The Stopover Page 8
The woman I want to be lives in New York and has the job of her dreams.
Sadness overwhelms me. I know what I have to do.
I walk over to him and take his headphones off. “I’m going.”
He stares at me.
“You’re better than this,” I whisper.
He clenches his jaw.
“Robbie,” I whisper. “You’re much more than just a football star. You need to believe that.”
His eyes search mine.
“Go and get some help.” I look around his room. “It’s going to be too late for us, but I want it for you.”
He drops his head and stares at the floor. I take his hand in mine. “Come with me,” I whisper. “Please, Robbie, pull out of this . . . if not for me, for yourself.”
“I can’t, Em.”
My eyes fill with tears, and I bend and kiss him softly one last time. I rub my fingers through his stubble and stare into his eyes. “Go and find whatever it is that makes you happy,” I whisper.
“You too,” he breathes sadly. I realize he doesn’t even want to fight it; he knows this is for the best. I smile at the bittersweet moment, and I kiss him softly, with tears rolling down my cheeks.
I get into my mother’s car and stare at his house for an extended time.
That was much easier and much harder than I imagined.
I slowly start the car and pull out onto the road. I wipe my tears with my forearm as I feel a chapter of my life close.
I drive down the road and out of Robbie McIntyre’s life. “Goodbye, Robbie,” I whisper out loud. “When it was good, it was great.”
Monday morning
“And what do you think would happen if you told the police of your suspicions?” I ask.
“Nothing. Nothing at all,” the frail old woman replies. She has to be at least ninety. Her white hair is in perfect finger waves, and her dress is a pretty shade of mauve. “They’re useless.”
I dutifully scribble down her reply on my notepad. I’m out in the field today, following up my own lead. There has been a string of satanic graffiti on the fronts of houses lately, and this particular woman’s house has been done three times. Fed up with the lack of support from the police department, she contacted Miles Media, and I was the lucky one who picked up the phone.
“So . . . tell me when this all began,” I ask.
“Back in November.” She pauses as she tries to remember. “November sixteenth was the first time. A huge mural of the devil himself.”
“Right.” I look up from my notes. “What did it look like?”
“Evil.” She gets a faraway look in her eye. “Pure evil, so lifelike, with huge fangs and blood dripping everywhere.”
“It must have been terrifying for you.”
“It was. That was the night when a jewelry store got robbed around the corner, so I remember it well.”
“Oh.” I frown. She didn’t mention this before. “Do you think it’s related?”
She stares at me blankly.
“The graffiti and the robbery, I mean,” I clarify.
“Don’t know.” She pauses for a moment and then contorts her face as if in pain. “I’ve never thought of that before, but it’s all making sense now. The police are in on this conspiracy.” She begins to pace. “Yes, yes, that’s it.” She taps her hand on the top of her head as she walks back and forth.
Hmm. There’s something off here. Is this woman of sound mind? “What did you do when you found the graffiti on your house?”
“I called the police, and they told me that they don’t have time to come out for graffiti but to take a picture of it and email it to them.”
“And you did that?”
“Yes.”
“What happened then?”
“My son got my house acid washed and removed it, but three nights later it happened again. But this time it was an image of someone getting murdered. A woman had been stabbed. The graffiti was so intricate that it looked like a painting.”
“Oh.” I continue to take notes. “What did you do this time?”
“I went down to the police station and demanded someone come and look at my house. My neighbor had his house vandalized too.”
“Okay.” I scribble down her story. “What’s your neighbor’s name?”
“Robert Day Daniels.”
I glance up from my notes, surprised by his name. “His name is Robert Day Daniels?”
“Or is it Daniel Day Roberts?” Her voice trails off as she thinks. “Hmm.”
I stare at her as I wait for her to decide which it is.
“I forgot his name.” She scrubs her hands in her hair as if about to launch into a panic.
“That’s okay. I’ll just write Robert Day Daniels for the moment, and then we’ll come back to it a little later.”
“Yes, okay.” She smiles, pleased that I’m not pushing her for an exact name.
“What was drawn on his house?” I ask.
“One of those horrible devil stars.”
“I see. Tell me, what did the police do this time?”
“Nothing. They didn’t even come out here.”
“They’re very busy,” I reassure her as I write. “Tell me about the last time it happened.”
“The entire house was painted red.”
I glance up in surprise. “The entire house was red?”
“The whole street.”
Uneasiness sweeps over me. “That is weird.” I frown.
She leans in close so that only I can hear her. “Do you think it’s the devil?” she whispers.
“What?” I smile. “No, it’s probably just kids acting up,” I say, trying to reassure her. “Have you told anyone else about this?”
“No, only Miles Media. I want you to publish this story so that the police will actually pay some attention. I’m getting scared that it’s something more sinister.”
I take her hand in mine. “Yes, I think we have enough to go forward with the story.”
“Oh, thank you, dear.” She holds my hand tightly.
“Is there anything else you can think of that may be relevant?” I ask.
“Just that I’m living in fear every night that the devil is coming back. My neighbors said to go and speak to them too.”
“Okay, great.” I hand her my card. “If you think of anything else, please call me.”
