Page 162 of Captive Audience
I thought about going to Ireland. The map made it look deceptively small. Little more than a green stone dropped in the Atlantic. But up close, it was a labyrinth of towns, villages, and countryside. Five million people. Countless places to hide. Where the hell was I supposed to start?
And then there was my new neighbor, Rita. She’d moved into the apartment across the hall on D-Day.
That was what I was calling it.
It stood for Dumping Day.
Departure Day.
DoubleGo fuck yourself, gangsterDay.
Rita looked like she’d been plucked straight from the Marine Corps. She almost always had a toothpick hanging from her lips and glared at me like I was perpetually failing a fitness test. She answered any questions with vague, one-word responses.
I’d bet my life Rook had planted her there as an undercover babysitter.
She had nothing on Finn.
Once, out of sheer spite, I’d considered inviting a man back to my apartment just to see what would happen. Would Rita storm in and throw him from the roof of the building? Would Rook crawl out of the shadows, wild-eyed and jealous? The thought of some poor guy catching the brunt of any repercussions stopped me cold. I couldn’t do it.
So I didn’t do anything.
I didn’t touch my podcast. Couldn’t bring myself to sit in front of the mic and talk about other people’s tragedies when mine was eating me alive.
I didn’t go out. I didn’t exercise. I drank too much.
My apartment looked like the aftermath of a frat party.
Washing my hair felt like hard work. I’d run out of clean clothes last week and hadn’t done anything about it.
I hardly ate.
I looked like shit and felt even worse.
I almost didn’t pick up the phone when Daisy called. I only answered because I’d had three glasses of wine and when I’d tried to hit the Decline button, I’d accidentally accepted.
“Hey.” I plastered on a cheerful voice that sounded as convincing as Oscar the Grouch at a baby shower.
“What are you doing?” Daisy asked. There were people and music in the background. It sounded like she was at a bar.
“Eating dinner.”
Daisy sighed. “Please tell me it’s not ramen again.”
“Way classier than that. Boxed wine and grated cheese.” I shoved my hand into the bag and tossed a fistful into my mouth.
“I thought you said the runaway asshole left twenty mil in your bank account?”
Daisy and Beth knew everything.
They knew about Rook’s stalking, how he’d forced me to marry him and manipulated me into hunting his brother’s murderer. I’d told them about the recording studio, the gifts, and the thoughtful things he’d done to make me happy.
They’d put two and two together and guessed who was responsible for Greg Holbrook’s disappearance.
They knew that Rook had been in love with me and how I’d fallen for him.
I’d cried my eyes out for a whole afternoon when I’d told them he’d broken my fucking heart.
“It’s fifty million,” I corrected her. “And I haven’t touched it, because if I do, it makes it real. It means I’ve accepted that he’s not coming back, and I’m not ready to do that.”
