Chapter 2. Alex #2
“And?” I say, waiting for the inspirational speech. The it’ll get easier, or the she’ll always be in your heart.
He shakes his head, tossing the remainder of his cigar in the tray. “That’s it. It’s bullshit, it’s terrifying, and it’ll hurt like hell. Nothing anyone tells you, no shitty quote regurgitated from a sign on a bathroom wall is gonna fix it. Your mom will be gone, and that’s shit.”
“A cheerful conversation for my Tuesday morning,” I chime, but really, I do appreciate his honesty. Everyone is obsessed with telling me that everything will get easier.
I can’t imagine that ever being the case.
IT’S INCREDIBLE HOW fast things decay. My relationship with my father, whatever it was I had with Ophelia, my mother’s health. My mood today is no exception.
As I saw Rocco into the elevator just before lunch, I felt buoyant, another job off my list, another weight off my shoulders. And here I am at quarter to three, struggling to imagine how I’ll make it to five.
I can’t identify a trigger. No disastrous event occurred between Rocco’s polished oxfords shuffling out of my office and now. But there’s a gray cloud looming over my head again, casting all my thoughts in shadow.
Fat droplets of rain slide down the glass windows behind me, staining the sidewalks an inky charcoal.
On cue, my phone buzzes where it sits on my laptop keyboard. Robert Harwood. I pick it up on the first ring.
“Robert.”
“Alex. How are you?”
I don’t even bother answering that. He knows the answer. “You’re not very good at being on vacation.”
I hear his smile. “I can find time to check in on my favorite clients.”
Yeah, right. He just wants to make sure his paycheck is still breathing. “Your most unstable clients.”
He laughs. “I think you take both crowns.”
“How is Lagos?”
“Busy. Humid. How is New York?”
I drum my pen on my thigh. Suffocating. Depressing. Freezing. Gray. So fucking lonely. “It’s fine.”
“Tell me more.”
“Enjoy your vacation, Robert.”
“I have time. It’s this or drinks with my great aunt, so if you could keep talking, that’d be fantastic.”
I shrug, even though he can’t see me. I stare down at the traffic on the street far below. It’s all so pointless. “I’m just tired.”
“Bad day?”
A headache thuds at the base of my skull.
The number of unread emails on my screen ticks up.
A taxi rear-ends a bus at the intersection.
The pedestrian light turns green. A crowd of people burst into action, and I find myself skimming each one for my father’s graying blond hair.
I wonder for the millionth time where he is. “Just tired.”
“Let’s break it down, then. Are you stressed at work?”
“Not really.” I don’t care about Green that much. “I met with Rocco Morello this morning.”
“And your head is still on your shoulders. A miracle.”
That drags a small smile out of me. “Yeah. I’m just …
” I’m lonely. It feels so ridiculous to say out loud.
I’m an adult man, with a big family at home.
Vincenzo is just a text away. I have friends in the city.
But I am. Loneliness gnaws at my bones the second I swing my eyes open in the morning.
It sits on my shoulder while I’m at my desk, fills the car when I drive home.
And when I get into bed at night, it’s so heavy on my chest that I can’t take a full breath in.
“I miss her.” I miss Vincenzo. I miss my free time. I miss my mom, I miss my hopes and dreams. The words are out without my permission, but they aren’t news to Harwood. “And I feel trapped by my sisters.”
“Trapped into staying alive?”
“Yeah,” I whisper, even though I know how awful it sounds. But Harwood doesn’t scold me. Doesn’t tell me how grateful some people would be to have a family. Doesn’t tell me how lucky I am to have reasons to stay alive.
An accepting sort of silence unravels between us for a moment. “I think that’s a very valid way to feel, Alex. It’s not ungrateful, if that’s what you’re telling yourself. Let’s talk about it when I’m in your office next week. I was mostly calling to see if there was any news on your father.”
The gray cloud clogs my throat. Forcing the words out feels like wading through syrup. “No news. He’s vanished.”
“Could he be dead?”
“Unlikely.” He’s not one to go down quietly, nor one not to be ruthlessly efficient. I doubt he’d shoot himself unless he knew the shot would pass through someone else on the way. Double the return on investment. “I worry about him getting to my sisters and me being too far away to help.”
“You’ve hired very capable security for them, and should he surface for air, he’ll be caught. You’ve done all you can. You’ve done enough.”
Maybe. Maybe not. Even with his credit card blocked, my father is rich enough to slip through the nets of the law. Rich enough to silence people, rich enough to buy his freedom. He has blackmail on police departments, hospitals, insurance firms, airlines, billionaires, crime gangs, everyone.
His absence looms over me, unsettling and threatening. A knife above my head tied to a fraying string. I get the sensation we’re all just treading water, and somewhere beneath us, my father is a shark just waiting to bite.
I wrap up my call with Robert and text Mack, my private investigator, and Jordan, my contact at the FBI, asking if either of them has any updates.
Mack replies immediately. Nothing. On the app on my phone, I check the security feeds at home.
The lounge is empty, the basement, the hallway, the foyer, the games room, all unoccupied.
In the kitchen, my mother is sitting at the island having coffee with the housekeeper.
All is well. I close the security app and get back to work.
A twisted part of me wishes I had a camera on Ophelia. Day and night. Every room. I’d watch it like it was my favorite TV show, watch it when I couldn’t sleep.
But she isn’t mine anymore. She hid the truth from me, and I left her. I lost all right to watch her, and she lost my trust.
I have a feeling I’ll be watching her for the rest of my life, though.
I slap a hand onto my keyboard just to get rid of the reflection of my face in my laptop and try to focus on something, anything, that isn’t her.