But right now he’s nothing but alone and scared. Scared that he’s ripped apart a piece of Deanna’s life. A piece that code and firewalls won’t put back together. Scared that she, after this act of destruction, won’t talk to him anymore. Won’t answer his calls or IMs, won’t accept his chats when he invites her to private. Scared that he’s ripped off a piece of his own life that the false walls of cyberspace won’t put back together.
Jeremy is dead. Has to be. No calls or text, no Internet activity? Drove his truck home yesterday afternoon, parked it out front and did NOTHING that evening? Nothing that night? Unlikely. Mike checked his cell phone records for the past three years. Never silent for this long. And he’s been power calling him. Routing the calls so they look like they’re coming from her. No response, and now his battery is probably dead, ’cause it’s going straight to voice mail. So he’s dead, or maybe tied up, like Mike was. A gag or tape over his mouth, handcuffs around his wrists. That’s the hopeful side of him talking. She’ll bust in, rescue him. Be the hero. Kiss the guy. Wrap her legs around him and probably fuck him right there on the living room floor. Or on the bed, if he is tied up where Mike was. Welcome back to life; you only had to suffer for one night and now she’s here, naked. Everything you ever wanted. Prick.
There is a moment of guilt for cursing a man who is most likely dead. Mike wonders, for the umpteenth time, if he should call the cops. Send them over to Pacer’s place. But she is going there. Was already close by. And she’ll be beyond pissed if cops show up. She’s probably got Marcus’s fucking finger stuffed in her jeans pocket—his dead body in her trunk—his blood on her shirt. A wave of nausea rolls through him and he bends over the trash can, noticing, as his body fails to vomit, that it’s empty, a fresh white liner in it. Jamie. Helpful woman. There is something, a background word that catches his attention, the police scanner feed jabbering for the last six hours with absolutely nothing of interest. He turns up the volume and listens.
“… a 911 call regarding an explosion. Fire and medical respond to Twenty-three Prestwick Place.”
His heart stops, his hand moving the volume control higher. An explosion. His world suddenly closes a bit, his fingers moving before his mind even catches up, typing furiously and bringing up iCloud. Deanna’s cell. Find-A-Phoning its ass until the green dot destroys his world. Prestwick Place. On a square that has got to be his house. Deanna. Wrapping her legs around his body. Fucking him on the bed, celebrating his safe release from capture. BOOM. He feels his heart unnaturally quicken, his breath keeping pace.
Holy shit.
Holy shit.
Holy shit.
“Fire and medical, please update me to your status in regards to Twenty-three Prestwick Place.”
The crackle and pop of empty air.
“Um… Captain Scott here with Engine Twenty-nine. Looks like a chemical explosion of some sort. Whole house is up right now. We’re working on containing the blaze and locating any survivors. One female found, in front of the blaze.” His words are cut off by a scream, a scream that—even through the miles, through the distortion and feedback of the radio—is haunting in its anguish. Mike grips the desk, listens to that scream, his heart rising and falling in one quick roller-coaster ride as it vibrates through the room.
CHAPTER 111
I AM CARRIED away from Jeremy’s house, my legs dragging at the dirt, my body limp, by a man in yellow. He speaks to me, words that I ignore, words I can barely hear through my screams of Jeremy’s name. Screams I am not sure are even coming from my mouth; they may just be screaming through my soul, my head, imaginary breaks in my sanity like bright-ass light streaming through a wasntpulledtightenoughclosed curtain.
I am dragged away, and my view of the house disappears as an ambulance door replaces it.
I will kill Mike. I don’t care if I brought Marcus to his doorstep. I will kill him and then kill myself. Slowly, in a fashion that will cause as much pain as my body can physically take. Fuck, I may skip Mike, my self-hatred too strong to control. I, killer of good, am not fit to live.
I am lifted, a second face joining the first, and they speak, a light shining into my eyes, useless questions coming forth from their lips. I speak, through the screams, the only thing they need to know.
“Jeremy.” I repeat it, just in case they didn’t hear it. Repeat it again, louder. And again, my strength dropping. Then I am whispering the name, and I don’t know if anyone, other than my soul, can hear it.
“Jeremy.”
CHAPTER 112