Years of waiting. Of heartbreak. Of wondering where he went. I'd gotten my wish, I never saw him again. Not until now, that is.
The dream isn't what woke me up, however. Sunlight streams through the window, and I glance at the clock. It's six in the morning. Way too early. I know I should go back to sleep, and I try. I curl up in bed and pull the blanket up over my body, turning away from Jack. I close my eyes and a seemingly never-ending torrent of memories come flooding back into my mind. Most of them I want to shut out. To deny. To pretend never happened or think that they're just part of my brain still being scrambled. I'm having trouble separating truth from fiction. At least, that's what I tell myself to make it bearable.
I open eyes again though, my body suddenly tense, my mind alert. A sound downstairs makes me sit up again and I feel the cold waves of fear crashing down over me.
“Gunner?” I call out.
The dog peers up at me from his position beside me on the floor, his tail wagging now that I've said his name. Definitely not the dog.
There’s another sound coming from downstairs and it shoots an electric bolt of fear through me.
I push off the blanket, climb out of bed as quietly as I can, and walk down the hallway, Gunner on my heels. I scratch his head as I stand on the landing, looking at the ground floor down below.
Someone is at the door.
A face that looks strangely familiar peers back at me through the glass, and suddenly, I'm keenly aware that I'm standing there entirely naked. With a small squeak, I hurry back into the bedroom, grabbing the shirt and trying to find a pair of pants. The knocking grows louder – loud enough that I fear he might break the glass on the door.
From his position just inside the bedroom door, Gunner lets out a low growl and a huff under his breath. I can see the hair on his neck and back standing up. He's definitely not happy about something.
“Jack, wake up,” I say.
He doesn't respond, just continues to snore, so I shake him until he opens his eyes, instantly alert.
“What's wrong?”
“Someone's knocking on the front door,” I say. “I think – I think it might be Peter.”
Jack jumps from the bed, throwing on some clothes. He looks at me, his eyes narrowing and his face growing harder.
“Stay put,” he says, his voice commanding. “I'll handle it.”
I'm shaking now as I curl up on the bed, bringing my knees to my chest. Gunner follows Jack out of the room and I hear his nails clicking on the wood as he makes his way downstairs, barking at the door so I can't hear what's going on at first.
Then I hear a shout. It's a voice I recognize. It's Peter's voice.
“Where is she?” he bellows. “I know she's here.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
JACK
Peter pushes his way past me, rushing into my house, and instantly starts walking toward the stairway.
“I saw her in the window,” he growls. “I know she's here.”
“Stop, Peter,” I say. “Just stop right there.”
“Where the hell is she, huh?” he shouts. “You fucking her?”
He tosses something down on the floor. I look down and see that it's my handwriting on the front of the paper. It's Sydney's name. It's the note I gave to Daisy to give to Sydney if she ever came into the restaurant when I wasn't there. A note that was years old. He'd read it, which is how he found out where I lived.
“Where have you been, Peter?” I ask. “The police have some questions for you.”
“I've been looking for my fucking girlfriend, you prick.”
“But you didn't go to the police? That's interesting,” I cross my arms in front of me. “Tell you what, why don't we call them right now?”
I reach for my phone in my back pocket, only to find it's not there. Great. Peter rushes for the staircase, intent on getting upstairs to where Sydney is. I follow quickly behind him, right on his tail.
“Listen, man, she doesn't want to see you,” I say. “She's scared of you, so it's best if you leave.”
I grab his shoulder, and spin him around, forcing him to turn toward me. He lunges and swings his fist at my face, but I duck just in time. If the fucker wants to play this game, he's going to lose in a big way. I have more muscle than him and more training, most likely. As I pull my arm back to take a swing that will take his head clean off, I hear Sydney's voice call out from the loft at the top of the stairs.
“Who's Marianne?” she asks.
“What?”
I look over at her, and that moment of distraction is all Peter needs to drive his fist into my face. I hear the crack of his fist meeting my flesh and feel my head rock to the side. He packs a pretty heavy punch and my vision wavers for a moment as I stumble backward. I manage to keep my feet and get myself into a defensive position, putting my fists up, even though I'm feeling a little uneasy.
“Who's Marianne, Jack?” Sydney asks again. “Do you have a girlfriend?'
“No,” I scoff. “She's a saleslady that helped me get some of those clothes for you.”
Sydney holds out my phone – as if I can see it from where I am when she's up on the second floor. I cut a glance up at her but keep my eyes on Peter. The ringing in my head a reminder that I can't afford to take my eyes off of him completely. Not even for a moment.
“If she's not your girlfriend,” Sydney asks. “Then why is she texting you pictures of her boobs?”
Sydney tosses the phone to me and against my better judgement, I grab it. Keeping a wary eye on the man in front of me, I look down at the phone. The photo is of a very drunk Marianne, clearly, in the bathroom at some club. Her shirt is lifted up and she's not wearing a bra, her boobs in perfect view. A drunken smile is plastered on her face.
The text says, “See what you're missing, Jack? Come out with me next time. Kisses - Marianne.”
Peter uses my distraction to his advantage, throwing another punch. Though half-distracted, I'm still ready for it and catch his hand just before it hits my face. Sydney comes down the stairs, her eyes fixed on me for some reason. I step forward and give Peter a vicious push backward to keep him away from her. He stumbles but manages to keep his feet.
“Stop it,” Sydney snaps. “Stop fighting, goddammit.”
Peter and I both look at her and then at each other, silently agreeing to a temporary truce. Our postures slip into a more relaxed pose, but I'm going to be ready to rock at a moment's notice if he fucks with me.
I tuck the phone into my pocket as Peter focuses his attention on Sydney. His eyes narrow and his jaw clenches as he looks at her. I can see the anger, dark and abiding in his eyes and am pretty sure that if I let Sydney go anywhere with him, she's going to end up hurt. Probably badly, too.
“Sydney, baby,” he coos. “I've been looking for you. I'm sorry about what happened.”
“What happened exactly?” I ask, shoving my way in front of Sydney, arms crossed in front of me.
Peter looks to Sydney, then at me, then back at Sydney again.
“Didn't she tell you?” he says.
Sydney's voice pipes up from behind me. “I don't remember what happened.”
“You what?”
A predatory smile curls on his face. I see the mask changing in front of me, his anger turns to something more sinister looking. A look of someone who thinks they may get away with something they thought they were going to have to do an elaborate song and dance to get out of. The smile of somebody who thinks they're about to get off scot-free.
“She had a head injury,” I spit. “She lost her memory, but is getting it back, piece by piece. We're hoping you might be able to answer a few questions about what happened though. You know, to help jog her memory.”
“Of course,” he says. “I'll tell you everything I know.”
“Bullshit.”