Of course, that last part was a lie. Justin wasn’t good about checking in with me.
But I couldn’t tell them that. I’d have to make it out like this was rare behavior for him, otherwise they’d think he was out gallivanting around the city.
I pulled the blanket closer around me.
Of course I wasn’t going to call the police. And of course Justin was out gallivanting around the city.
I squeezed my eyes shut tight in an effort to keep from crying and hopefully maybe fall asleep. Why did things have to be like this? There were hundreds of boys at my school, hundreds of nice boys from good families who were studying interesting things – philosophy, accounting, psychology, marketing, computer science. Why wasn’t I interested in any of them? Forget having a relationship, I’d settle for an unrequited crush.
But none of those boys interested me. All I could think about was Justin. His lips, his touch, the way his eyes burned so bright whenever he thought another guy was touching me. How could he be so fiercely protective like that, and then leave me here like this, alone, not knowing where he was or what he was doing?
Thoughts started to enter my mind, the same thoughts that had plagued me on the subway the other day. That maybe we were just too different. That maybe our lifestyles just weren’t compatible. And if it was this way now, how would it be when I was in med school? Or when I was an intern or a resident? I’d be working insane hours, spending lots of time with the people in my program. There was a reason doctors tended to date other doctors. It wasn’t because they all had their love of medicine in common. It was because they hardly saw anyone else.
I used to think that when you were in love with someone, nothing else really mattered. But now I was starting to feel like maybe that wasn’t true. The thought was horrible and depressing, and so I turned off the TV and closed my eyes again, telling myself I couldn’t open them until I fell asleep or my alarm went off.
A few moments later, I fell into a restless sleep.
JUSTIN
The pitcher was gone.
I’d started on another beer, but my mood was going south. The numbness had been replaced by a dark, gloominess—tinged with bitter resentment.
Should’ve knocked that Carter dude out fucking cold when I had the chance, I thought, staring down at my beer as I sat on the stool.
The bar had gotten more crowded and the crazy chicks had left after trying and failing to engage me in conversation.
I wanted to turn on my phone but I also knew it was a bad idea. Nothing good could possibly come from checking my phone. There would either be a message from Brooklyn explaining how she was telling the world about our baby, or something nasty from Quarry demanding I come back to the gym right away. Maybe there would be something from my friends from the government, threatening to put me in jail if I didn’t cooperate immediately.
But I also wanted to know if Lindsay had tried to contact me. In my drunken state, I’d lost my willpower to resist her. As I watched the other people around me drinking, laughing, talking, I couldn’t help but feel that there was nothing there for me.
The nights of being happy to spend my hours alone in a bar, looking for the next easy girl to take home, were over. Lindsay had ruined all of that for me, and I had to admit it.
I turned on my cell phone, determined to call her no matter what. Even if she hadn’t texted or called me first—I had to tell her how stupid I’d been.
I’d let my pride get in the way once again. It was as though I was determined to sabotage every good thing in my life.
When I turned the phone on, the first thing I saw was voicemail from an unknown number.
Maybe she called and left a message from the hotel room, I thought, knowing full well she hadn’t.
I clicked on the voicemail and listened to it, pressing the phone against my left ear and holding my free hand tightly over my right ear to block out all of the bar noise.
“Justin, this is Agent Driscoll. Please contact me as soon as possible. If you’ve been watching the news, then you’re aware of what’s happened to James Ashbrook. We need to discuss this with you immediately, Justin. Immediately.” Agent Driscoll left his cell phone number and then the message ended.
I sat there, my already slowing brain working as fast as it could under the circumstances. For a few seconds, I scrambled to remember who James Ashbrook was, and then I suddenly recalled. Jimbo. James Ashbrook was Jimbo’s real name.
I pulled up my internet browser and went to Boston.com to see if there was anything about him. My stomach was sick, and I sensed that whatever it was—the news had to be very bad for the FBI to contact me the way they had.
And right on the first screen of the website, my eyes were greeted by a headline that made my stomach drop as if I’d fallen off a cliff.
LOCAL MAN’S BODY FOUND IN WALDEN WOODS: FOUL
PLAY SUSPECTED