Maybe he’s done with me?
Maybe last Christmas was a mistake?
Maybe he’s thinking, What the hell was I thinking?
Alternatively, Wendy, perhaps the asshole really is in danger?
This is a problem.
I haven’t a single clue of where else I might look, so instead my eyes track across the kitchen.
This is when I spy something. Something that may or may not be out of place.
It’s a phone. An actual fucking wall phone. The kind with a cord.
I get up, cross the kitchen in three and a half steps, and pick up the receiver. Dial tone.
I press star sixty-nine. Ringing.
“Hello?”
“… Who’s this?”
“You called me, sweetheart.”
“Because you were the last person to call this number. I star-sixty-nined you.”
“OK. So. What do you want?”
“I’m looking for the person who owns this phone.”
“And?”
“And”—this rando stranger is starting to piss me off—“have you seen him?”
“Depends.”
“OK. Well. Let’s start here. Do you know who I’m talking about? Or does that depend on something too?”
“Wendy?… Wendy?”
“How do you know my name?”
“I’m God. No, really. Listen. You’re wasting time here. Why are you talking to me? There are clues all around you. Look for them, for fuck’s sake.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You’re looking for Nick? Well, I’m looking for him too. Look around, find some answers, and then you can call me back.”
He hangs up.
I let out a long breath and replace the receiver. Well, he was an asshole. And all of that was weird.
Who the hell is that guy? He’s not anyone I recognize. Not Adam, or McKay, and we all know it’s not Donovan.
We, Wendy? You’re the only one here.
Right. Check the insanity, OK? Pull it together.
I suck in a breath and blink my eyes a few times, trying to understand what’s happening. Because this whole trip is weird. Why am I even here?
I look up and scan the room, then salute Nick’s probable hidden cameras with my middle finger. “Fuck you. I’m leaving.”
The phone rings before the last word is even out of my mouth.
I pick it up. “What?”
“You’re not leaving. You’re looking for clues. Find them and call. Me. Back.” He hangs up.
So he’s the one looking through the hidden cameras.
Got it.
I give him the one-finger salute again and then turn towards the door fully intending on getting the hell out of here, but then I see something else that’s interesting.
An answering machine on the kitchen counter. And there’s a blinking number four on the tiny digital screen.
I can’t stop the chuckle. Only Nick Tate would keep a landline with an answering machine. This is probably a clue, and that bastard voice is probably dying for me to press play so he can hear what’s on there, so this is usually where I do things just to piss people off. Things like not pressing play on that machine. Not listening to whatever’s on there. And not giving a single fuck about the consequences.
But I gotta know.
I can’t help myself.
I walk over to it and press play.
“You have four new messages. Message one…”
“Don’t forget to schedule the jobs in Florida. And maybe even Alabama.”
Beeeeeeep.
“Next message…”
I press stop. That was definitely Nick. And that message was what? A to-do list? What jobs? Did I know about jobs in Florida and Alabama? He used to have a place on the Dog River, but that’s Mississippi. And Adam does not like Nick doing anything that close to Louisiana. So what the fuck was this about?
I press play again.
“Don’t forget to send Wendy sunflowers. Her birthday’s coming up.”
Beeeeeeep.
“Next message…”
I press stop again.
This machine is definitely a to-do list. But my birthday isn’t coming up. It just passed two weeks ago. So this message is from what, three weeks ago? Maybe a month?
And the asshole did not send me flowers. First time in years that he didn’t find me—wherever I was in the world—and get me those sunflowers.
“Duh, Wendy,” I huff. “That’s why you’re here. He’s missing.”
And some asshole is playing phone games with me.
Two more messages though. So I press play.
“So… Yeah. Sorry about that. I haven’t been home in a while. I thought I would be, but I couldn’t swing it. Don’t be mad at me, OK? I’m fine. I’ll see you soon.”
Beeeeeeep.
“Next message…”
Wait. Who the hell is he talking to? Does he have a girlfriend? And did he tell her to send me flowers for my birthday? Oh. My heart will crack in half if he’s been having some girl send my mandatory sunflowers every year.
Oh, my God, I’m losing my mind or something. Nick does not have a girlfriend. That’s probably the dumbest accusation I’ve ever come up with.
And hold on. My birthday is coming up. It didn’t just pass.
So… what the hell is wrong with me?
Holy fuck, I’m losing my mind. It’s really happening. It’s too late, there’s no cure for me. I’m about to slip into some bizarre psychosis and…