I turn back to him. “Well, yeah. Obviously.”
“Obviously?” He jabs a finger toward Damien. “He’s doing the same thing to you.”
I grab Damien’s hand, as much because I want his touch as to keep him right here beside me. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“He keeps you around, but it’s not real.” He holds up his hands and flexes his wrists. “It’s just kink and fun and when he’s tired he’ll toss you aside.”
“You little shit,” Damien says.
“I’m wrong? Really? You know damn well it’s just a game to you. That’s why you never tell her shit. That’s why you haven’t even told her that you’ve been indicted in Germany for murder.”
23
Murder!
I look from Ollie to Damien. Ollie looks smug. Damien looks confused.
“There’s no indictment,” Damien says.
For a moment, Ollie appears scared, then he rallies. “No, apparently they were just stalling. The indictment came in just a few minutes ago. You didn’t know?”
“Wait,” I say. My head is spinning and I’m having a hard time figuring out exactly what I’m feeling. Anger? Hurt? Fear? Confusion? They are all jostling for position inside me, and at that moment, it feels a bit as though my head is going to explode.
I think about those ceramic shards, and I wish to hell I’d pocketed one.
No. Just breathe. You can do this.
I take a deep breath and turn to Damien. “All this time I’ve been assuming that the German indictment is some business violation, and it was actually a murder investigation?”
His hesitation seems to last a lifetime, and throughout his silence, his eyes look only at me, as if he’s trying to find the answer to the question hidden deep inside me somewhere.
“Yes,” he says.
And there it is. The biggest secret of all, and one I gave him about nine billion opportunities to reveal. I think about the times I mentioned German regulations. About the times he let me go on believing that it was just a business thing. Just Stark International dealing with the kind of problem huge corporations deal with.
“I thought your company had broken some regulation about zoning codes or paid too little in taxes or something. This is—”
“Worse,” Damien says. “Much worse.”
I wait for him to say more. To explain. To lie. Something. Anything.
He stays silent.
I suck in air through my teeth, then press my fingers to my temples. I need to think. Mostly, I just need to be alone. “I’m going,” I say. “I need to check on Jamie.”
“All right,” Damien says, his voice a little too calm. “Edward and I will drop you at home.”
“I’ll get home on my own. Thanks.”
“I’ll drive you,” Ollie says.
“The hell you will,” I snap. With Damien, I’m lost in a maelstrom of anger and sadness and confusion and God knows what else. With Ollie, I’m just plain old pissed. “I’ll take a taxi.”
I turn once as I walk away, and my eyes find Damien’s. I hesitate, expecting him to call after me, but he doesn’t, and I fight the urge to hug myself to ward off a coming chill. Slowly, I turn my back to Damien and I continue toward the street. I’m hurt and I’m confused, but right now I just need to focus on one thing. I just need to get home.
It’s an easy shot over the hill from Beverly Hills to Studio City, and I’m home in no time. I hurry inside, expecting to find Jamie in tears on her bed.
She’s not home.
Okay, okay. I just have to think. Where could she be?
I know Jamie well enough to know that she may try to soothe a bruised ego by banging some other guy, and I mentally start running through the single men in our complex that she hasn’t already gotten horizontal with. That’s one thing about Jamie—she rarely goes in for repeat performances.
As if to underscore the brilliance of my thinking, a series of moans and groans floats in from next door. Douglas, once again getting lucky.
At least I can cross him off my list. Although Douglas has made it clear he’d be up for round two, Jamie has repeatedly said no.
I pace the apartment, wondering where she could be. I call the divey bar on the corner near our condo, but she hasn’t been there in days. I call Steve and Anderson, but they haven’t talked to her. They give me the names of a few other mutual friends. I call them, but nobody’s heard from her tonight.
Shit, shit, shit.
Even though I know it will do no good whatsoever, I call the police. I’m coherent enough to forgo 911 and call the station directly. I speak to the officer in charge, explaining that my roommate came home plastered, but she’s not here now and I’m worried that she’s dead in a ditch somewhere.
He’s nice enough—but he’s also not sending anyone to help. Not until she’s been gone for a hell of a lot longer than a few hours.