Page 41 of Taste of Addiction

The officers at the scene that night just assumed the blood was from me or James. I had the knife in the cupholder. It was a safe assumption. And the beer bottles surrounding the hit-and-run suggested that it was just a drunk teen whose car went across the double yellows.

Those beer bottles had to have been planted at the scene.

I know Nic would have connections with his whole privacy and security background. And maybe he would keep it a secret from Graham so he wouldn’t worry. But either way, I need to find out who killed James. Then maybe I will be able to move forward with my life—even if just a few more steps. At least I would be moving in the right direction and not staying stagnant.

I close the rest of the box and push it to its home in the corner. I pick myself back up off the floor and slide the army knife into my purse for safekeeping. Maybe the more time I spend with it, the better my chances of remembering something of value.

With nothing else to do here other than watch stupid TV and work on my assignment, I decide it is best that I continue to push forward on my article. Classes start back in session tomorrow, and with my work shift at the cafe for the next two days, I will have limited time to contribute toward trying to impress Dr. Williams.

I trot downstairs, grab my laptop, and set up shop on the couch. I put my flash drive inside to pull up my draft. The little circle with the moving dots tells me that the machine is “thinking.” I rest it on the coffee table and move into the kitchen to grab a drink. Water seems like the best choice, only because I have no idea what I am in the mood for. My brain hurts as is.

I lie back on the couch and place my laptop on my lap. I wait for my machine to recognize the new device and am presented with an error message.E:\ is not accessible. The file or directory is corrupted and unreadable. My breathing quickens to the point that I feel like the collar on my hoodie is attacking my throat in a choke hold. I nearly tip the laptop off my thighs as I read the message again. Tears well up in my eyes, as I try to think of what to do. Should I pull the flash drive out and try again? Maybe try a different machine instead? Is the library even open with classes not in session?

I double-click on the search engine and try to look for a message board that might supply me with a solution to the dilemma. My shaking hands have trouble steadying on the mouse keypad to even click on the blue links. When I come up empty-handed, incapable of understanding the tech lingo, I grab my cell and search through my list of contacts.

I find the number I need and click on the call button. I really hope he answers.

* * *

As soon as the doorbell rings, I put my laptop under my arm and rush to the door. I open it and want to launch myself into comforting arms, while sniffling and shamelessly rubbing my face into his shirt. But there are no welcoming arms. There are no words of affirmation to confirm I made the right decision by calling him. Instead I am greeted with indifference.

“Zander, I’m sorry for bothering you,” I say softly, trying to get a better read on his mood. “I didn’t know who else to call.”

His shoulders soften, and the tension that he seems to hold there relaxes. “I wasn’t busy.”

“Thanks for coming. I’m so desperate.”

“Angie, of course. You should have called me an hour ago when this first happened.”

“It’s not like we are talking these days, Z.”

“I know,” he whispers, rubbing his hand over his forehead to swipe some blond locks from his vision. He steps back to look at my face. “Is anything else bothering you?”

Yeah, want a list? “No,” I lie. I really want Graham here. But the world needs to believe we are broken up.

“Let me take a look at your flash drive.”

I hand over my laptop and portable drive, pointing into the living room. “Let’s go set things up in there so you can be more comfortable.” In my anger and pain, I feel like knocking everything on the floor and jumping on the screen. I spent weeks preparing my research—months even. I finally had consolidated my information and started the writing process at the safe house, only to have everything potentially be lost. The thought of it all being gone, just a day before the due date, makes me want to throw up.

Zander plops down onto the sofa and pulls out several items from his messenger bag and then leaves to run out to his car to retrieve more items. I watch him work but know that hovering is not going to help him. I supply him with a soda and crunchy-salty snacks, thanking him over and over again for his assistance. Graham’s men must have proactively stocked my fridge and pantry knowing that I was going to be staying here once again. The food inside is definitely not Claire-approved. Plus, she has probably been here the past few weeks as much as I have been—which is not much at all.

My migraine builds with the fear of losing my work, so I excuse myself to pop some more pills upstairs in the bathroom, deciding that upping the dosage is the only way to manage the pain.

This is just temporary and things will go back to normal, and I won’t have to rely on the pills to help me cope.

I stare at my sunken face in the mirror and know that the stress and the pain are taking a toll on my body. I double over the sink when a particularly painful surge hits my temple region, and I breathe through it, thinking about melted chocolate and pretty seashells to provide a distraction. As I make my way toward the steps, my vision blurs and the stairs appear to move like an escalator. Holy cannoli. They are alive.

“Zander? Zander! Help!”

He jogs up the stairs and helps my swaying body stay steady.

“Angie, you are worrying me. What’s going on?”

“I’ve been getting these migraines. Can you help me down the steps so I don’t fall?” I lean into him but he scoops me up instead. My head bounces as he walks down with me in his arms. He smells like the beach.

“I heard you broke up with Graham,” he says, placing a gentle kiss on my shoulder. He lingers there way longer than a friend would do. But are we even friends anymore? “Does that mean you are back on the free market for dating?”

I cringe over his words. I really do not want to deal with this again. He places me down on the couch beside him. My laptop is open and he has his hooked up beside my device, running what looks like a series of tests.

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