Page 32 of His Gift
Maybe it didn't. Where the fuck can she be? She didn't take anything with her. She was clearly going to work. She was not running from me. Maybe with the added information of the car accident, I'll be able to findout if she's been taken to a hospital. And maybe she'll come home. Maybe she took a day off to clear her mind. Yes. I'll make the calls, but I must go back to her apartment. Maybe she's home already.
"Thank you. That'll be all. I forgot to take water with me and I have a long trip ahead. Hey, I saw the tape. What happened? It looks like a nasty accident." It's harder than I thought, making small talk and acting normal. I haven't slept all night, and even if I did my best to look like a businessman stopping by, the bags under my eyes and the undertone of desperation must be glaringly obvious.
"Oh, yes. Poor girl. A car went straight for her. I was working, but I heard the crash and the commotion and got the whole story from a customer. This guy ran her over, then tried to reverse and couldn't, so he took off. And he had a ski mask. The cops were all over the place, asking questions. Even an FBI agent. Must have been something big."
I grab the counter to keep myself up, my head swimming, my heart feeling like a lead weight in my chest.
"Did… she survive?"I don't want to know. I must know!
"She was alive when the ambulance took her away, but I don't know. She was pretty banged up. I checked online because I'm a curious man, but there are no articles to be found. Maybe something will come out today. Anyway, sorry for keeping you. When I start talking, I keep going. Have a good day and drive safely."
I grab the water bottle and leave on legs that don't feel like mine anymore. It's a miracle I don't collapse on the pavement.
She was pretty banged up.They must have taken her to a Level I trauma hospital. That will narrow the search. I will find her. I have to. And she's alive. She is. She is.
She's nowhere to be found. No trace of her in any hospital's record I was able to access. No article on the accident. She just fell off the face of the earth.
I grab my laptop, ready to throw it against the wall, and stop. I can still check the ambulance. If it was Harper, there must be at least that: the EMS's report. And that will lead me to more time lost. To more questions. How did she disappear? Why? Why the FBI?
Fuck! Will they find out I'm digging? I don't care. At this point, I'd accept going to prison if they told me where Harper is. How she is.
A few more hours. Then I'll… What? What am I even going to say to her colleague? How can I justify not knowing where Harper is? Showing up at her company, cornering Paula and asking about Harper when I'm supposed to be her boyfriend, can only set the cops on my trail. I shouldn't have let her know we were together. Marking my territory has come back to bite me in the ass. If Paula thought we were just friends, it would be more believable we had an appointment, and I didn't know that Harper was missing.
I relished feeling all those things my gift made me feel, but now I just want to stop. I don't know what to make of this mess boiling inside me, driving me crazy, clouding my judgment, making me into an irrational being I've never been before. If I never find her, if in the end she's… dead… will I ever be the same again? Does it matter?
I told her I didn't see the difference between an adoptive family and foster homes. And it was true. But being with her made the difference. Where she was, it was home, no matter if it was my home, her apartment, the backseat of my car. She was home. A home I never had. A home I never even thought I'd want.
What if she chose to disappear? If she's doing this to me on purpose? What then? Will she still be home even if I find her? Not judging by what I'm feeling at the moment. Not judging by how difficult it is to release my clenched fists.
Maybe I should just give up. Safer for her. Safer for me.
I wish I could do it.
twenty-five
Conrad
Iwatch Harper sleep, standing over her bed.
It took seven months to find her. Seven months.
From going back to her apartment only to find it completely empty, to the realization that they never found out about my cameras. From the initial leaking of an investigation into her company, to the news that an employee set the investigation in motion after being attacked. From Paula being arrested as an accessory to attempted murder, to meselling all my shares in my company and devoting every minute of every day to find out what exactly happened and where the Feds had stashed Harper.
And I've been coming here at night for two months now. Watching her while she sleeps. Watching her until she's about to wake up. And then watching her while she goes to rehab. Watching her struggle. Watching her cry when she thinks no one's looking. Watching her study her phone as if it holds some life-changing answer. Watching her take the pain meds out and then stash them back in her purse. Watching, always watching from the shadows that fit me so well now.
Watching her build a new life where I'm not welcome, into which I was never invited.
She works at a small firm. Ithaca doesn't seem far enough away from New York after what happened, but the investigation is still ongoing and the Feds still need Harper. For sure, there's an agent showing up once a week. She acts like she cares about Harper. I bet she's put in place enough security measures to keep her safe. And yet, here I am. Harper's shadow. And no one has noticed.
Harper's company is not the first one caught laundering money for the mob. Newspapers keep talking about it because of the mystery, the unknown employee who was attacked, and the betrayal of her colleague. It makes for a compelling story. And the mob will take the loss, minimize it as much as they can, tossing a few low-level grunts under the bus to give the Feds the impression they got a win. But they'll still get their revenge if theycan. It's how life works. If only Harper had told me about it, she wouldn't still be using a cane to walk. She'd be on a beach sipping a cocktail. With me.
And I wouldn't go around like the shadow of myself, nursing my resentment like a mother nurses a newborn. Wanting to ask for an explanation and at the same time incapable of approaching her. I'm not sure what I'd do. I'm not sure I want to know the answers. And she doesn't want me here, does she? She didn't want me beside her during her long recovery, her time in the hospital, all the hours she must have spent talking to the Feds. Why does she cry? Is it the pain? Is it that she feels lonely? Does she regret her choices?
I don't know.
But I watch.
And a storm of emotions rages within me, threatening to boil over. I still don't have a name for them. Or I don't want to.