“Yes, I will.” She clutches the card.
I go down the street and interview seven more people, and the stories all correlate. I definitely have enough evidence to go forward. I go back to the office and type the story up and hand it in to Hayden. It feels good breaking news.
I sit at my desk and stare at my computer screen. It’s four o’clock on Monday, and I’m in a funk. Since I got back to New York late last night, I’ve had a bad case of the guilts. Even though I knew that Robbie and I were reaching our expiration date, I kind of feel like I sped it up and didn’t let it run its course. But then, on the other hand, we’d been stagnant for months, and if I took this job knowing he wasn’t coming with me . . . I think I subconsciously knew we were close to the end.
“The god is here,” Aaron whispers.
I glance up. “Who?”
“Tristan Miles,” he whispers.
I spy over the screening above my desk as he talks to the manager of the floor, Rebecca.
He’s wearing a pin-striped navy suit, his brown wavy hair is in just-fucked perfection, and he has this dreamy smile on his face as he talks. He has the whitest teeth I’ve ever seen and huge dimples.
“She’s giggling like a schoolgirl.” Aaron frowns.
“He’s never on this level,” Molly says.
“What do you reckon he’s doing here?” Aaron whispers as his eyes stay glued to the fine specimen.
“His job,” I reply flatly. “He does work here, you know.”
The more I think about it, the more I know I’ve romanticized this whole Jameson Miles thing. He doesn’t like me—he’s just horny, and there’s
a big difference. He’s probably had sex with five women since Friday night when I spoke to him. I haven’t heard from him since, and I don’t want to either.
I didn’t leave Robbie because Jameson told me to; I left Robbie because he’d stopped putting in any effort. If Jameson knows we broke up, he’s going to assume it’s because I want to sleep with him . . . and I don’t.
I really don’t. Stupid men.
I’m not telling my coworkers that we broke up. I don’t want to make a fanfare of it. I want to take my time to get my head around it.
Tristan Miles says something, and Rebecca laughs. Then he disappears into the elevator, and we all get back to work.
I struggle with my umbrella as I trudge down the pavement in the rain. New York isn’t as dreamy in the wet. I grab the Gazette while I’m waiting for the lights to change and stuff it in my bag. I’ll read this while I wait for my coffee. My phone rings.
“Hello, Emily Foster speaking,” I answer as I power walk among the crowd.
“Hello, Emily,” a familiar voice says.
I frown, unable to place who it is. “Who’s speaking, please?”
“This is Marjorie. We spoke yesterday.”
Oh shit—the graffiti lady. “Oh yes, hello, Marjorie. It’s a bad line, and I couldn’t hear you properly,” I lie.
“It’s Danny Rupert,” she replies.
“I’m sorry?” I frown.
“My neighbor’s name is Danny Rupert. I couldn’t remember it yesterday.”
I screw up my face and cringe. Oh God. I hope it hasn’t gone to print. I completely forgot to go back to it. Panic begins to swirl in my stomach.
Shit.
“I think the story has already gone to print, Marjorie. I’m so sorry I didn’t recheck it with you.”
“Oh, that’s okay, dear. It doesn’t matter—no harm done. I felt foolish being unable to remember, and I wanted to call you.”
My stomach rolls. It does matter—you don’t get names wrong in a story. Reporting 101.
Fuck.
I puff air into my cheeks as disappointment in myself runs through me. Damn it. This is not a little mistake; it’s a major fuckup. “Thanks for the call, Marjorie. I’ll call you when I get into the office and let you know when it’s running.” With any luck it won’t be until tomorrow, and I will have time to change it.
I hang up and internally kick myself. Damn it. Focus.
I walk into the café opposite the Miles Media building and order my coffee. I drag the paper out of my bag and slam it onto the table.
I am not going to hold on to this job with sloppy mistakes like that. I’m so annoyed at myself.
I flick through the paper, and then something catches my eye.
Satanic Graffiti in New York
A spate of bizarre graffiti attacks on houses in the West Village has the residents running scared. Marjorie Bishop’s house has been graffitied three times, and the police are refusing to take action. Another resident, Robert Day Daniels, has been suffering too.
I frown as I read the story. What?
Marjorie said she didn’t tell anyone about this other than me. I read it again and again. It quotes my story almost word for word, and each time I get more confused.
Did she tell another reporter the same wrong name? I take out my phone and dial her number, and she answers on the first ring. “Hello, Marjorie, this is Emily Foster.”
“Oh hello, dear; that was quick.”
“Marjorie, did you speak to anyone else from another paper about this graffiti story?”
“No, dear.”
“You haven’t told anyone?” I frown.
“Not a soul. The street and I made a collective decision that we only wanted Miles Media to report on it. That way we knew the police would have to listen.”
I begin to hear my heartbeat in my ears. What the hell is going on?
“Coffee for Emily,” the cashier calls.
“Thank you.” I take my coffee and head back out into the rain, confused as all hell.
It’s one o’clock, and I’m on my lunch break. I arrive at the top floor and walk through to reception. “Hello.” I smile nervously. “I’m here to see Mr. Miles. It’s an urgent matter.”
