Dearest Clementine (33 page)

“Besides,” he says, “you’d do the same for me, right?”

If I were a millionaire like you? Sure. But since my bank account is nonexistent at the moment, you shouldn’t look to me for this kind of help any time soon.
And I know of at least one person who definitely will not be cool with this arrangement. “Yes, but I wouldn’t want this to come back and bite you in the ass with Veronica.”

He’s quiet, but then he sighs. “Let me worry about her.”

I’ve spent three years trying to block out how Veronica is a c-word, so now, I merely have a general distaste for her, the way I dislike food poisoning or yeast infections.

“I’m not trying to get back at her. I mean, I don’t think I’ll have her over for lunch anytime this millennium, but I’m not looking to hurt her.”

“That’s big of you. Now stop wasting my time. I’m a busy man.”

I snort. “In your dreams, beefcake.” He laughs at me. This is easy, like it used to be for us growing up. “Daren, I
really
appreciate this, everything, but we’re even now, okay? This is it. You can’t just ride in on a white horse for me again or I’ll get pissed.”

“I thought most girls lived for that shit.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not most girls.”

“Emmie, I think we all know that.” He chuckles again and tells me to take advantage of the masseuse and day spa downstairs. Good lord, he’s infuriating.

* * *

As heavenly as this bed is, I can’t sleep. I keep thinking back to how I left things with Gavin earlier today. It’s obvious we’re growing apart, but I don’t know what to do. I would kill to have him here with me in this bed, despite everything we haven’t talked about, to have him wrap his arms around me. I feel safe with him, like we can figure things out better together than I can alone.

I want to call Harper or Jenna, but neither one seems to understand why I needed to take a step back from the relationship. Fuck,
I
don’t understand it right now.

Maybe I should call him. But it’s after midnight, and I don’t want to wake him, so I resolve to do it in the morning. Simply making that decision puts me more at ease, enough to finally fall asleep.

I’m up early on Thursday morning and go for a run at the gym, and as my feet pound on the conveyer belt, I try to plan my day. My empty schedule is uncomfortable, like an itchy sweater that doesn’t fit. After learning about the camera crews who stalked me at my brownstone, the dean’s office advised me to call my professors to get my assignments and take a brief leave of absence until our meeting on Monday. I’m in no mood for classes or for dealing with any press that might be lurking, so I complied. Plus, at least this way I know I won’t run into Wheeler. But I have too much time on my hands, and that makes me nervous.

Around ten, I finally get the nerve to dial Gavin, but the second the phone starts ringing, my stomach twists into a tight knot. He doesn’t answer, so I leave a message.

“Gavin, hey, I’m sorry about how we left things yesterday. I… I miss you. Call me when you get a chance.”

When I hang up, I realize he doesn’t know I’m staying at a hotel or that Wheeler threatened me.
At least you’ll have something to talk about when he calls.
The thought almost cheers me. Except he never calls. I write three thousand words on my story, people-watch out my window for an hour, and veg out to two reruns of
CSI
, and my phone never rings.

Curiosity gets the best of me, and like any modern woman with half a brain, I cyber-stalk him on Google. He’s been busy. Gavin’s had several articles in the BU newspaper in the last two weeks and a front-page article about sexual predators on college campuses in the
Globe
that ran yesterday. That piques my interest.

Apparently, a girl at a nearby college recently got attacked by her ex-boyfriend, but the school didn’t believe her because it was a he-said/she-said situation, which Gavin uses to explore how much evidence a woman needs to prove her claims in a situation like this. That hits close to home. I wonder how much inspiration he got from what happened with my professor, but he never asked me for an interview.
He must have thought I’d turn him down.

Eventually, early Saturday afternoon, my phone rings.

It’s Jenna. Damn.

She asks about the restraining order, which the police won’t reissue because they say there isn’t enough evidence to consider Wheeler a threat. The fact that Wheeler sounds like he wants to eat my insides Hannibal Lecter-style doesn’t seem to bother them at all, so I call Jax and tell him I might crash with him next week if I can’t figure out what to do. And I
really
don’t want to stay with my brother. The last time I did, his late-night hookup came waltzing out of his bedroom buck naked and asked if I had seen her thong.

“Are you coming to the show tonight?” Jenna asks, interrupting that unpleasant memory.

I sigh. “Shit. With everything going on this week, I forgot about it.”

“You really should come. Remember, stake your territory, mark your man, maybe show him your goodies.”

“Jenna, I am not showing him my goodies.” I don’t know why I say that. Out of principle, I suppose. After all, he’s already seen my goodies, but he and I aren’t like that anyway. That’s not what our relationship is about.

The club is one train ride away, and the B-line will drop me off in front of the venue. Unless Wheeler is lurking in the bushes right outside of my hotel, which is unlikely since no one knows I’m here, I’m probably okay for a quick trip. I have to go because the writing is on the wall: Gavin must think we’re over. If he doesn’t, that’s where this is headed if things don’t turn around ASAP.

“Yeah, I’ll try to make it.” The thought of seeing him makes my insides squirm with excitement and fear, but I need to be a big girl and deal with this.

“Great. I’ll make sure your name is on the VIP list.”

I wish I had realized the band was playing this weekend. Maybe I would have packed more than jeans and t-shirts. But the idea of gorgeous girls in barely-there fabric draping themselves all over him is enough to motivate me. I can see Angry Red now, shaking her big tits in the front row, and my blood boils.

A quick trip to the mall across the street suddenly seems like a brilliant idea. I need something for the interview my publicist set up for tomorrow morning anyway, so maybe I can kill two birds with my MasterCard.

