Chapter 32
Harry
“Where the fuck,” I spit, “is my wife?”
There’s a pause on the other end of the phone, the kind of pause that means something is clearly wrong. “I… I assumed she told you,” Matthew says carefully.
I pace the back porch of the east wing in nothing but a t-shirt and fleece pajama bottoms, my bare feet stomping on the freezing wooden deck.
I’ve already exhausted all of my options — the house, the cottage, all devoid of her presence.
I only thought to call Matthew once I realized some of her clothes and a suitcase were missing.
“You assumed? You didn’t check? Where the hell has she gone? ”
“Philadelphia,” he says. “Shit. I’m sorry. She called me around seven this morning, asked me to get her on a jet. She flew out a few hours later. I didn’t realize—”
I choke. “You’re telling me she’s been gone all fucking day?” I snap. “You can hunt down my son across the entire globe, but can’t inform me that my wife got on a plane? A plane?”
“She seemed calm! I just assumed she had an event to handle,” he explains.
I resist the temptation to crush my phone. “Did she tell you,” I say through gritted teeth, “where she was staying?”
“No.”
“Did she tell you what she was doing?”
“No.”
“Do you have tracking on her phone?”
“No.”
“Fuck!”
“Harry, calm down.”
“My goddamn wife is missing an entire state over and you’re telling me to calm down?”
“I’m telling you to take a breath,” he insists.
I hang up before he can say anything else that makes me lose my mind any further. I scroll through my recent calls, find her name, and call her.
It rings.
And rings.
And rings.
Voicemail.
I end the call so I don’t inevitably leave something angry on the other end, my breathing heavy, panic lacing through my system.
Philly. It’s three and a half hours away.
I can drive down there, I can try to find her — but I have no idea where she is.
No tracking, no leads. I shoot Matthew a text to tell him to check any transactions on the card I’d given her, but I know damn well that she has her own money.
She doesn’t need to use that one. She’s smart, too. Smarter than George, at least.
I’m an idiot.
I thought waiting until evening, giving her the space she’d asked for after what I’d said, what I’d asked, was the right call.
I’d spent all day thinking through what I’d tell her, how I’d apologize, how I’d try to explain the impossible tangle of an emotion I haven’t felt in decades — jealousy — had crashed into the fear and the lingering guilt of last night. And now I can’t.
The glass door behind me slides open, and I jump so badly I nearly trip down the stairs onto the flagstones.
Grace stands there in her robe, her brows knit, her auburn hair a mess. “What on earth are you shouting about?” she hisses. “I’m trying to watch Grey’s Anatomy and you’re out here screaming like a psychopath.”
I exhale roughly, the anger in me morphing at lightning speed.
It’s all adrenaline now, coursing through my veins so fast I’m actually worried I’ll trigger a goddamn heart attack.
It’s anxiety, it’s panic, it’s an all-consuming worry.
“She’s gone,” I choke. “She’s gone, I don’t know where she is.
I mean, I do, she’s in Philly, but I don’t know where—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, calm down,” Grace says, stepping out the door in her slippers before pulling it closed behind her. “What do you mean?”
“We had an argument this morning and she called Matthew to put her on a jet to Philadelphia,” I explain, checking my lockscreen just in case she’d called back and I’d somehow missed the incessant vibrations. Nothing.
“What?” Grace’s eyes go wide, her brows reaching halfway up her forehead. “What’s in Philadelphia?”
“I don’t know,” I rasp. “I don’t know, Grace. She didn’t mention to him where she was staying, and Matthew thought I knew.”
She blinks rapidly, her gaze going off into the middle distance, thinking. “I mean, I think I saw a car this morning—”
“Yeah, there was a car at the gate,” I confirm. “Around seven thirty. I opened the gates, assuming it was for George.”
“Shit.” She pushes her hair back from her face, her gaze finding mine again. “What did you do?”
My jaw tightens as I fight back the urge to say it wasn’t my fault.
It absolutely was, and I know damn well that it was, but I hate that she’s assumed that anyway.
