5
Veronica
My sister enjoyed the performance very much, but soon after Harper left the stage she wanted to leave immediately. I had no problem with that, or with staying with her at the guest house at my parents’ house where she lives now. She’s not quite ready to live on her own, but she is ready to have some independence. The guest house gives her that, and my parents have also recently started to back off and give her the freedom she needs. For example, they went away to the beach house near San Diego on their own for the first time in years. Which is another reason I had no problem saying yes to spending the night. My guilt for letting my sister get abducted never left me, but it’s worst when I’m around my parents. They don’t make it worse, not consciously, but it is my fault and we all know it.
The guilt reared its nasty head in all its monstrous glory on Friday night anyway.
Ariel had trouble getting to sleep and once she did, she kept waking up from nightmares that made her scream, the kind she used to have for a full year after she was safely back home. The kind that always made me feel even guiltier for not protecting her like I should’ve, like she deserved. These new nightmares are my fault too. I brought it all back for her by telling her my suspicions of Chance back at the festival.
We shared the queen-sized bed in the main bedroom of the guest house, an incredibly comfy bed with a mattress that’s just soft enough, a comforter that feels like the fur of the softest cat draped over you and pillows that make it seem like your head is resting against a cloud. I have all that in my apartment too, my mom made sure to furnish it well, it’s just that I spend almost no time there. And I never sleep as well as I do with my sister in the same bed, which is probably just another byproduct of my intense guilt and need to keep her safe.
But after the third time Ariel woke me up with her screams, I hugged her until she fell asleep again then I stayed awake, sitting by the pool just outside the guesthouse, watching the night sky grow greyer and greyer until the sun finally came up, the birds started singing, and everything had color again—the flowering bushes planted all over the garden, the brilliant turquoise of the water in the pool, the quilt I used to keep warm during the coldest time just before dawn. My sister woke up smiling, claiming she remembered none of the nightmares and I happily believed her.
We spent the weekend lounging by the pool and watching way too much TV. We also ate so much junk food I’m still slightly nauseous now, on Monday morning as I sit in my office waiting for Chance to arrive. He’s already late.
If I said my mind hasn’t been full of him all weekend I’d be lying. And I tried very hard to keep those thoughts focused on how I will get him to tell me what happened to my sister. But other thoughts kept intruding too. Mostly in the form of little unwelcome pictures of how offended he looked every time I accused him of being a trafficker. Which were followed by even brighter pictures reminding me just how attractive he actually is. And how he looked at me the first time we met… like he wanted to do things to me I never even imagined could be done, but knew they’d feel like heaven despite that. Followed by more hating him and more wishing that Monday morning would finally arrive.
I know the true source of my Chance fantasies. He’s simply the best-looking guy I’ve met in a long time and I haven’t been with a guy in forever, and none of the ones that I have been with made me wish for more. I’m sure Chance could make me wish for more.
But all that’s just crazy thinking and lust talking.
Sure he’s attractive and is rocking the nice guy bad boy vibe like it’s going out of style, but he’s also the last guy on earth I would ever let touch me.
I got to the office at just past seven this morning and set up a whole work station for him at, where I will have him sift through raw footage of the interviews with victims that haven’t yet made it into one of my weekly mini documentaries that I post on the foundation’s YouTube channel. I’m hoping that will trigger enough guilt in him so I can ask my questions. Some of those women’s stories are so horrific that he’d have to have a heart of stone not to feel sorry for them. Then later in the week, I’ll tell him to dress less like a biker and more like a normal person, and I’ll take him with me when I do more interviews. And by the end of the week, maybe he’ll be ready to talk to me.
But it’s almost ten now and he’s still not here. I’m all jittery because I’ve had too many cups of coffee already, chugging them down in my nervous anticipation of his arrival. I haven’t forgotten the argument we had at the festival, that’s been at the forefront of my mind all weekend, no matter how much I wanted to wipe it out of my mind. I’m hoping against hope he has, but I know that’s insane.
Maybe that argument is the reason why he’s not here yet. Maybe I was totally too much of a crazy bitch to him and he wants nothing more to do with me anymore even if it means he’s going to prison. Or worse, he’s gone underground now that he’s a free man and will continue doing what he’s been doing—abducting little girls and destroying them—with no fear of getting caught.
The chime announcing someone entering the office rips through those whirlwind thoughts that have been giving me whiplash for the past three days and nights.
“About time,” I say loudly, striding across my office to get to the ante room. “We said nine o’clock and it’s—”
It’s not Chance, but a woman in her early thirties with shiny, straight brown hair, big bright eyes. She’s wearing a very expensive looking dark grey pants suit over an egg white silk blouse, complete with black leather pumps and a briefcase that looks custom made by Prada or something.
I startled her, that’s why her eyes were so big, but she regains her composure quickly.
“Ms. Thatcher?” she asks and when I nod, she comes towards me with one hand extended for a handshake, which I take.
“I’m Blair Woodward, Mr. Chance Reed's attorney,” she says. “Unfortunately he’s been in an accident last night and won’t be able to attend his obligations here.”
“An accident? Is he all right?” I ask in a breathless voice.
Hearing this news rocked me to my core and I can’t even begin to unravel why.
“I was told that he will be, yes,” she says as she reaches into her briefcase, and pulls out a stack of papers which she holds out for me to take.
“That’s all the paperwork regarding his absence, including the release form I obtained from the police officer overseeing his compliance with adhering to the terms of his sentence,” she says.
I take the stack of papers, which all look very fancy and very official.
“When will he be back?”
“I can’t answer that question at this moment,” she says, says goodbye and leaves, the sound of her red-soled high-heeled shoes hitting the tiles all I hear until the chime over the door sounds again and there’s only silence.
How does a guy like Chance afford a lawyer wearing shoes and clothes like that while running early morning errands on his behalf?
But that’s just one of the questions running through my mind. The other has to do with the question she couldn’t answer, namely when he’ll be back. And yet another is, why am I so disappointed he’s not here?