Damn. And after they’d lost interest in us. This day just keeps getting better and better, and it’s only—I glance at my watch—4:40 a.m.
“Ryan didn’t get your e-mail until he turned in,” Sawyer says. “It was too late to let everyone know you were on your way back.”
“So Ana and Gail don’t know,” I ask.
“No, sir.”
“Okay.”
We’re quiet for the rest of the short journey. Each of us with our own haunting thoughts. If Ana had been home, she’d have been in the panic room with Gail, and Ryan would have had backup and wouldn’t have had to face Hyde alone.
Why can’t she do as she’s told?
Sawyer parks the Audi in the garage, and both Taylor and I fly out of the car and into the elevator.
“Glad we came home when we did,” I say to Taylor.
“Yes, sir.” He nods in agreement.
“What a fucking mess.”
“Indeed.” He remains tight-lipped.
“We should have a full debrief when everyone has had some sleep.”
“Agreed.”
The elevator doors open and we spill out into the foyer, each of us with one goal: to check on our woman. I head straight for our bedroom, and I know that’s exactly what Taylor is doing. I barrel down the hallway and into the room, grateful that the thick carpet absorbs the sound of my footsteps.
Ana is fast asleep on my side of the bed. She’s curled up in a small ball, wearing one of my T-shirts.
She’s here.
She’s fine.
My relief almost brings me to my knees, but I stand and watch her. I can’t risk touching her, as I know I’ll wake her if I do.
Wake her and bury myself in her.
I wonder how drunk she was last night.
Ana. Ana. Ana.
What a shock to come back here to Hyde.
I steel myself and brush my forefinger over her cheek. She mumbles something in her sleep, and I freeze. I don’t want to wake her. When she settles, I slink out and head back to the living room. I need a drink.
As I pass the foyer door I notice that it’s hanging off its hinges. There are scuff marks over the walls. But no blood, that I can see.
Thank God. An altercation? It looks like it was a full-on fight.
And Hyde had a gun. He could have murdered Ryan right here in my home.
The thought is sickening.
In the living room I head over to the bar cart and pour myself a Laphroaig. I toss the contents of the glass down in one swallow, appreciating the burn as it sears my throat, the warmth spreading downward and joining the maelstrom in my gut. I take a deep breath and pour another, larger glass and head back into the bedroom.
I should really get some sleep, but I’m too wired.
And too mad.
No. Not mad. I’m raging.
The sanctity of my home invaded by that cocksucking, motherfucking asshole.
Quietly, I drag the bedroom chair from its position by the window to my side of the bed. Sitting down, I watch Ana sleep as I slowly sip my scotch and pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to quiet the ferocious storm inside me.
It doesn’t work.
He wanted to harm my wife.
That’s the only conclusion I can come to.
Kidnap her? Kill her?
To get back at me.
And Ana…she wasn’t here.
Where I asked her to be.
Told her to be.
My anger simmers, curdling into bitter rage.
And I have no outlet.
Only this drink, and the fire it leaves in its wake with each sip.
I re-cross my legs and tap my finger against my lip as I think of all the ways I’d like to end Hyde.
Strangulation. Suffocation. Beat him to death. Shoot him. I have Leila’s gun.
And punish Ana for not doing as she’s told.
Paddle. Flogger. Cane… Belt.
But I can’t. She won’t let me.
Fuck.
As dawn breaks, it gradually lights the room.
Ana stirs, and her eyes flutter open. Her lips part as she gasps in surprise when she realizes I’m sitting and watching her. “Hi,” she whispers. I finish my drink and place the glass on the bedside table while I contemplate what I’m going to say to her. “Hello,” I murmur, and it feels like someone else is talking. Someone robotic. Someone without feeling.
“You’re back.”
“It would appear so.”
She sits up, eyes bright, and blue, and lovely. “How long have you been sitting there watching me sleep?”
“Long enough.”
“You’re still mad,” she whispers.
Oh, I wish I was just mad. Robotic me says the word out loud, testing it. But it’s not enough. “No, Ana. I am way, way beyond mad.”
“Way beyond mad. That doesn’t sound good.”
No. It’s not. We gaze at each other and I wish I could stand up and yell and scream and tell her how I feel. How disappointed and relieved I am.
How frightened I am.
How fucking furious I am.
I don’t think I’ve ever experienced the depth of these conflicting feelings that plague me right now. But robotic me doesn’t know what to do; all systems are offline, trying to contain my rage.
She reaches over, grabs her glass, and takes a sip of water. “Ryan caught Jack,” she says, placing the glass back down.
“I know.”
Her brow creases. “Are you going to be monosyllabic for long?”
Is she trying to be funny? “Yes,” I respond, because it’s all I can manage.
Her frown deepens. “I’m sorry I stayed out.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Why say it, then?”
“Because I don’t want you to be mad at me.”
It’s too late for that, Ana. I sigh and run a hand through my hair.
“I think Detective Clark wants to talk to you,” she says.
“I’m sure he does.”
“Christian, please…”
“Please what?”
“Don’t be so cold.”
Cold? “Anastasia, cold is not what I’m feeling at the moment. I’m burning. Burning with rage. I don’t know how to deal with these”—I wave my hand seeking inspiration—“feelings.”