“I was an asshole,” I admit. “Her phone was going off at ten to six, and I woke up, checked it for her in case it was her sister. It was just a reminder for her to take her prenatal vitamins, but then I got curious—”
“Oh, god,” she recoils. “You went through her phone?”
I purse my lips. “Yeah,” I sigh. “She walked in on me looking through her texts. George put this shit in my head about some guy called Ross, and then I found texts from the same name in her phone, and they looked — god, they looked suspicious, and I freaked out.”
“You didn’t. Harry, you idiot.”
“I fucked up,” I breathe. “I… ugh, I asked if our daughter was mine. I fucked up.”
She stares at me in shock, her mouth parted, blinking as if she’s so appalled she can’t even speak.
“I know. I don’t need a lecture,” I add.
She nods, half to herself, I imagine. “Wow.”
“I didn’t mean it the way it sounded,” I say, shoving my phone in my pocket and scrubbing my face with my hands. “Or maybe I did. No, I definitely did. I was angry, and she was being evasive, and I… I don’t know, it came out before I could stop it.”
She crosses her arms. “I’m not surprised she ran off.”
I level a glare at her. “She asked for space, not for a goddamn adventure. I thought she’d cool off, thought I could talk to her about it tonight, apologize, but clearly, no.”
I huff something that sounds like a laugh, but far more broken.
“She won’t come back. Christ, she won’t come back, not after this,” I mutter, leaning back on the deck’s railing.
“Why on earth did you react like that?” she asks. Her hand comes up, hitting me square in the chest like we’re ten years old and she’s bullying me again. “What was so bad that it prompted that?”
“She’d texted him that she wished things had turned out differently.”
She blinks at me. “Weren’t you two just arguing a few days ago? It was probably about that,” she says.
I nod. “That’s what she told me.”
“That doesn’t mean she wants him, Harry. People say that kind of thing all the time when they’re overwhelmed with life. And Elena’s been understandably really overwhelmed lately.”
“I know.” I slip my phone out of my pocket, checking again. Still nothing. “I need to drive down there.”
“No.”
I glare at her. “Grace. She’s my wife. I’m not just going to sit here when I have no idea if she’s okay.”
“She’s thirty and she’s pregnant and she’s got a stable head on her shoulders,” she says. “She wouldn’t do something that would put her in danger. You know that. I know that. You’re not going to chase her down when she’s clearly needing a fuck ton more space than you thought.”
I swallow. “I’m not okay with that. I’m not okay with not knowing where she is.”
“Yeah, I know, because you love her,” she says, her voice deadpan as she drops a bomb on me.
Is it that obvious? “You pushed her, but she’ll come back.
You have to give her space, let her be angry, let her figure this out for herself.
I’ll text her, see if I can get some information or try to make sure she’s safe, but in the meantime, you need to stay here. ”
My jaw physically aches from how hard I’m clenching it. “I can’t.”
“You can.”
“What if she’s—” I cut myself off, taking a ragged breath. The wound is still fresh from reliving it last night. I can’t go through that again.
“She’s not.” Grace reaches out, gripping my shoulders. She looks me in the eye, seeing what I can’t say written on my face. “She’s not. She’s fine, I promise you. Just give her time.”
I swallow, forcing myself to hear the words, forcing myself to believe them. She has to be fine. She is fine. She goes to Manhattan all the time — she knows what she’s doing. “Okay,” I rasp. “Okay. A few days. That’s all I can do.”
She nods. “That’s fine. That’s plenty.” Her hands squeeze tight on my shoulders before she drops them. “I’ll send her a text and I’ll call her in the morning. It’ll be okay, Harry. She’ll come back.”
“Yeah,” I say, but I’m not entirely sure if I believe it. “Yeah, okay.”
She pats my cheek before taking a step back toward the door and pulling it open. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything,” she adds.
I nod, already slipping my phone out as she shuts the glass behind her. I shoot another text to Matthew, forcing myself to breathe through it all.
Me:
Look into anyone named Ross that might be connected to her while you’re at it. Quietly.
I hit send and turn my volume on before locking my phone and shoving it into my pocket. The house is warm as I force myself back inside, casting a final glance at the dark cottage, trying not to wonder what she’s doing or who she’s with or whether she’s thinking of me at all.