Chapter Forty-Four
Emily
My workday passes in a zombie-state, plodding through each hour, grumbling and mumbling my responses to customer questions, and barely feeling a single spark at all between any of the neurons in my brain. The only thing that occupies my thoughts is the nightmare-date that grows closer with each passing second.
“See you tomorrow, Emily,” Maggie says as she makes a few last notes on a customer file and then shuts down her computer. “Call me if you have any last-minute questions on your paper. Your deadline’s got to be close, right? Is it tomorrow?”
“Day after,” I mumble. Silence descends between us. Then I realize I’m being a distracted asshole to a friend and add, “Thank you, but I think I have everything. I’m just a little distracted.”
“The case? I know it’s hard, but you have to focus. You are so close, and Keith says our odds are decent. I trust him, so please, just relax, focus, and do what you need to do while we take care of the rest.”
“I’ll try. Have a good night, Maggie.”
She gives me a pitying smile as she leaves. If only she knew why I really felt so terrible at this moment. But I’ll never tell her, or Keith, or anyone about what I’m about to do to make sure this case goes away. In fact, I’m going to do everything I can to forget about it.
After a few scrawled notes and a few quick replies to some emails, I close up and head to my car.
The next thing I know, I’m pulling into the parking lot of some dive bar. I don’t remember how I got here, and figure that might be for the best. If I can have one gap in my memory already, maybe I’ll be able to induce another later.
The car door closes with a slam behind me and I force myself to walk with my head high into the dirty bar, my eyes scanning the crowd of construction workers, truckers, and men with generally dusty appearances — and not normal dust, but gritty, thick, dark dust, like they were rescued from a coal mine, except there are no coal mines anywhere near here — until they settle on Jay. He’s sitting at a table in the corner, and there are two empty beer glasses in front of him, and a third that’s half-empty.
Great, he’s already well on his way to getting drunk and belligerent.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what's to come, and make my way over to Jay's table. He looks up as I approach, his eyes narrowing as they focus on me.
"Well, well, well," he drawls, a smirk twisting his lips. "Look who decided to show. I was starting to think you might stand me up."
I force a smile that feels more like a grimace. "Sorry I'm late. Work ran long."
“Whatever. I've been keeping myself entertained." He gestures to the empty glasses, then signals the waitress. "What'll you have? It’s on me."
After a breath and a moment where I think about Hunter in order to feel stronger, I say, “Whiskey on the rocks, please. With whatever whiskey is your most expensive.”
Jay winces. Good .
“Beer. Whichever is your cheapest, because I’m not a stuck-up bitch,” he says.
“I will leave right now,” I say.
“Feel free. Then my buddy, Officer Abrams, will make sure the DA continues with the assaulting a police officer charges against you and you can spend the next few years of your life in jail, bitch.”
My whiskey arrives and I take a long drink, finishing half the glass. “Use that word again and see what happens.”
Jay holds up his hands, palms out. “Fine. I’m sorry. Look, I got a little upset thinking you weren’t going to show up, so I’ve already had a few drinks. I apologize for what I said.”
I blink. “I’ve never heard you say those words before.”
“I’m sure I have,” he says. For a second, his eyes flicker to his phone, then back to me.
“No, you never did.”
“Well, I’m sorry for that, too.”
I take another drink of my whiskey and it does nothing to stop the room spinning, or make what he’s saying make sense. “What’s happening here? Why are you acting like this?”
A smile that makes me doubt everything he’s ever said breaks his lips. “I’m just trying to be nice,” he says, in the same tone I’d expect someone to use as they held the blade of a knife to my throat. “You have your paper coming up, your new boyfriend, a shot at a nice life, and I have made a lot of mistakes. Let me at least make up for some of them, OK?”
I narrow my eyes at Jay, trying to decipher his sudden change in demeanor. Every instinct screams that this is a trap, that he's playing some kind of twisted game. But I'm here, aren't I? I might as well see where this leads.
"Alright," I say cautiously, taking another sip of my whiskey. The burn in my throat matches the unease in my stomach. "So, what exactly did you want to talk about?"
Jay leans back in his chair, he checks his phone, puts it away, and then drums with his fingers on the sticky tabletop. "I've been thinking a lot about our past, Emily. About all the shit I put you through." He pauses, his eyes flickering to mine. "I want to make things right."
I can't help but scoff. "Make things right? How exactly do you plan on doing that?"
"By letting you go," he says simply. "No more blackmail, no more threats. I’m done with threats. I want to really end things. In fact, I'll tell Officer Abrams to drop the charges. If you want, I’ll even call him right now."
My heart skips a beat, but I force myself to remain calm. This is too good to be true. "Just like that? What's the catch?"
Jay's smile turns rueful. "The catch is that I'm a changed man. I've seen the error of my ways, or some bullshit like that." He leans forward, his voice dropping. "I'm tired, Emily. Tired of being the bad guy, tired of chasing after something I can't have, tired of being taunted with it. That’s why I want to end all this."
I stare at Jay, searching his face for any sign of sincerity, but all I see is that unsettling smile. My instincts scream at me to run, but I'm rooted to my seat, caught between disbelief and morbid curiosity.
“So, will you call him now?”
“I will, if you ask nicely.”
“Jay, will you please call him now? For me?”
Jay takes out his phone. Looks at it. Smiles. And then dials. He switches it to speaker, and I hear it ring several times before a familiar voice answers. Abrams.
“Jay, what’s up?”
“I’m here with Emily, just getting a drink. How you doing, buddy?”
“Busy working. Just got done with a very important project, that one I was telling you about. Really happy with it. It went exactly as I’d hoped.”
