Chapter 31
Chapter Thirty-One
When I regain something like my bearings again, I try calling Will. I stand on the broad promenade next to the Thames, frozen in place while passersby flow around me, a literal one-man island. The evening sun’s on me, but I don’t feel it at all.
Of course, Will doesn’t answer his phone.
Even though I try three times in five minutes.
And maybe another three times in the five minutes after that.
Because I have to get through to Will and find out what happened in the director’s office after I left.
It doesn’t make sense—why would they fire Will but not me?
I need a different strategy. Like getting to Will’s flat. But I don’t exactly have the address, though I saw the street name, and I know it’s in Chelsea. Time for the map app and Transport for London to come through with some trip planning.
Shaking everything off as best I can for the moment, I start walking quickly to London Bridge station, my mind racing.
Our meeting was first thing this morning.
I can’t imagine what Will’s done all day.
He could be out with a migraine. He could be hiding.
At any rate, I’m miserable without him, and miserable at imagining what he’s going through.
And he probably blames me. My brain helpfully riffs on the options. He’s upset because he thinks the lost—or stolen—exhibits are my fault. Or he’s upset because I didn’t get fired.
Shit, shit, shit.
When I get to London Bridge, the commuters have thinned out by 7:30 p.m. With the current transport conditions, it’s either the tube and two buses or one tube change and walking. I obviously go for the second option and quickly head to the station.
And by the time I get to Earl’s Court station, my stomach still twists.
Once on the street, I call up the app again and try to figure out where Will’s flat is from my limited memory of our commute.
He said something about being on the edge of Chelsea or something.
Redcliffe something or other road. I hurry along.
It’s 8:30 p.m. by the time I’ve reached Will’s street, and I stand in front of the imposing historic building as the sun sets. Scanning the street, I don’t see his SUV or anything quite like it. And his flat is dark.
Even so, I open the gate, cross the tiles to the front steps, and ring his buzzer. Twice.
And there’s no answer.
“Fuck.” A long sigh escapes me. I go back down the path to the street, studying the windows. The wood shutters are half-closed, the windows dark.
He could be sleeping, if he has a migraine. Or maybe he went out.
Though who the hell knows where someone goes once they’ve been fired. If it were me, I’d probably go to the bar and find comfort with friends. But Will’s more of a homebody than I am. Statistically speaking, he’s probably sitting there in the dark. Ignoring me.
And not interested in answering the door. I try calling again, but nothing.
Of course, if he does have a migraine, I’m probably pissing him off if he wants to rest.
Get the hint, Dylan. He doesn’t want to talk to you.
“Fuck,” I say again, unwilling to take the defeat, even so. I walk around his neighborhood, past the square and a nearby pub, which I peek into in case he’s there. And it’s a very nice pub. For the well-heeled.
So I crash the pub for what turns out to be a very expensive pint. I take the opportunity to look around for Will, but nope. It’s ridiculous, but I can’t help wanting to go to him. I’d want someone to go to me in his shoes.
Unable to find him, I sit in a corner and type a message to Stephen back home.
Will’s been fired. And I don’t know where he is.
The response is almost instant.
What do you mean?
Exactly that. Fired. Gone.
Why?
I groan. I should have thought this through.
It’s a long story about something important going missing. Which was both our faults except I’m not fired and he is
Next thing I know, Stephen’s video calling.
“I’m so, so sorry.” I groan, rubbing my face with a hand. “I didn’t think this through. I’m freaking out because he’s ghosting me today.”
Stephen gives me a wry look. “Has he ghosted you before?”
“No, nothing like this. Never.”
“He probably just needs some time to process alone. That would be shitty for anyone.” Stephen looks confident.
“What do I do?”
Stephen shakes his head with finality. “There’s nothing to do. You can’t do anything. You can’t solve this, Dylan.”
“I want to, though.”
“Sometimes shit happens. Life happens.”
