, and make sure my gun is loaded and concealed before stepping onto the elevator.
I’m supposed to spend today following a man who has an unfortunate criminal addiction, since I’m due to kill him in a matter of weeks, but I don’t drive to his job to stalk his routine. I don’t show up to the ice cream parlor where his family meets him in the afternoons, and I don’t hack into his personal computer when he “accidentally” leaves it in a locker at his gym.
Instead, I think about Meredith. How much I want her, how much I need to have her, at least one more time.
I try to let the thoughts remain thoughts, but before I know it, I’m using my own photographic memory and sending her an email.
Subject: One more date…
Michael
Now
Top Ten Reasons Why Meredith Thatchwood is Probably Still Alive (& Tips on How to Get Her Smoky Eye Wedding Picture Look)
If Meredith Thatchwood was a Regular, Ugly Missing Person and Not a Beautiful, Billionaire Heiress, No One Would Care
Fans Launch Petition for Gillian Weston, Author and Best Friend of Missing Thatchwood Heiress, to Release Her New Book; “Meredith was a FAN, too!”
Police Question Heiress’s Newlywed Husband Again; Officially Clear Him as a Suspect
‘Hopeful, yet very concerned’ in the search for Missing Billion-Dollar Heiress, Father Says
Officials Find Abandoned Car with Blood Stains, Meredith Thatchwood’s Locket Necklace, and Hair Strands in Trunk; Police to Test DNA
The mainstream media is far too fucking predictable. They run every major story with the exact same cycle: Breaking news and an outrage story, tons of hour to hour coverage, new angle of the story, even more hour to hour coverage. They run with this big story for as long as they can—a couple weeks at most, and right when it begins to lose steam, they pick up the next breaking news story.
Wash. Rinse. Repeat.
It’s been two months since Meredith went missing, and her disappearance is slowly falling out of this vicious cycle—only mentioned by news stations when they’re desperate for clicks and want to examine “new angles” for the story. Occasionally, her name will resurface in the papers whenever her lying ass father wants to make a tear-filled appearance about how the cops aren’t doing enough to find her.
Honestly, if I didn’t know what I know, I’d feel the same. They’re completely incompetent and twenty steps behind what’s really happening, but that’s exactly where I need them to be.
Meredith
Now
1 out of 5 stars
Dear fellow Goodreads.com reviewers,
This is not a book review. I’m writing this here, on this book’s page, in hopes that someone will see this before I’ll be forced to delete it.
My name is Meredith Alexis Thatchwood, and my husband—Michael Anderson—has kidnapped me. He is currently holding me against my will in a mansion, in the middle of nowhere. (From what I remember from the last time I managed to escape, the place is five miles away from the Genessee River, past a drive of overgrown maple trees. Some street names nearby are Ardmore Lane, Pine Avenue, and Trellis Cove.)
If you help me, I promise that my father—Leonardo Thatchwood—will reward you for alerting the police to my whereabouts.
PLEASE call 1-888-MER-TIPS and show them this review. Please tell them I’m still alive…and please contact Gillian Weston and show this review to her, too.
Please help me,
Meredith
Comment from InLovewithBooks: Ugh. These indie authors are getting on my damn nerves. Stop promoting your book blurbs on other author’s book pages! (And why would you post this as a 1-star?)
Comment from TheDNF-Queen: She left out, “Help me, I’m poor! Please BUY MY BOOK!” I’m sure that’s what she was going for with this pandering-ass review/blurb. SMH. (She probably posted it as a 1-star since those are the ones we all read first BAHAHA!)
Comment from RomanceHeart: I hope you’re not going to buy her book, TheDNFQueen! And I’m with InLovewithBooks. What is it with these newer indie authors? #theaudacity
Comment from TheDNF-Queen: I just googled the woman who she’s claiming to be and this Thatchwood woman has been missing FOR REAL for eight weeks. Like, she’s using a real-life tragedy to sell her book. SAD. I’m blocking this author.
I stop reading the comment thread and scream as loudly as I can into a pillow. I’m tempted to throw the cell phone against the wall, but I’ll only be hurting myself.
The phone is a “gift” that Michael left on the table for me last week, but there’s nothing to thank him for. It can’t make calls or send text messages, it has no email or web search functions, and there is no way for me to turn off the restricted controls, snap pictures, or even check the damn time. What I have left is the super basic version of Netflix, access to a curated YouTube, and the ability to post reviews (but not comment or message) via Goodreads.