Chapter 28
Twenty-Eight
Ellie
I haven’t seen Jack in two days. Not since I found all of the financial files that don’t make sense. I don’t know where he’s
been staying—it certainly hasn’t been at the apartment. I imagine he’s staying at his office. I spent all day Sunday hibernating
in bed and ruminating on all the things I don’t know about my husband. I even searched the local real-estate market for two-bedrooms
with a view of the park, briefly entertaining the idea of selling everything and starting over somewhere else. I’ve never
asked much about my father and Jack’s business dealings, but now I’m thinking I should have. It’s hard to fathom leaving Jack
and living alone—I’ve never lived by myself—but then, what choice do I have? I can’t just sit here with my head in the sand,
can I?
I considered talking to my dad about it—he’s the only other person I trust—but I don’t even trust him anymore.
The truth is I don’t know who to trust. My faith has been rocked—I feel like every instinct I have about people has been wrong.
I think about all the questions I have for my father, and about the fact that The Society expects my next target to be him.
I haven’t parsed out all of the details, but I know one thing for sure: I can’t rely on anyone but myself in this life.
“El—delivery!” One of the executive assistants calls through the crack in my door.
My heart sinks. I’m like Pavlov’s dog when it comes to deliveries now—my anxiety skyrockets each time a box lands on my doorstep,
whether it’s at home or the office.
I haul myself out of my desk chair and walk the short distance to the assistant’s desk to find a large box waiting for me.
“Looks like someone was up all night ordering some goodies.” Her eyes dart to the box and then to me.
I ignore her and lift the box. It’s heavy. I curse under my breath as I walk with it back to my office. I close the door because
I know I’m going to need privacy for whatever this is. I cut the tape on the box with a letter opener and then groan when
I find more glass bottles of milk, cream, and honey. On top of everything sits a note that says:
If you don’t do it, you’ll regret it.
I swallow, hands trembling as I hold the note in my hands. It’s obviously from The Society. They clearly don’t like that I
haven’t answered their emails and haven’t made a move on my father. Maybe I should send a quick email and explain that I have
a conflict of interest with this target. I think about how to explain that I can’t take down the next rapist asshole on their
list because he raised me. Tucked me in at night, showed up at my dance recitals, shared every holiday dinner with me and
still does . . .
This is without a doubt the reason I was chosen.
My heart hurts at the thought. If he’s guilty, how can I let him get away with hurting people?
And if he’s not . . . how am I supposed to escape the overbearing clutches of these powerful women in The Society?
I’m not even sure how to find out the truth of the situation.
I can’t exactly ask. I think then of Aubrey and the police reports from the women accusing my father of horrendous abuses.
Is it true? Could the documents have been altered?
I shove the note back into the box and close it, walking it straight out of my door and to the trash chute across the office.
I don’t care who knows, who finds out, who gets angry; threat or no threat, I have no intention of giving my father this gift—no
matter how harmless it may seem.
By the time I’m back at my desk my mind is whirring with all the possibilities I may not have considered. As soon as I sit
down, I open a new internet search window and type in the name Aubrey Collins. It takes me exactly ten minutes to come to
the conclusion that there is no evidence of her on the internet—no social media profiles, no LinkedIn with a work history—nothing.
She’s practically a ghost as far as the internet is concerned—and it’s basically impossible not to have left a trail on the
internet these days.
My heart sinks as I think back on all the things I’ve told her, all the time we’ve spent together. Who is she? Why is she
here? It occurs to me then that I wouldn’t put it past my father to hire someone to watch out for me. He’s been worried for
a long time about my mental stability—would he go so far as to hire a caregiver like Aubrey on the quiet to keep an eye on
me?
By the time lunch comes, I haven’t focused for more than a minute at a time, so I send an email to my manager saying I’ll
be working from home the rest of the day. Maybe even the rest of the week. Maybe forever.