Chapter 6 Cal
CAL
My car moves at a snail’s pace in typical NYC bumper to bumper midday traffic.
I should read today’s financial reports or review building plans, but I can’t stop thinking of how withdrawn Bolton was yesterday.
He didn’t enjoy shopping, and only bought a couple of small trinkets he didn’t seem to care about.
When we went to dinner, he ordered only an appetizer.
Usually, Bolton eats enough for two or three, ordering more than one meal so he can eat buffet style.
I often joke with him about when our food baby is due.
Sometimes we give it ridiculous names like Joffrey Kenneth or Mildred Hazel, and we’ll joke about how we want to send our food baby to only the best private preschools.
But holding a conversation with him was like pulling teeth, something I’ve never experienced before.
Usually he talks my ear off, telling me every detail of his day or asking me a million questions about mine.
I used to find it annoying until we started marriage counseling.
Now I recognize it for what it is—connection—and I look forward to talking to him every day when I get home from work.
We even text sporadically throughout the day.
I barely slept last night because I was so worried about him.
I thought he was still mad at me, or maybe he was having issues with his horrid publisher.
But then I realized exactly what he’s up to.
When he disappeared to his cabin in the middle of the woods two years ago, I had no clue where he went and no way to contact him.
It was as if he had gone off the grid. I knew he was fed up with me—to the point he was considering giving up on us—but I didn’t know if he was okay.
Bolton can be…impulsive sometimes, downright reckless when he’s upset.
He could have been dead in a ditch somewhere or piss-drunk at a bar, totally unaware of the predators he’d undoubtedly attract with his pretty face.
Not knowing if he was okay or where he was drove insane, and I vowed never to let it happen again.
So I bugged him.
All of his electronics are mirrored, so I can see what he’s up to at all times.
They also include hidden tracking mechanisms, which feed into a security app on my phone.
I know where he is every hour of the day, down to the exact coordinates.
His vehicle is tracked, too. When he uses the building’s car service, I make sure the manager tracks the car and sends me a report.
I even installed security cameras in every room of our penthouse, except the bathroom.
I’m not a monster.
The cameras tipped me off. He wasn’t actually writing on his phone. His fingertips weren’t doing their usual dance across the screen, and his usual manic expression he has when crafting a story was absent from his face. He was lying in bed, scrolling with wide eyes.
I went into the security app and saw him reading police reports about men I’d rather he had never heard of. Awful men whose deaths leave the world a better place. He deep-dove into Reddit threads that shouldn’t exist, reading about wild conspiracy theories from some online crackpots.
He battles his anxiety on good days, and it can get bad enough on his bad days that I keep our therapist, Dr. Locke, on retainer for him. Now it’s getting to where he’s obsessing.
The car pulls up outside our therapist’s office, and I thank my driver before getting out of the car and making my way to her suite.
Besides having a marriage counseling appointment every other week, Bolton and I each have a weekly solo appointment.
Mine is supposed to be in a few days, but I financially motivated her to move it up.
The admin greets me at the door, letting me know she’s ready when I am.
When I reach her office, I take my usual seat in the chair across from her desk.
Patients usually sit on the couch while she sits in a chair next to it, but that seemed weird to me.
My important conversations happen in boardrooms, so she suggested formatting our appointments the same way to make me more comfortable. To my surprise, she was right.
“Thank you for moving my appointment, Dr. Locke.”
She gives me a neutral expression as she flips to a blank page in her notebook. “You made it worth my while. What brings you in today, Mr. Monroe? You seemed concerned during our call.”
I get right to the point. “Bolton is a suspect of interest in a very serious crime he hasn’t committed.
I told him my legal team will handle it and not to worry.
They don’t have any hard evidence against him, despite his lack of a credible alibi.
He’s been researching the victims, their criminal records, and falling down Reddit holes instead of writing his book.
He’s acted withdrawn and unlike himself since the police questioned him.
His anxiety is getting worse, and I’m worried he’s obsessing.
We need to make a plan of action to fix this. ”
She takes a moment to jot down a few notes. Her writing is like chicken scratch, and I can’t read it upside down. I probably couldn’t even read it right-side up. After a deep breath, she puts her pen down. “How do you know he’s doing these things?”
“Because I checked the security app,” I answer honestly.
Aside from being highly recommended in my social circle for her discretion, I picked Dr. Locke because she’s supportive of my unorthodox methods for treating my control issues.
She sighed when I told her about the app a few months ago, then admitted it’s a great way for us to keep a mutual track of each other and improve our communication.
“And he still doesn’t know about the app,” she comments. “If he did, I would have heard about it in our solo therapy sessions by now.”
“What can we do about this?” I press.
“Nothing. Bolton is using a new strategy we’ve been working on, which seems to help him.
Anxiety is often linked to control. In Bolton’s case, it stems from the unknown, which affects the stability he craves in his life.
The best way to treat the unknown is to know.
What you see as obsession is actually Bolton taking action and researching the topic so he feels more in control. ”
I don’t want Bolton to know anything about this. I don’t want him researching anything having to do with these murders or stressing himself out.
“This strategy is negatively affecting him. He should write his book,” I argue.
“That statement is a great example of how you handle your own anxiety,” she says, ignoring what I said.
“You eliminate the unknown through controlling as many aspects of your environment as possible. It’s a solid strategy for Callum Monroe the business mogul, but not so great for Callum Monroe the husband.
If you try to control how Bolton processes his emotions, you’ll cause more harm than good. He needs to work through this himself.”
“You won't help me, will you?” I ask, despite knowing the answer.
“My job isn’t to cater to what you want—it’s helping you and Bolton emotionally heal past trauma and improve your marriage.
You’ve both made so much progress since we started.
Bolton’s anxiety is more manageable. Your communication with him has improved.
You’ve both described your marriage as ‘thriving’.
I recognize your concerns and will update you after our next session if I feel additional action is needed. ”
The last thing I want Bolton to do is go back to the emotional headspace he was in before we started therapy.
He may have given me a second chance after our chase at the cabin, but he kept me when I put in the emotional work, showing up for him in the ways I failed to do beforehand.
As tempting as it is to squash this for my comfort, Dr. Locke is right.
Bolton needs to work through this on his own.
“Okay,” I relent. As long as his condition doesn’t get worse, I can let him go his own way with this.
“Is there anything you’d like to talk about? I know this time of year is difficult for you because of your sis–”
“No,” I cut her off before she could finish her sentence, as if saying the word in its entirety would bring her back. “If you’ll excuse me, I have another meeting.”
I leave the room before she can respond. Sometimes it’s better to leave ghosts in the past, where they can’t harm you.