I’ve been racking my brain all day, and the only theory I can come up with isn’t pretty. I need to talk to Jameson.
The blonde receptionist smiles. “Just a moment, please. Your name is?”
“Emily Foster.”
She pushes the intercom. “Mr. Miles, I have an Emily Foster here to see you.”
“Send her in,” his velvety voice purrs without hesitation.
I feel my stomach dip with nerves, and I follow her out into the corridor and across the marble. Damn it, I still haven’t bought rubber-soled shoes yet. I try to tiptoe so I don’t click as I walk. “Just knock on the end door.”
Holy shit. My heart begins to pump, and I force a smile. “Thank you.”
She disappears up the hall, and I close my eyes as I stand in front of the door, bracing myself. Okay, here goes.
Knock, knock, knock.
“Come in,” I hear Jameson call. I scrunch my eyes shut as nerves dance deep in my stomach.
I open the door, and there he sits in a navy suit. With his white shirt, dark hair, and piercing blue eyes, he looks like God’s gift to women. Maybe he is. “Hello, Emily,” he whispers as his sexy eyes hold mine.
“Hello.”
Jameson stands and stares at me. Our eyes are locked, and the air swirls between us. “Please, take a seat.”
I fall into the chair, and he sits behind his desk and leans back in his chair; his eyes don’t leave me.
“I wanted to see you about something,” I say as I glance at the glass of scotch beside him. I don’t know what kind of work has scotch involved, but where’s my glass?
I could do with a drink or ten right now.
He sits back and smirks as if amused.
“Umm.” I pause and swallow the sand in my throat. “So something has happened, and I know I could get into trouble for it, but I feel like you need to know,” I blurt out in a rush.
“Such as?”
“I got a name wrong in a story.”
Jameson’s unimpressed eyes hold mine.
“But it’s the weirdest thing,” I stammer. “Today the Gazette has published the same story . . . with my error in it.”
He frowns. “What?”
“Look, I don’t know, and I could be totally wrong, and I don’t know why I’m even telling you this, but I think . . .” I pause.
“You think what?” he snaps.
“I just know for certain that the Gazette didn’t get that story themselves, and they most definitely couldn’t make the same mistake as I have. The old lady in the story contacted me directly because she would only talk to Miles Media.” I put the Gazette down on the desk in front of him, and he reads it and stares at me for a moment as if processing my words.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive. I got the name wrong.” I point to the name where my mistake was made. “This here is my error.”
Jameson brushes his thumb back and forth over his bottom lip as he stares at the paper before him, deep in thought. “Thank you. I’ll discuss this with Tristan and get back to you.”
“Okay.” I stand. “I’m sorry for making the error. It was unprofessional, and it won’t happen again.” My eyes go to Jameson, and I wait for him to say something. Is that it?
“Goodbye, Emily,” he says flatly.
Oh, he’s dismissing me. “Goodbye.” I turn, feeling dejected, and make my way downstairs. I don’t know whether I just did the right thing by telling him my theory. Maybe it will only work against me.
It’s four o’clock, and I’m drinking my afternoon coffee. My phone rings, and I answer it. “Hello.”
“Hello, Emily, this is Sammia. Mr. Miles would like to see you in his office, please.”
I frown. “Now?”
“Yes, please.”
Ten minutes later, I knock on Jameson’s door. “Come in,” he calls.
I walk in and find him sitting behind his large desk. His face breaks into a sexy smile as his eyes find mine. “Hello.”
My stomach dances with nerves. “Hi.”
“Have you had a good day?” he asks, and in slow motion I watch as his tongue swipes over his bottom lip. He’s different this afternoon. He has a playful air about him.
“You wanted to see me?” I ask.
“Yes, I’ve spoken to Tristan, and we have a special project that we would like you to work on,” he says as he leans back in his chair.
“You do?”
“Yes. We want you to write a story to publish.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. “Okay.” I shrug. “What’s the story on?”
Jameson narrows his eyes as he thinks. “I was thinking . . . something along the lines of lovebites.”
I frown in confusion. “Love bites?”
Amusement flashes across his face as if he’s trying to keep it straight. “Lovebites, one word. Plural.”
I stare at him for a moment in confusion. I don’t get it.
Oh my God. He’s talking about the hickey I gave him. Of all the nerve. Trust him to bring that up.
I tilt my chin to the sky in defiance. “I think I’m better equipped to write a story on premature ejaculation. That way you could help me with it.” I smile sweetly.
Jameson’s eyes dance with delight. “Is that so?”
“Yes,” I reply straight faced. “News stories are so much better when they have evidence to back them up.”
Amusement crosses his face as he sips his scotch. I have no idea what’s going through that head of his this afternoon. Maybe he’s had too many scotches. We stare at each other, and I want to blurt out, “Did you ever think of me?” But I can’t because this is work, and I’m acting uninterested. Actually, let me rephrase that. I’m not interested—I’m slightly fascinated. Huge difference.
“How was your weekend?” he asks.
“Fine.”
His eyebrow rises. “Just fine?”
I nod. “Uh-huh.” I don’t want to tell him that I broke up with Robbie, but then I don’t want to lie to him either.
“You got back Sunday night?”
“Yes.”