Page 98 of Damaged

Three hours later, I still haven’t heard from James. The NYPD detectives video conferenced me for forty-five minutes. Ithought there was hardly anything I could tell them, but boy that didn’t stop them from having questions.

I’m worn out and isolated by the time it’s dusk. Hailee loves the idea of living isolated in the woods. I’m too busy picturing what’s in the dark forest and what all these thousands of square feet will feel like when it’s nighttime. I shake the thoughts and pull my phone out to call her and Alana.

Contact between the three of us has been sporadic lately and, dare I say, dying ever since Hailee moved out west for a new job. Alana has to rain check the call because of a concert, and when I call Hailee, the call ends up dropping.

She’s working in the mountains, and I don’t fault her. She manages to text me, asking if she flew back tomorrow whether she’d be able to see me.

I figure James wouldn’t mind if Hailee came out to visit here. He’s close enough friends with her boyfriend, Alex, to trust her.

I tell her yes. Whether that means I’ll be back in New York City, or she’ll visit me here, I’m not sure yet. But I’d rather have her close by than all the way on the other side of the country.

Of all things, it’s this new fame that I find unsettling. It’s not the messages from old friends and strangers. I spent too much reading about it on the internet, where people are digging into what digital past I have. It feels wrong.

A thief kicking me in the stomach is at least socially recognized as being messed up. Everyone agrees—I’m a victim. He’s a scumbag.

But when a hundred internet sleuths gossip about my past and call me a boss-banging whore, it’s fine. There’s an entire conspiracy that I was in on the heist. That I’m being paid off. Based on…absolutely nothing. As far as I can find. Just good old keyboard speculation.

Okay, I really need to get off my phone. They’re just jealous James Callaway isn’t carrying them in his perfect, tailored-suited arms.

It’s hard to stay away from my phone, because while I didn’t ask him to, I’m expecting James to text me an update. Eight hours after he left, there’s still nothing.

I have a feeling I’m not going to hear from him until at least tomorrow. It’s not a good sign. If he cared about me the way I think he does, why can’t he take the time to send me a sentence or two?

It gets dark a little after 5:30. I watch the snow-filled woods glow blue and fade to black. The music does little to make me feel less lonely and afraid. I turn it off for a moment, but the silence is thick and complete enough that I can hear my ears ring a little. I switch it back on right away.

I guess James has probably gotten updates through his security team. He knows I’m alright. He doesn’t need to text me to find that out.

I message him under the pretense of wondering if Hailee and Alex can come at some point for a visit. An hour later, there’s still no response.

I wish I could pretend that I’m afraid he was in danger. But I doubt it. This is something else.

Cold feet.

How naïve could I have been to think it was something else when a few minutes after sex, James couldn’t get his pants back on fast enough?

I open a second bottle of wine. I’ve got a strong buzz, but I’ve been drinking for so long throughout the day that I’m not drunk. I’ve only gotten drunk alone like this once or twice. It can be fun. Sort of like you’re hanging out with yourself.

But that’s only fun if you like yourself.

Now there’s an element of self-loathing to this second bottle of wine. The bubbly girl, twelve years James’s junior, really thought he was more than just a smooth talker.

But suddenly, I’m taken from my thoughts. My heart jumps as I hear the front door open. My wine-thick blood starts to course faster through my veins, giving me something like a headrush without even standing.

“Hello?” I shout and stand up. “Brock?” I’m backing up towards the kitchen as my forehead begins to sweat in fear.

I swear I locked it. And wouldn’t the security be monitoring it? Unless something happened to the security.

I start towards the knife block, but pause and whip my head over my shoulder as I hear a voice.

“Did I scare you?”

James is standing near where I got up off the couch. He’s in a deep-navy overcoat. His hair is set in a perfect wave. His stubble has been trimmed.

He looks back to his normal self, like he stepped out of a magazine.

“You scared the shit out of me,” I say, wilting over the knife holder.

“Are you alright?” he asks with genuine concern, and I realize he’s afraid this is a trauma episode induced from the robbery.

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