About two dozen outfit changes later, I drag myself back into my room, toss my packages on the bed and bury myself in the blankets for a nap. Jenna can shop endlessly for days, and I can barely manage a few hours.

Truth be told, I can’t wait to see Gavin. I’ve never seen him perform with Ryan’s band, but the impromptu open mic with his students a few weeks ago has me wanting more. He’s so damn sexy when he plays the guitar.

With thoughts of that hot man tumbling around in my head, I put my whole heart into getting ready. I straighten my hair, do my makeup, making sure to play up my eyes, and then wiggle into my dress, which I think hugs in all the right places. He liked the outfit I wore on my birthday, and this one is similar, but it’s fire-engine red—a bit of a departure for me, but I know I need to pull out all the stops if I want to stave off the hungry droves of women who might be pining for him.

And suddenly, nothing could be clearer. I don’t want to lose him. If he says he hasn’t been cheating on me, I believe him. That’s probably stupid and naive, and I’m setting myself up for heartbreak, but I’m tired of living life on the sidelines, and if I don’t take a chance with Gavin Murphy, I think I’ll always regret it.

I know my problem. After years of consuming a steady diet of romantic comedies with Jenna and Harper, I think I’ve been waiting for the big gesture, the one where the guy stands in the rain and declares his love or makes some scene at a football game that ends with the crowd doing the slow clap. It’s official. Romantic comedies have ruined my life.

Maybe tonight I just need to tell him how I’m feeling, that I want to work this out. Maybe that will be enough, and he’ll tell me what happened with Angelique last weekend. Of course, there’s a chance I might vomit before I get the opportunity because I don’t do well with these kinds of declarations.

On the bright side, there’s never any puking in romantic comedies.

I check myself in the mirror one last time before I reach for the door, but I flinch when a loud knock startles me. Through the peephole, I see two men in black suits. I put the chain on the door before I open it slowly.

One waves a badge.

“Ms. Avery? We’re with the FBI. We’d like to ask you a few questions about Jason Wheeler.”

Holy crap on toast.

* * *

The two men are probably in their early thirties. I wonder if the FBI deliberately recruits people who have mastered the blank stare because these guys have it down pat.

“I know you,” I say to the one with brown hair, Agent Robertson. “I tripped on you in my writing class.”

He nods almost imperceptibly and points to the love seat, motioning for me to sit down.

“This might take a while,” he says as he glances around my room. He pulls up two chairs, one for him and one for his partner. “We understand you had a run-in with Wheeler your freshman year, and we’d like to understand the details of what happened.”

“Sure, but I filed a police report that should contain all the information you need.”

Robertson looks briefly at his partner and back to me. “We would, except there’s no record of it.”

“But… I just spoke to a detective.”
Who told you there were some anomalies with this situation but refused to elaborate. Then he stonewalled by saying there wasn’t enough evidence.
Shit.

He tilts his head forward. “The department is digitizing its files. It’s possible the file was misplaced. It happens.”

I swallow, trying to gather my bearings. “Okay, but this can’t be about a three-year-old restraining order or the argument Wheeler and I had in class the other day.”

Robertson nods again as he whips out a pen and notepad. “We’re investigating Olivia Lawrence’s disappearance.”

I’m glad I’m sitting or I’d have fallen on my ass.

My stomach lurches at the question banging around in my head. It comes out a whisper. “Do you think he’s killed Olivia? Like the character in his book?”

Robertson’s lips tighten, and his silence weighs heavily in the air.

And all this time I thought Wheeler was threatening me.
Maybe he was. Maybe I was next.
I get chills thinking about all the time we spent alone, working on my book. He could have killed me.

I think back to the conversation I had with Kade.
“You know that Olivia’s sister thought she was talking to a new guy, right?”

“Her phone records do not indicate any anomalies.”

“But what if they were using burners or prepaid phones? People use those all the time when they go abroad.”

Robertson doesn’t respond, but he jots a few notes in the file that sits in his lap. He asks me about my relationship with Wheeler, how we grew close, when things started to get weird, and when I noticed him stalking me. The hardest part is answering questions about the attack. I must be visibly shaken when I’m done because I almost sense sympathy in their eyes.  

The agents appear to be wrapping up the interview when it hits me.

“Oh my God. Brigit.” I’ve been so wrapped up in my stupid book and Wheeler’s creepy phone call, I forgot about meeting up with her this week. “You need to make sure she’s okay. You have to go now!”

The agents look at each other and one gets up and grabs me a glass of water.

“Slow down,” Robertson says, handing me the drink.

“Brigit is the freshman Wheeler has taken under his wing this year. He’s editing her book, and she told me he’s been acting really moody lately. I wanted to warn her about him, but I didn’t get the chance.”

I try to take a sip of water, but my hand is shaking so badly, I can barely bring it to my mouth. I set it down instead and take a deep breath.

“He taught abroad in London,” I say to myself. I look up at Robertson. “Is that how he knows Olivia?”

“We’re not at liberty to say, but if you can give us Brigit’s contact information, that would be helpful.”

By the time the agents get ready to leave, it’s midnight. I can’t believe we’ve been talking for almost four hours. I’m exhausted, stunned and more than a little overwhelmed.

As they reach the door, Robertson turns back to me. “I would keep our conversation confidential, and it’s a good idea to stay here for a few more days. Until we can take further action.” He reaches into his pocket. “Ms. Avery, here’s my card. Call me if you think of anything else that might help our investigation.” Although he never outright says I’m in danger, there’s a warning in his eyes.

When the door closes, when the reality of the situation really starts to sink in, I’m afraid. With shaky hands, I gulp down some water and sit on the couch trying to understand what just happened.