“I’ve got half a mind to camp out on his doorstep,” I confess. “Which is probably the sort of thing that might get me arrested. By him or his neighbors. Talk me out of it.”
“Don’t do it,” Stephen advises. “I don’t know, try again tomorrow.”
I make an unhappy sound, raking a hand through my hair. My pint does little to offer comfort.
“Remember you work tomorrow. And you don’t want to get fired too.”
Grimacing, I nod. “I ought to have been fired too. This doesn’t make sense. Plus, he was the director’s favorite. It doesn’t make sense.”
“What happened, exactly?” he asks.
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. This is such a fuckup. Epic, really. Look. You’re right. I’ll try not to get arrested. I’m going to check in one more time, and then I guess I need to head home before Russ calls me in as a missing person.”
“He’ll probably think you’re at Will’s,” he says wryly. “Which, technically, is true.”
I groan. “Yeah.” Twisting my pint with my free hand, I shake my head. “Going home feels like defeat.”
“Try again tomorrow,” Stephen urges again. “Obviously, he wants to be left alone.”
“Yeah. I guess. You’re probably right.”
“Of course I am.”
With another sigh, I lean back in my wooden chair. The pub’s grand, with bare plank walls, plush furnishings and banquet seating, and vintage-inspired wallpaper of shorebirds like old lithographs. This would be a fun place to be with Will. Decidedly less fun alone.
“Go home.”
“’Kay. Talk tomorrow?”
“Sure thing.”
We say our goodbyes, and then I finish my pint. I make one more futile trip to Will’s. Still dark. Still no answer when I call his phone. And with reluctance, I head home, feeling heavy.
The next morning, I don’t have any more answers. Or any messages back from Will despite the number of texts and missed calls. Obviously, he would know I’m trying to reach him. Just as obviously, he doesn’t want to talk.
Instead, I throw myself into work at the museum. Exhibits are steadily put in place under Lily’s and my watchful gaze. Finally, I ask to talk to her, and we agree to catch up after we’ve eaten lunch.
Except I don’t eat, pacing the path along the Thames for an hour. When I’m seated opposite her in the office, today she looks weary and resigned. She gazes at me.
“I don’t understand why I’m not fired too,” I say unhappily. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“This is a matter for HR.”
Except HR is pretty much the director and his executive assistant, as far as I can tell. “Please help me understand the difference. We’ve done everything together, like you wanted us to. We picked up the collection and brought it here. It has to be on-site somewhere.”
“Dylan,” she says not unkindly, “we’ve searched. It’s not here.”
I hold her gaze, unconvinced. “It’s got to be here. Please believe me.”
She sighs. “Unless you’re a conjurer, I don’t think it is.”
“I wish. But… Will’s so careful. He’s probably even more careful than me. Dots every i and crosses every t. You want super attention to detail, he’s your man. There’s no way—”
“Dylan.” The way she says my name gets my attention. Her voice is low, her gaze fixed on mine.
I stop talking.
“His name is on the chain-of-custody receipt. He signed for the collection.”
“Right, but we were both there—”
“—and he took full responsibility.”
I blink. I sit back abruptly in my chair. “He… what?”
“I’ll deny this if you tell anyone,” she warns me, relenting slightly. “I don’t like this any more than you do. But he was clear this wasn’t in any way your fault.”
But that’s not true.
I don’t expect my eyes to well up. Or my throat to tighten. The room spins, even though I haven’t moved. Then Lily’s passing me a tissue, and I’m mortified to have lost it in front of her. “I’m sorry…”
“I’m sorry too.” Lily puts the tissue box back on her desk. “I can’t explain this either. And I desperately wish I could, for all our sakes. You were a wonderful team till this happened.”
I don’t trust myself to talk then. Because I thought the same thing too—mostly for different reasons. When I excuse myself, I find the stairwell that leads to the roof. I can’t get outside with my security card, but I sit on the top step, hollow, and let hot tears slide down my face.