“You’re plotting to get away again?”
“If at first you don’t succeed—”
“You’ll fail and fail again,” he says, walking toward the eight-car garage. He looks over his shoulder. “If it’s any consolation for your wasted time, I’ll always find you, Meredith. Always.”
Michael
Now
One day later
This woman is out of her goddamn mind…
I stare at the live security camera footage of the living room, watching as Meredith attacks the floor to ceiling windows with a fire poker. She runs back several feet, takes a few deep breaths, and then charges forward with the poker aimed at the perfect angle for damage.
Sweating and screaming in utter frustration, she falls backward onto the rug once the poker fails to pierce the glass, but she doesn’t stay down for long. She charges at it again and again, repeating the exact same thing she’s tried with the crowbar, the metal base of a lamp, and a wooden table leg.
Today’s escape attempt is by far the most entertaining—especially since I’ve had every window reinforced with steel. Last week, she attempted to get away by starting a fire in the indoor pool area. (It took her five hours to realize that the room—just like every other room in the house, is practically fire-proof. The sprinkler system is wired to turn on if it senses the slightest temperature change.) And yesterday, she attempted to rile up a group of readers on Goodreads.com for escape. The thread so far has over two thousand comments and not a single person believes her. (They’ve turned her plea for help into a controversy with its own dedicated hashtag: #FakeAuthorGate)
She’s a fucking fighter. I have to give her that, and a part of me wishes that we had met under different circumstances.
Then again, I would’ve never reached out to her again, if she’d been a mere one-night stand. She would’ve been a distant memory the moment we reached our climaxes and said our goodbyes.
“Mr. Anderson?” A female voice interrupts my thoughts. “Mr. Anderson?”
I turn off my cell phone and roll down my car’s window. “Yes?”
“Um, are you planning on coming inside the station to talk with the sergeant, or do you want him to bring everyone out here?”
“I’ll be in a few minutes.” I roll up the window, expecting the young redheaded officer to walk away, but she simply stands there. Blushing and staring at me like a high school crush.
Sighing, I lean over and lock my phone in the glove compartment. I pull down the visor and take a quick glance at my reflection. The red eye drops are definitely in effect, and I look like I’ve been crying all night.
Stepping out of the car, I follow the redhead’s lead into the station. I expect her to lead me to the interrogation room, but she shows me over to a desk.
“I know that since your wife is gone, that you probably haven’t had any real intimacy in weeks…” She picks up a foil covered pan and holds it out to me. “So, I took it upon myself to make you the most intimate treat of all: a cherry chocolate pie. I’m also including my phone number, just in case you need someone to cry to late at night. I’m also willing to come over, if a phone call won’t do.”
I blinked. “Is the sergeant coming now or later?”
“A man who looks like you should never sleep alone.”
“I’m insanely devoted to my wife.” I actually mean those words. “I would never cheat on her.”
“If she’s dead, it’s not cheating.” She lowers her voice, and slowly bites her lip. “You can’t make love to a cold corpse.”
“No, but I’m tempted to turn you into one, if you don’t stop flirting with me…”
“Huh?” Her eyes widened. “What did you just say?”
“Over here, Mr. Anderson.” Sergeant Ware finally shows up and saves me from saying something much worse, and the redheaded officer storms away with her unwanted pie.
“Officer Sheffield takes it upon herself to bake pies for most of the men who are in your unfortunate position,” he says, sighing. “She thinks a home-cooked treat will somehow make you forget about things for a few minutes. Don’t take it personally. Between you and me, you’re not missing much of anything.”
“I already assumed that.”
“Right. Well, I’ll take you to the room for now, and leave you there for a bit before presenting a few things to you.”
He leads me down a long hallway and into a small grey room, where Meredith’s father and aunt are sitting at a square metal table.
I stop at the sight of her aunt pressing a handkerchief against his eyes.
“It’s okay, Leo,” she says, her voice cracking. “She’ll turn up soon. I’m sure of it. Don’t cry.”
I clench my jaw and resist the urge to strangle him on the spot.
“Good to know I won’t be alone to hear whatever news they have,” I say, forcing them both to look up at me.