“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.