45. McCarthy
MCCARTHY
“ G et the fuck out of my tower,” I bark at the guards standing outside my door.
“But we ordered delivery and—”
“I said get the fuck out.” I slam the front door.
The paintings on the wall rattle.
Truman, on the couch, raises his head, yawning.
Why the hell is she so stubborn? Fuck.
I did everything for Jenna. All the other men in her life used and abused her. I was the only one who actually solved the problem, who did anything about it, and now she acts like I’m the problem in her life? That I’m the reason her life is shit and not the terrible men she surrounds herself with?
It’s just like my mom with my father. I should have known better than to get involved with a lost cause. And Jenna is a lost cause .
I stand in front of my murder wall, take out the red marker, and draw a big red X though Nathan’s face, then Rex’s, then her father’s.
Jenna wants to hate me? Fine. I don’t care.
My phone rings. Salinger’s calling me. Guess he heard the good news.
I don’t care. I was right. I was right about Joseph, I was right about HopeWorks, and I was right about Jenna’s stalkers.
I send Salinger to voicemail.
The intercom system buzzes from the concierge desk.
“Hey, Mac?” Anton sounds uncertain. “Jenna’s here. She needs her laptop.”
My shoulders relax. See? She came back.
“Send her up.”
“She, uh…”
I hear Jenna talking in the background.
“Jenna!” I bellow. “Stop this. Come upstairs. Now.”
“She says she doesn’t want to. And she wants Truman back.”
My lungs feel like they’re collapsing.
“She can’t…” I look down at Truman with his big eyes and silky fur. “She can’t take that dog. Just tell her to come upstairs so we can talk.”
Anton blows out a breath. “Boss…”
I know what that means.
Fuck her.
“I can come get it if you—”
I end the call.
I tear through the house, collecting her things, which have been strewn everywhere—in boxes, on my bed, in the library, and in the sink, banana-yellow cooking utensils—waiting for her to come back. I stuff her clothes in a bag while Truman chases after me, thinking it’s a game.
“You tell her,” I say to Truman. “Tell her she’s crazy when you see her. Tell her she’s got it wrong. Tell her I… I love her.”
I stop suddenly. “I don’t want her to go. I’m not ready for her to go.”
I carefully place the spatulas in the dishwasher then gently set Truman in his bag. He licks my face.
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” I tell him quietly. “We were supposed to be together forever.”
“Did she say where she’s going?” I ask Anton dully when I open the front door.
“I think maybe her mom’s? But tomorrow. She missed the ferry, she said. So I don’t know where she’s going.”
He takes the laptop case from me and the quilted bag with some of Jenna’s clothes then slings Truman’s carrier over his shoulder.
I hesitate. I want her to come up here, to stop being stubborn. I’m suddenly worried that I’ll completely blow any chance of reconciliation if I go downstairs.
I grab a set of keys off the hook by the door and toss them to Anton.
“Make her take the car, okay? I know she won’t take it from me, but from you? Tell her I’m not giving it to her, I’m giving it to Truman. It’s going to rain, and he doesn’t like to get wet.”
“Sure thing, Mac.” He takes a breath like he’s going to say something, but I shut the door before he can, because there’s nothing he can say.
Truman’s bark echoes through the door .
I go back to my study with the men with the red X s on their faces.
“I win,” I whisper to myself. “I won.”
I send Jenna a text message.
McCarthy: I’d rather have you hate me and be alive than love me and be dead.
And it’s true. Because I would. I do.
I already miss her, the part of my heart she’d softened up already oozing and rotting.
“I’ll get her back. She’ll come back. Next week. You’ll see. She’ll be right here where she belongs, with me.”
That’s the child in me, the one still desperately hopeful that he’ll see that damn dog again.
Jenna’s not coming back. Neither is Buddy. She’s safe, though, at least. I know she’s safe. I made sure of it.
The phone I have mirrored to hers is silent. The barrage of text messages has stopped.
Then the phone lights up.
Unknown Number: You think you’re going to throw my offer back in my face like that?
I grab it.
It’s the thread from Rex. “This cockroach. Where is he?”
I click my computer on, and the social media feeds related to Rex pop up. There’s no need for a fancy surveillance system when everyone has a phone and is posting nonstop.
I find a live stream on one account. Rex is red-faced and slurring, trying to get his side of the story out to the public.
I frown at the phone. The text messages keep coming.
Unknown Number: Answer me.
Unknown Number: All I did was compliment your dress.
Unknown Number: You don’t understand who I’m married to. She’s bitter and poisonous. You are my antidote.
Unknown Number: I was going to name my baby after you. That means something.
Shit. Shit. I was wrong. I was so fucking wrong. Fuck.
The photos on the wall tear off little pieces of the wallpaper when I yank them down. I tack up the printout of the real suspect.
I need to get to Jenna.