If he had more money, David would hire a private investigator to find her. And if he could get his father-in-law to answer his fucking phone, he would get into that neighborhood, or at least get answers. But Randall is just another name on a long list of people not taking his calls. David’s life is just one giant shitshow right now, and it’s all her fault.
At least no one is there to give him dirty looks for drinking too much, no one is there to piss him off. Even the crappy little dog is gone. No more shit on the floor, no more piss on the corner of the sofa. No more crayon drawings on the fridge or waxy streaks on the table. Everything at home is finally exactly the way he likes it—quiet and clean.
And yet.
He doesn’t like it.
Everything here reminds him of Chelsea.
And not of the good old days when she was fun, not of the sex.
Every time he passes the bathroom door, he has to see those marks from the baseball bat he dropped while he was being Tased. Every time he sleeps in his bedroom, he remembers that last night, Chelsea curled up in his bed with the girls, smirking before she goaded him into exploding. She did it on purpose; he can see that now. She did everything wrong just to push him over the edge.
She’s smarter than he thought.
He hates that, too.
There’s got to be a way to find them—all his girls.
He knows Ella is on the run, but he doesn’t know if she’s with Chelsea. His daughter has blocked him on her phone, and she’s not in her car. Which one of them has Brooklyn? Or are they all together?
He wants to see their faces, when he finds them.
Wants to see the surprise, guilt, and fear.
Wants them to know what’s coming.
They ran away from him, and they need to know that was a mistake. They belong to him.
His phone rings. It’s Brian.
“Hey, man,” David says. “Any news on the vaccine?”
“Forget the vaccine. You hear about Huntley?”
David puts the beer down. “What about him?”
“He’s dead. I just found out.”
“How?”
Brian sighs. “Looks like the Violence. He must’ve been after a perp, and the perp got him. They found him in some old lady’s house, just beat to hell with a crystal candy dish. His patrol car was parked in the garage. There were prints all over it, but there was no match in the system.”
David goes very still.
“Where? Where’d they find him?”
A pause, the keyboard clicking on the other end of the line.
“Huh. Near you. The neighborhood next to yours.”
“…you mean the neighborhood connected to mine?”
A sad chuckle. “Man, I don’t know. But it’s nearby. What’s in the water over there? His memorial’s next week. They cremated him.”
“Email me the info, will you? And if you’ve got the address where they found him, I’d appreciate it.”
Another pause. “Why?”
Even though they’ve been best friends for decades, Brian doesn’t know David’s dark side like Huntley does, so he needs a decent lie. “If it was in my neighborhood, seems like something I should know about, if we have some sort of psycho around here.”
“Well, the cops would’ve searched the house. Whoever did it is long gone, and unless a match turns up in the system, there’s no telling who did it.”
“Thanks, man,” David says, eager to end the call.
“See you at the memorial, brother.”
As soon as he’s hung up, David’s already googling Huntley’s name for more information. There isn’t any; he’s lucky Brian gets the real news. When the email lands in his inbox, it confirms what he thought: Chad died at the same place where Ella’s car has been, all this time. But did Ella get him, or was it Chelsea? He knows Chelsea has the Violence; shit, everybody in the country knows that now, thanks to that news story. But does Ella have it, too, and are they even together? And if so, where’s Brooklyn?
Everything about this situation is infuriating.
He hates not knowing things.
He hates not being in control.
He hates that some part of him wants to cry over Huntley. He would stomp that part to bits, if he could, grind it into nothing until it was as broken and bloody as the dead guy outside of Big Fred’s Floors.
He doesn’t have time for this shit.
He searches for Chelsea’s name again and reads the main story as if he’s going to find some new bit of information in an article that’s weeks old. He nearly knows it by heart, now, but every time he reads it, it confirms what he’s known all along: His wife is a stone-cold bitch, and somebody needs to find her and put her in her place.
The fact that the news story calls her Florida Woman never fails to amuse him.
His meek, joyless wife does not fit that nickname.
But as he scrolls through the story, one of the clickbait articles at the bottom catches his eye.
FLORIDA WOMAN TO FIGHT THE KILLER CUBAN IN VFR SHOWDOWN, it says. On one side, a man in a luchador mask bares his teeth. On the other, a blonde screams, her lips blood red and her eyes thick with makeup.
David goes to click away, but something calls him back.
He stares at the image.
She’s so familiar.
Florida Woman.
That’s the name in the article, and now it’s the name of some new wrestler, apparently.
Blood rushes out of David’s head like he’s about to get in a fight or fuck.
He knows her. He knows her better than anyone.
He googles “Florida Woman” and “Violence Fighting Ring,” whatever the fuck that is.
He clicks on Florida Woman’s page.
He finally knows how to find his wife.
46.
After Harlan tries to kiss her, the rest of the party doesn’t feel like a party at all. Chelsea keeps waiting for Arlene to sneak up, take her aside, and explain that she’s being let go, that the VFR doesn’t need Florida Woman anymore. Or for Harlan to come back and…she’s not even sure. Some deep, reptile part of her brain can picture him leading her away, shoving her down, forcing her to do things—because David’s apologies were always segues into allowing her to win back his favor through subjugation. Another part of her mind can imagine Harlan trying to reason her doubts away, sweet-talk her into sleeping with him—or gaslight her into believing it never happened.