That Vance Haydn could take everything away at the slightest provocation, and whether she consciously sees it or not, she’s terrified.
There’s a song by Halsey I really love called “Graveyard.” It’s a poignant, emotional song about realizing you’re in an abusive relationship. In one line, she points out that those sweet flutters in your stomach that you get when you’re in love feel so much like fear, like warning signs.
That’s what’s going on with Easterly.
It’s horrible, it’s sick, and I hate that it’s almost impossible for a victim to realize these things until later. After the damage has been done.
But I don’t think she’ll listen if I dish out more brutal honesty when she’s already choking on my questions.
So I just smile again, resting my pencil on the page, ready to scribble.
“Why don’t you tell me more about why music is so important to you?” I ask sweetly.
I only wish I could cough up the other questions I want to ask.
Tell me why you’re so afraid.
Why it scares me to see myself in you.
Feeling like my life is in the hands of one man—and all it takes is his word for me to lose everything I’ve ever fought for.
8
Ain’t Got That Swing (Roland)
I have to hand it to Caroline Landry.
She’s goddamned amazing.
Especially when she’s apparently been digging deeper on her own.
I’d like to know who her secret sources are—and just what she’s learned from them that I could possibly use to detonate Vance Haydn’s life.
I’ve been up all night like the insomniac I am, listening to that recording over and over again.
I linger on every single word like each one could be the key to a spell, to unraveling my mark and burying him alive.
I don’t even feel the lack of sleep.
I’m running on darkness and heady anticipation, like a portent brimming in the air—just waiting for me to dive into the brewing storm.
I’m ready.
Ready for anything that will make Haydn pay for what he’s done.
What I’m not ready for, though, is my alarm chiming, reminding me I should be out the door.
I’ve been so transfixed by that conversation between Callie and Easterly that I almost forgot about my job.
Not just because the conversation confirms what I already suspected about the NDAs and lawsuits. I can’t help a deepening concern for that girl.
Easterly Ribbon is a textbook victim case in a supremely abusive relationship.
It’s not news. I’ve known Vance Haydn was abusing countless girls, using them up and then tossing them aside, but seeing it in detail hurts like a kick to the balls.
Miss Landry brings me up close and personal with the damage.
It’s different with a face and a voice to the pain.
I hear the raw emotion in her words, the tremor of a desperate, naive longing to be loved mixed with a creeping fear that I don’t think the poor girl’s even aware of.
I shouldn’t be worrying about Easterly Ribbon when this has always been a cold, deeply personal pursuit.
She, like Callie, is a means to an end.
If that end helps Easterly escape Vance, then all the better, but saving her in and of itself won’t satisfy my personal bloodlust.
Still, the persistent ache in my chest doesn’t fade as I get dressed, smooth my tie, and head down to meet Dominick and my car.
My thoughts keep sticking.
The way Easterly’s voice cracks as she says, Our relationship is perfect.
A perfect storm of predatory behavior, perhaps.
Nothing else.
I distract myself with my phone on the drive through this city of glittering towers that hide so much filth. I punch in a quick text to Callie.
How did you find out about the NDAs? Can your source act as a legal witness?
Nothing comes back for ten minutes.
I frown.
She should be up by now. She’s started coming in a little earlier every day.
Part of me flatters myself that perhaps she’s picking up my habits, considering I’m the first person in the office each morning. Pure pragmatism tells me it’s more likely that the sooner she finishes her daily tasks at The Tea, the faster she can return to Just Vibing and escape the web of complications I’m weaving around her life.
Fuck.
I shouldn’t feel this guilt pang, either, thinking about the hours she must be putting in to stay on top of her role as Chief Editor, while also working on our special project.
Not everyone is a machine like you, I think glumly. Some people have a personal life. Something to go home to. A reason to smile.
I snort to myself.
I’m being ridiculous.
Such pitiful thoughts don’t suit me.
I rivet myself to my phone again, agitated.
She still hasn’t answered.
Maybe she’s in the shower, cleaning up for the day ahead.
Damn. I can’t let myself linger on those thoughts, either, or I’ll remember things I shouldn’t.
Last night.
Callie perched on the edge of my desk in that insolent way of hers, her pale legs crossed, her skirt sliding dangerously high on her sleek stocking-clad thighs.