Chapter Twelve Townsend
Chapter Twelve
Townsend
Outside the window, Townsend can see it again: that dirty white Honda Accord with the cheap-looking Gemini-symbol decal, parked on the street across from his building.
It’s the third time he’s seen it in as many weeks, and he feels certain now: Either he is losing his mind or Amanda is back in town. If she ever even left, that is.
Back when he was a portfolio manager at Bonnell Trust alongside his dad, Townsend could always manage to focus (though the steady stream of Adderall provided by his deskmate, Imran Patel, helped).
But since leaving to dedicate himself to AutoInTune full time, his concentration has turned to shit.
The silence in his home office is too loud.
The walls? Too close. And the internet: too full of pornographic content he can’t help but peruse during work hours.
That’s why Townsend tends to work on the sixth floor of his building, either in the library or in one of the executive meeting rooms. At least in these shared spaces he’s forced to keep his hand off his dick and his eyes on his laptop screen.
Except for those moments when they drift out the window and notice his ex-girlfriend’s car parked outside, once again. Just sitting. Watching.
Work can’t happen right now—at least not while Townsend feels like he’s under surveillance—so instead, he types “Amanda Reade” into his search engine, curious what, if anything, he’ll find.
Along with her Instagram (still untouched since March) and a press release about her disappearance from the Travis County Sheriff’s Office website (brief and uninformative), Townsend notices a Reddit thread among the top results.
He follows the link and is startled to find his own name on the screen in front of him.
There’s a screenshot of an Instagram Story, seemingly written by Amanda’s sister and posted from Amanda’s account. He scans quickly through the message: . . . filed a police report . . . Amanda’s most recent boyfriend, Townsend Fuller . . . involved in Amanda’s disappearance . . . I have proof.
This is bad, he thinks numbly, his brain unable to compute much else. Very, very, bad. But what’s worse is the parade of comments that follows.
The attacks on his appearance don’t bother him much—though it creeps him out to see that someone has pulled an old photo of him from Google (was that taken at the St. Augustine holiday party, like, four years ago?) and cropped out the people on either side of him so it’s just him, standing alone, grinning like an armless idiot.
That’s a punchable face if I’ve ever seen one, writes one commenter.
Wouldn’t leave my drink unattended around him, says another.
And one person simply wrote, This guy 100% lies about his height on dating apps, which is almost funny to Townsend, because his above-average height has never been a source of insecurity, and it’s sad that this internet troll can’t even come up with a decent insult.
Honestly, the many commenters weighing in on his possible involvement in Amanda’s disappearance don’t irk him either.
These people don’t know him. They don’t know anything about his relationship with Amanda.
And they can write I bet he killed her as many times as they want, but that won’t change the fact that Amanda is not dead or missing but is instead sitting outside his home—stalking him, threatening him—at this very moment.
Accusations mean nothing when your innocence is indisputable and easily proven.
No, what really makes him sick to his stomach are the comments about AutoInTune—and though there are far fewer of them, these mentions seem far more pointed.
One of the top comments, written by a user named LivingstonTheDream, even feels personal.
I work in VC and he pitched his healthcare startup, AutoInTune, to us last week.
It was kind of a shitshow TBH. Did Brett Livingston’s brother Orson write that, that motherfucker?
Are these comments questioning the legitimacy of his business just bullshit—the result of an indignant, indulgent internet pile on—or is someone actually out to get him?
It’s still in its early stages, sure. But what these people don’t realize is that Townsend has put more work into this company than anything he’s ever done—and that includes his undergrad degree from Penn and the decade he spent toiling away at Bonnell Trust. Since launching to consumers earlier this year, AutoInTune has earned nothing but positive attention, including a spot on Austin Incubator’s “Top 25 HealthTech Start-ups to Watch.” He has a staff of nine.
He has an interdisciplinary team able to help patients with over forty different autoimmune diseases.
He has a meeting tomorrow with telehealth giant Sage Clinic for an employer partnership.
But he also has a problem: Fewer people are signing up than he’d anticipated. Like, far fewer people.
Is the $225-per-month membership fee too steep?
It seems reasonable to him, considering everything AutoInTune has to offer.
(Nutritional assessments! Curated content!
Twenty-four seven access to a dedicated care team!) But he knows not everyone can afford it; he’s aware of his financial privilege, despite what people may think.
His hope is that he can secure the partnerships (and the funds) needed to lower out-of-pocket costs.
And if he has to inflate his membership numbers a bit to achieve those goals, then so be it.
Scrolling back to the top of the page, Townsend sees that the thread has generated nearly a hundred responses.
His head pounds with red-hot fury tinged with a drop of anxiety.
He hates to even entertain this possibility, but he wonders if this goddamn Reddit thread could be the reason why two separate venture capital firms canceled meetings with him.
No one wants to deal with bad press. And speaking of bad press .
. . Townsend puts his fingertips to his temples and stifles a groan.
Mother will absolutely shit if she gets word of any of this.
