Page 54 of Escape Girl

I felt like I was going insane.

I didn’t know what was happening to me.

But I knew one thing. The anger, the fatigue, the immobilizing guilt, the tears, the anxiety and paranoia—all of the noxiousness—it stemmed from marrying Bobby.

So even now, as he stared at me with his heart in his eyes and everything between us on the line, I fell silent.

I hadn’t stopped loving him for a millisecond. He hadn’t done anything wrong—notanything.

But those two truths didn’t change the fact that being with him had snapped something in me. How the hell could something like that be explained?

When it became clear that I was going to say nothing, Bobby staggered out of the dining room and returned a moment later with a pen in his hand. He lowered himself slowly into one of the chairs and methodically signed his name at every point in the paperwork where one of Cal’s team had placed helpful stickers.

Then he shoved them all back into the discreet manila envelope and handed it to me without meeting my eyes. “I’ll get you an Uber.” He spoke mechanically, as if a robot was talking in Bobby’s voice. “Goodbye, Emily.”

Chapter Seventeen

“Idon’t havea key to my hotel room. Room 680,” I told the Langham front desk clerk. My voice sounded completely normal. Anyone watching me would think that the morning’s drama hadn’t affected me at all. With my neatly blown-out hair and suit in place, I looked ready to take on the world.

It’s a disorienting way to exist. To walk through life with my outside not matching my inside. Was I good at it? Or did no one ever look at me closely enough to tell?

The front desk clerk took my name and began to punch at her keyboard. “Of course, ma’am. I’ll just need a photo ID to print a new key for you.”

I wanted to put my head on the desk and weep. Or scream. I suddenly wished I was crazy-eyed and disheveled. Then she would see how close to losing it I was. “I don’t have my ID. I left my purse somewhere—”

“Emily?”

I whirled at the sound of my name. Jo stood in the lobby a few feet away holding my purse. “We grabbed it off the table for you last night. I came by to leave it for you.”

“Oh. Thanks.” I grabbed it from her outstretched hands.

“Your feet are bleeding,” she said softly.

I looked down in surprise. Oh no. In my pumps, blood was actually pooling between my toes, and maroon crusts had formed on my heels.

“You walked here from Bobby’s place? In those shoes?” she guessed. “That’s almost two miles.”

Well, yeah. I supposed so. The minute Bobby said goodbye to me, I’d fled out his front door. I couldn’t be in the same air with him and wait for an Uber. Not after what I’d done to him. I’d run down his street, turned left, and found the nearest mailbox. I’d scribbled my name next to his signature on all of Cal’s paperwork and stuffed it into the blue USPS receptacle. After that…huh. I barely remembered the walk. I’d gotten lost several times, that I knew. It was cold and windy, but also sunny.

That was maybe the one clear thought I’d had while walking: How could a day this awful be sunny?

My room key was right where I’d left it, in the outside pocket of my purse. I pulled it out and marched to the elevator, ignoring whatever Jo was saying now. From her tone, I was guessing it was some sort of apology or invitation to talk, but I didn’t give a shit. The world was closing in around me now, breaking through whatever tunnel of numbness had surrounded me through most of the walk back here.

All I wanted was bed.

*

I slept mostof the day. Every time I surfaced the tiniest bit, I’d see Bobby’s face and pull the covers over my head again. Sleep claimed me, but it wasn’t an escape from the sadness. It followed me right into unconsciousness, swamped my dreams. When I finally woke, late in the afternoon, I didn’t feel refreshed in the slightest.

Reluctantly, I checked my phone. As expected, I had a slew of missed calls. I took my phone straight under the covers with me and listened to my various messages: Cal Bergman informing me that the papers had been served; several calls from my assistant, Rosie, the last one warning me that the partnershad asked her about my schedule for the next week; Bella just checking in on the case; one from Jo: “Please call me.”

The last voice mail was from Max. “Hey, Emily. Um, sorry we didn’t get to connect last night. I did the research you requested and emailed you about my findings. Would love to talk it through with you. Give me a call.” He rattled off a phone number with a 773 area code.

At last, a real reason to get out of bed. After splashing some water on my face, I grabbed my laptop and settled myself at the desk. There were forty-three emails from work. From the subject lines on the first dozen, it appeared that the partners at my firm had assigned me to help out on Gabe’s current case. I didn’t even open the emails.

I opened Max’s.

Emily,

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