“Now for our special report, The Missing Heiress: The Meredith Thatchwood Story,” the redheaded news anchor smiles onscreen. “With the help of the police department and several sources, here’s the update.”
“As of today,” the anchor says, “Heiress, Meredith Thatchwood, has officially been missing for four weeks. Newly married to what her closest friends say was the love of her life—the wealthy club owner of Fahrenheit 900, Meredith disappeared shortly after returning from her honeymoon.”
My blood begins to boil at the repeat of this blatant lie, and I lean back against the couch.
“The police have had few leads, but they insist that they’re working on the case. Not that this is much relief to Meredith’s friends and family. We sat down with a few of them tonight to get their thoughts.”
All of sudden, a glittering crown appears onscreen, and then a few pictures of my face appear underneath it. Then, as if one mention of the story’s cheesy title wasn’t enough, it rolls onto the screen in a bright and golden cursive.
Seconds later, it cuts to a shot of Gillian sitting in a chair. Although she’s dressed in an immaculate grey pantsuit, her eyes are red and puffy, and she looks as if she hasn’t slept in weeks.
“Meredith,” she says, looking directly at the camera, “If you’re watching this, please know that I love you and I believe you’re still out there. I’ll be waiting until you get home, and I will use every single dime I have to make sure that whoever did this to you is punished for the rest of his or her life. I love you.”
The news anchor nods and places her hand on her chest. “That was so heartfelt, Miss Weston. Speaking of things that are missing, since you’re here, do you think you’ll ever pen a sequel to your bestselling novel, Turbulence? I really enjoyed that book, and I’m sure your legion of fans would really appreciate an update.”
Michael looks up at the TV, holding his next piece in air.
Gillian glares at the reporter and storms off set.
“I thought that was a very good question,” Michael says to himself. “What do you think?”
I look over at him, but I don’t answer. The sound of my father crying makes me focus on the screen again. I’ve never seen him cry in my entire life, and the mere sound of it cuts me deeply. I try to hold back tears as he struggles to speak, but it’s no use.
“She and I were…” He wipes away tears as the reporter hands him a Kleenex. “We were getting on good terms, and…” His voice trails off as he breaks down. “She’s my only daughter. She’s all I have left. The police aren’t working hard enough to find her. I’ve spent millions on putting up billboards all over the goddamn country and what the hell have they done? They’re not fucking—”
The rest of his words are bleeped out, and a crew of producers walk over to console him as he burst into tears all over again.
I’m tempted to lunge across the couch and strangle Michael—to try to physically fight him, but before I can make the attempt, he appears onscreen.
What the fuck…
“I love my wife,” he says, looking tired, yet stunning in his suit—his tattoos all covered up for the cameras.
From here, it looks like he’s actually been crying, too. His eyes are even redder than Gillian’s and there are bags under his eyes.
“She truly is the love of my life,” he says. “I can also promise that whoever did this will pay one hell of a price whenever we find out who you are.”
“Is there anything you’d like to say to your wife is she’s watching this?” The news anchor asks.
“Yes.” He looks directly at me onscreen as a few fake tears roll down his face. “If you’re watching this, please know that I truly do, fucking love you. I think we both knew that the first night we met.”
The camera cuts away to the police chief, and I look over at the real version of Michael, noticing the smirk on his lips.
“I think I gave a great performance for that interview,” he says. “I doubt anyone would suspect anything after watching that. Don’t you agree?”
With what little grip on reality I have left, I lean forward and swipe all his glass chess pieces off the board, shattering them to pieces. “That’s what the fuck I think.”
He clenches his jaw, glares at me as he picks up the undamaged queen piece.
“Is that all it takes for you to let me out of here?” I ask. “Fuck up your precious chess pieces?”
He turns off the television, and then he stands to his feet. I follow suit.
“I think we’ve seen each other enough for today,” he says, his voice terse. “I’ll leave you here and come back in a few days. Hopefully, you’ll behave better and be more fucking grateful.”