Page 29 of Rush of Jealousy

Between the three vodka shots and whatever else he had been drinking prior, Paul is definitely feeling the effects and convinces me to rest on a free sofa with him and watch the next fight.

I wait until his snores are steady and then dart back upstairs. I find the room where I first located him on the phone, but it is locked. I carefully remove the bobby pin from my hair, bend it, and jam it into the lock. I bite my bottom lip as I move it around. When I hear the click, I sigh with relief.

I sneak inside and lock it behind me. I look in drawers first, not seeing anything worth noting or photographing. Next, I check under the bed and find the skeleton costume rolled up and thrown into a mesh laundry bag. I take a picture of the size label and designer. I never know what details are necessary or not. But being thorough during data collection is way better than having regrets later on.

In Paul's closet, I find a bin that has Rosetta Stone foreign language books and translation guides. One for Spanish and one for Russian. These are the two languages I heard Mark and his business associates speaking in. I snap a few pictures and then organize everything back into the order in which I found it.

In the very back on the floor, I find a lock box that requires a key. I kick myself for not bringing my pick kit. This lock is way more sophisticated than what my bobby pin and my skill set can tackle. Beside the box, there is a paper bag, and inside I find five nameless prescription bottles. The only identifying descriptors are little numbers written with black marker onto the sides. One through five. Five bottles, all containing some type of pill. I reach into my luggage and pull out some collection zippered baggies. I take two pills from each bottle and place them into their own separate bags. Each set of pills look similar to each other—only with very minor differences. One set is more oval than round. Another is a fraction less white. Some have slightly different print style lettering—despite all being pressed with a P23. I take more pictures and then am jolted from my snooping by a loud scream from what seems like a few doors down, followed by the sound of more commotion.

I jump to my feet and gather my accessory luggage. I make my way to the hall and see a group of people surrounding a pale female who appears to be having a seizure. Holy crap.

I stare at her powerless body as it convulses and thrashes on the floor. “Someone call 9-1-1?” I ask suddenly. My voice is shaky, and I feel my own blood rushing from my face. I feel sick. I burst into the neighboring bathroom and get to the toilet just in time to expel all of the snacks and drinks I just ingested. I lean over the bowl while I finish with my dry heaving spell that usually follows the first wave.

I rinse my mouth to remove the bitter aftertaste. I undo the scarf around my neck and remove my recording device, shoving both into my luggage bag. I make it back to the girl who I now recognize as Tracy. From the agency. Gossip Girl Tracy.

Why is this happening? Was she drugged? Is she hurt? How did this happen? What is wrong with her?

I hear the sound of the sirens outside the house, and I know the paramedics are here. My shoulders slump with relief. Help is on the way.

Arms hug around my back, and I turn to see Claire behind me. She looks like she has been crying. Her nose is red and she keeps sniffling.

“Why is this happening?” I whisper to her.

“I have no freaking clue. But whoever is doing it has some balls.”

We both stare in shock. This could be either one of us. We could be next. Seeing it all play out in front of us has us both shaken to the core.

Ethan pulls Claire back into his body and cradles her head to his chest to keep her from watching the scene. She is always so strong that it destroys me to see her this visibly upset.

My phone buzzes in my bag, and I see that it is Graham. I am glad I changed the ringtone back to normal, because the last thing I need right now is to take attention from Tracy who is trembling on the floor. Some guests have her turn to her side and are keeping a safe distance from her so as to not get hurt or hurt her.

Tracy is dressed like a daisy flower and looks so pitiful lying helpless. First responders and paramedics infiltrate the small narrow space, pushing us back toward the great room. I stay close to Claire and just cannot stop staring back at the scene unfolding in front of me.

The ringing stops for a few seconds and then picks back up again. I decide to answer it.

“Angie?”

“Yeah, hey, umm,” I stutter.

“What’s wrong? Why do I hear sirens in the background? Are you hurt? Where are you? I can come get you.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are not fucking fine. What is going on?”

I start to cry. I cannot keep holding it in. My mouth is dry and I feel faint.

“Angela! What is going on?” His voice is panicked and he sounds out of breath.

“I’m at,” I say absently, looking back to the scene. I watch the paramedics turn Tracy on her side. “Halloween party and—”

“And what, dammit? Are you hurt?”

I pull myself together. I take a deep breath and close my eyes to block out what is happening around me. “I think a girl got drugged and is now having a seizure.”

“Fuck. I’m coming to get you.”

“I don’t even know what the address is here. I have Claire and Ethan with me. I’ll be fine.”

---