The last thing he needs right now is to be accused of tarnishing the family name, especially if he wants access to his trust anytime soon.
Townsend’s phone buzzes on the table next to him, and he jumps. But it’s just the front desk calling.
“Ms. Danvers is here to see you,” reports the doorman. Townsend recognizes the warbly, watery voice—it’s the older dude with the limp whose time at the Austinite predates Townsend’s but whose name he can never remember, if he ever learned it in the first place.
“Send her up,” he says. It’s growing dark, and there’s no chance of him getting any more work done today, so he might as well meet Talia at his place.
Gathering up his laptop, he takes one more glance outside.
There it is, sitting just outside the yellowish orb cast by a nearby streetlight: that same fucking car.
He flips the bird to the window (though who knows if she can see him; he certainly can’t see her from here) and then heads to the elevator.
Talia is already outside his door, chewing on a thumbnail, when he arrives on the forty-eighth floor. The nail biting is strange, Townsend thinks. Talia isn’t someone who’s easily flustered.
“Hi there.” He offers her a kiss on the cheek, which she accepts but doesn’t quite acknowledge. “You okay? You seem upset.”
As though remembering herself, Talia pulls her hand away from her mouth and uses it to tuck her hair behind her ear. Another nervous tic of hers. “I’m okay. But can we go inside? I need to talk to you about something.”
Fuck. What now? Townsend wants to ask, but instead he says, “Of course.”
He lets Talia ahead of him into his condo, where she kicks off her shoes and settles on the couch, her bare feet folded in her lap.
He loves how comfortable she feels here, how well she complements his space.
It reminds him that—no matter how shitty everything seems right now—he has at least one thing that’s going right.
He takes a seat next to her, and she hands him her phone.
“What am I looking at?”
“Just read it.”
Townsend reads aloud the message that fills up her screen. “‘I know you’re with Townsend now, and I know it’s not going to last.’ Who sent you this?” He checks the sender before Talia can respond. “Who is Amy Stake?”
“A mistake,” Talia corrects. “I think it’s a pun.” After a pause, she adds, “I think it’s Amanda.”
This he doesn’t expect. “Amanda Reade? My Amanda?”
She flinches at these words—my Amanda—and he immediately wishes he could take them back. Instead, he presses on.
“Why would she know you? How would she know how to contact you?”
Avoiding Townsend’s eyes, Talia slides her phone from his hands and places it on her lap. “I know she’s been harassing you. And I think she’s starting to come after me too.”
“How—?”
Before he can form his question, Talia speaks in a rush. “It was stupid, and I told her not to do it, but Meera hacked into your Cuff messages. She found all these nasty threats from Amanda, going all the way back to when you first broke up.”
Warmth floods his face and armpits. “Did you read everything?” he asks carefully. He thinks of the last message he sent her, the photo of the paintball gun on the dashboard. He knows just how bad it looks.
Talia nods. “But I don’t judge you for anything you said,” she adds. “It’s obvious that she’s obsessed with you. You said what you needed to say to get her to leave you alone.”
Townsend’s relief is so immense he’s tempted to kiss Talia, right then and there. But then her phone vibrates on her lap, stealing her attention.
“Oh, my God.”
“What?”
Once again, Talia hands him her phone. Another email from Amy Stake has appeared on her screen: Don’t let your guard down. Remember I’m watching.
“Jesus Christ.” Townsend thinks of that familiar Honda Accord, just idling on the curb across the street. Had she seen Talia enter his building? He’s about to tell her to watch out for that car when Talia stands.
“We need to call the police, Townsend. This is serious.”
“The police?” Townsend stands, too, his panic returning. “I don’t think we should get them involved, Tal.”
“Why not? They’re already involved.”
“And they’re already suspicious of me. No, I don’t think it’s a good idea.” He shakes his head. “I think you should just block her email. She’ll get bored eventually and leave you alone. I know her.”
Again, Talia blanches at this familiarity: I know her. He really needs to choose his words more carefully. “But what if she doesn’t?”
“Please. Just give me a chance to handle it myself.”
She studies him, and for a moment, he fears she can read his mind. He definitely can’t tell her about Amanda’s car now. “Okay,” she says finally. “I trust you.”
Townsend hugs her and buries his face in her dark hair. The familiar scent of her jasmine shampoo soothes him, and he tries to keep that feeling of calm with him, even after Talia goes to bed. Even after he closes himself in his office and returns to that Reddit thread.
Talia doesn’t know the real reason why Townsend won’t call the police; of this he feels pretty certain. But if these random trolls on the internet know what he’s up to, then it’s only a matter of time before Talia and the police do too.
Closing his eyes, Townsend repeats the mantra he’s been saying to himself for weeks, the flimsy lie that’s keeping him sane: You didn’t do anything wrong.
Founders inflate their numbers all the time.
All you need to do is find an enterprise partner—or get access to your trust—and everything will be okay.
He hopes that if he repeats these words often enough, they’ll finally start to feel true.