Page 52 of Weather the Storm

My phone vibrates again, and I lower my binoculars to glance at the screen, sighing irritably at the sight of Mary Katherine’s name. Jabbing the green answer button, I bring the phone to my ear.

“What?”

“Hi, Eddie,” she practically coos into the phone. Like I said,pathetic.

Not in the mood for her bullshit, I reiterate my single-word greeting. “What?”

“I wanted to let you know I missed you.”

I drag a hand over my face and sigh. “Good for you.”

“Oh, Eddie, don’t be like that.” Her voice is tinged with hurt, and it makes my heart race. The need to crush her sends an illicit thrill through my veins.

“You sound desperate.”

She sniffles, and my smile ratchets up another notch, almost taking my mind off the whore who shares my last name. “Eddie…”

“Mary Katherine,” I mock back before softening my tone. The trick is knowing when to pull back. “Sweetheart, don’t cry. I’ll tell you what, when my business trip wraps up, I’ll come straight to you.”

“Really?”

I roll my eyes at how needy she sounds. I mean,my God. I let her come down and visit barely a month ago. “Really. Now, you’d better go on to sleep. You know how much you need your beauty sleep.”

“Right…of course. I love you, Eddie.”

“I’m sure you do,” I murmur, ending the call.

I return to my post, binoculars pressed to the bridge of my nose just in time to see my wife and her friends leave the building.

Stupid woman.

She thought a piece of paper would keep her safe from me? I’ll say it again, slowly this time:pa-the-tic.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

MAGNOLIA

It’s been a week since Grant busted out the salon window, and it’s also been a week since texts from the number with the 617 area code we initially believed to be a mistake have started coming in daily.

Each message only ever contains one word—a different word each time, but just one, nevertheless.

The first one came the night of the window:Mine.

The subsequent messages have been along the same vein, things likeidiot,whore,cunt,and so on. I told Simon the first time it happened, and I thought he was going to go postal. He was crazed and manic, pacing and roaring like a caged animal, but the minute he saw how badly he was scaring me, he reined it in and held me in his big, strong arms.

I wanted to block the number, but Simon made the point that if we leave it and ignore him, maybe it will draw him out or cause him to send something self-incriminating, something that proves it’s him. I was on the fence about that plan, but my appointed victim advocate agreed with Simon. Just to be safe, we made sure the police were aware of the situation.

We even tried Googling the number, but all we found out was that it was a cell phone—duh—and a prepaid one, no less, which explains the Boston area code.

That brings us to today. Simon and I are on our way to get a prepaid phone for me so I have a way to communicate without having to look at the messages from Grant.

Simon cruises through the Target parking lot until he finds a nice, shady spot to park in. “C’mon, pretty girl, let’s get you a phone.” He hops down from the truck and races around to my side to help me down.

I don’t care what anyone says, chivalry will always be sexy.

“You wanna stop and get a pretzel to share?” he asks, like he read my mind.

I tilt my head up to him and bat my lashes. “Yes, p-please. Cinnamon sugar?”

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