“Great,” Jay says, his eyes on me. “Listen, I want you to do me a huge favor: tell the DA to drop the charges against Emily and against Maggie Simmons.”
“Are you serious?” Officer Abrams’ voice vibrates with anger.
“Absolutely.”
There’s a long stretch of silence, followed by a sigh. “Fine,” Abrams says.
Jay looks at me for a moment, grinning. “Happy?”
I just shrug. “It’s a good start, but please don’t be upset if I don’t totally trust you.”
Muffled laughter comes over the phone. “Man, you are really killing it tonight, aren’t you, buddy? Is that all the game you’ve got?”
Jay snorts. “Hardly. Hold on for a second, buddy,” he says. He swipes on his phone a few more times. There’s another set of rings, and then another voice comes on the line.
“Jay Thompson? What are you doing calling me? Did something happen to your father?” Says a voice that I immediately recognize as the DA who spent hours interrogating me at the courthouse just the other day.
“No, Mr. Tillerson, my dad’s fine. Though he told me he’s looking forward to getting revenge on you for the last round you two played. Heard you really kicked his ass. But that’s not why I’m calling. I’m calling because I’ve got Officer Burt Abrams here on the line with me and he wants to tell you something.”
“Hey there, Miles,” Officer Abrams says. “Look, I’ve been considering things, and I don’t want to go through with charges against Emily Mitchell or Maggie Simmons for that incident the other day.”
“Are you fucking serious, Abrams?” Miles Tillerson says. “This far into the process and you get cold feet?”
"It's not cold feet," Abrams replies, his voice tense. "I've just realized that pursuing these charges isn't in anyone's best interest. It's a waste of resources and time."
There's a long pause on the other end of the line. I hold my breath, my heart pounding in my chest.
"Fine," Tillerson finally says, his voice clipped. "I'll file the paperwork first thing in the morning. But this better not come back to bite us in the ass, Abrams. And Jay, tell your father I'm looking forward to our next game."
The call ends abruptly. Jay looks at me, that unsettling smile still plastered on his face.
"There you have it, Emily. You're free."
I stare at him, unable to process what’s just happened. He’s never done anything nice for me, but now I have proof of him swooping in to save me from my biggest nightmare.
"Why?" I ask. "Why are you really doing this?"
Jay leans back in his chair, taking a long swig of his beer. "Let's just say I had an epiphany. Life's too short for this bullshit, you know?"
His words leave me speechless, and I take another long drink of whiskey while I try to find my tongue.
But before I can even speak, Jay finishes his beer, pulls out his wallet, and puts down a thick handful of bills that are more than enough for me to have a second drink and still leave a generous tip for the waitress.
“It was nice seeing you, Emily. Have a good night.”
They’re pleasant enough words, but I’ve never felt colder than when they wash over me.
For a while, I just sit there, pondering, unspeaking — except to order another drink — and wondering why .
Why was he so nice to me?
I still don’t have an answer by the time I finish my drink and leave. The entire drive home, my head spins around that question — why?
I pull into my apartment complex, still reeling from the encounter with Jay. My hands shake as I turn off the engine, and I sit there for a moment, trying to collect myself. The whiskey buzz has worn off, leaving behind a gnawing unease in the pit of my stomach.
Why was he so nice? It doesn't make sense. Jay's never done anything without an ulterior motive. What's his game this time?
I force myself out of the car, my legs wobbling slightly as I make my way to my apartment. The entire way up the stairs, I can't shake the feeling that something's terribly wrong. Jay's smile, that unsettling, knowing smile, keeps flashing in my mind.
As I reach my door, I fumble with my keys, nearly dropping them. My heart races as I finally unlock it and step inside.
The moment I cross the threshold, I know something's off. The air feels different, disturbed. I flick on the lights and gasp.
My eyes take in the sight and my brain wants to reject the utter destruction before me; clothes lie across the floor, drawers pulled out and emptied; picture frames lie shattered on the ground, glass crunching under my feet as I take a tentative step forward; my television sits cracked, the victim of a single punch to the center of its screen; my plates and cups sit on the floor, reduced to shards of pottery and glass; the guts of my couch cushions lie spilled and strewn everywhere, as if someone cut them open with a knife and threw the foam in impotent rage.
"Hello?" I call out, my voice shaking. No response. Not even a sound except the riot of a heartbeat pounding in my chest.
I move deeper into the apartment, my dread growing with each step. When I reach the little cubby that passes for my study area, a frightened yell leaves my throat. My desk sits ransacked, papers torn to shreds and scattered everywhere. My books lie in tatters, pages ripped out and strewn across the floor.
With trembling hands, I open my laptop, praying that at least my research paper is safe. But as soon as I log in, my heart sinks. The file is gone. Deleted, along with every file event remotely relevant to my paper. Months of work, countless hours of research and writing, all vanished in an instant.
I collapse into my chair, tears welling up in my eyes. My breath comes in sharp, pained gasps. This wasn't a random break-in. This was targeted. Personal.
And suddenly, Jay's kindness makes perfect, horrifying sense.
The tears flow freely now, sobs wracking my body as I survey the destruction around me. Everything I've worked for, everything I've fought so hard to achieve, lies in ruins at my feet.
I fumble for my phone, hands shaking so badly I can barely unlock it. Who do I call? The police? Keith? Maggie? Hunter?
Before I can decide, a text message pops up on my screen. It's from an unknown number, but there’s only one person who could have sent it.
Hope you enjoyed our little chat earlier. Consider us even now. Sweet dreams, Emily.