“How angry is he?”
“He’s hurt, Avery. He’s not angry.”
“I’ll bet that made him attractive at the bar,” I grumbled. “How many women hit on him?”
“All of them,” Jake replied. “He was with me. We were very popular.”
“Ugh. I think I might gag.”
Jake smirked. “He didn’t even look at any of them because all he could think about was you,” he said. “Personally, I think that’s a little pathetic, but I’ve decided not to dwell on it. That’s what’s best for all of us.”
“How are things going with Cara?”
“Do you really care?”
“Hey, you might be the only person I know having a rougher week with his significant other than I am,” I said. “I have to get my jollies somewhere.”
“And that’s how I know you’ll bounce right back,” Jake said. “Cara is still thinking about things. She doesn’t like my relationship with you, but she doesn’t want to walk away either. She’s going to be really ticked when she finds out I was here.”
I heard the sound of a camera clicking and turned to find Jake snapping a photo with his phone. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“Relax,” Jake said. “I’ll only show it to Cara if she gives me grief. No one would have sex with you when you look like this, and I might need an alibi.”
“I hate you sometimes.”
Jake’s expression softened. “Pull yourself together and apologize to Eliot,” he said. “You’ll feel better when you do.”
“Thanks for the pep talk.”
“You’re welcome,” Jake said, moving toward the door. “Make sure you shower before you see him. No man wants to come home to find … this.”
I made a face. “I am depressed. You’re supposed to look like this when you’re depressed.”
“Get over it,” Jake said. “I need you to kick the hornet’s nest, and Eliot needs you to do whatever it is you do that I don’t want to know anything about. Apparently you’re irreplaceable, Avery Shaw. Now prove it.”
14
I wouldn’t say Jake adjusted my attitude, but he did bolster my ego. By the time I woke the next morning I was ready to fix my life – and that included every part of my life. Unfortunately, Fish texted me with a court case first thing in the morning so I had to hurry to the circuit courthouse before tracking down Eliot.
Because the courthouse happened to be located across the street from Eliot’s pawnshop I stopped to buy coffee at the next-door shop and casually peered through the pawnshop window as I strolled by.
Elliot stood behind the counter, his face placid as he stared at his computer screen. He seemed oblivious to everything going on around him. He didn’t exactly look prostrate with grief and worry – which was disappointing – but he didn’t look happy either.
As if sensing my presence, he shifted his eyes and they locked with mine. My heart rate sped up and I swallowed hard as I offered him a half-hearted wave. He didn’t return the gesture, instead knitting his eyebrows as he stared.
I pointed toward the courthouse, hoping he’d understand. He nodded once – the gesture short and curt – and then turned back to his computer. I waited for him to glance up again, but he didn’t. I’d officially been dismissed.
Well that was disheartening. He really expected me to beg. I was going to have to find a unique way to do it, too. I didn’t think nudity and an action movie would cut it this time.
I didn’t have time to dwell on it so I hurried across the street and through courthouse security. The case was being tried in the sixth-floor courtroom of Judge Damian Carroll, a stickler about cell phones. I pulled mine from my purse and stared at it for a moment, willing Eliot to give in and text me something cute and flirty. I knew that wouldn’t fix everything, but it would make me feel better and take the onus of making up off of me.
I knew it wouldn’t be that easy. I didn’t deserve an out. I sucked in a breath and typed a short message and sent it to Eliot before I could change my mind. Then I turned off my phone and shoved it back in my purse.
It was only three words, but it was the best I could do given the circumstances: I miss you.
FOUR HOURS later I wanted to shoot the guy who went on a Christmas bender four months earlier and attacked all of his neighbors’ inflatable decorations with a butcher knife. The case sounded funny when Fish first assigned it – and it garnered a lot of attention when he was arrested – but hours of monotonous testimony regarding someone trying to potentially frame a guy for stabbing a reindeer that wore a shirt but no underwear grew tedious. When the judge called a break for lunch I was relieved.
I waited until I was back on the street before I turned my phone on and searched for a return message from Eliot. There wasn’t one. My heart rolled and I darted a look at the pawnshop. I could see the counter from where I stood, but Eliot wasn’t behind it. Instead one of his workers – a bright-eyed blonde with huge boobs and a tiny shirt – stood in his spot. His truck wasn’t in his usual parking spot.
I ate a pouty lunch before returning to the courthouse. Because I had an hour to burn before court resumed, I headed to the records department and searched the assembled faces until I saw a familiar one. Kristin Varner was young and naïve. She’s also been helpful on more than one occasion. I hoped this would turn out to be another one of those times.
Kristin smiled when I approached, wiping the corners of her mouth with a napkin as she glanced around. “I heard you were in court today,” she said. “I didn’t believe it because I thought you were on that missing girl case.”
Well that was hitting below the belt. “Are you trying to be funny?”
Kristin’s grin faded. “No.”
I tugged on my limited patience and reminded myself that Kristin had no idea about the inner workings of The Monitor. “I’m actually here because I need your help,” I said. “I need to see the divorce documents on Daniel and Bridget Jackson.”
“Those are the parents of the missing girl, right?” Kristin asked, happily talking with her mouth full of roast beef sandwich. I wanted to gag – and then maybe gag her for good measure – but I played it cool.
“That’s them,” I said. “The divorce documents are public record, right?”
Kristin nodded. “Anyone can look at them,” she said. “Do you want a copy or just to look over my shoulder.”
That was a good question. “Can you pull them up first and let me see them? If there’s anything good there I will need a copy.”
“Sure,” Kristin said, tapping on her keyboard. “I’m surprised no one thought to check these records before.”
“Me, too,” I said, moving in behind Kristin. “I’ve heard some interesting things about their divorce. I’m dying to see if they’re true.”
“Let’s see, shall we?”
“I don’t suppose there’s any way to see whether anyone else has looked up the documents recently, is there?”
Kristin nodded. “There’s a ‘last open’ date on here,” she said. “Let me see. Um… it looks like the last time anyone opened this document was almost six months ago.”
“That was right around the time their divorce was finalized, so that would make sense,” I said.
Kristin opened the file and started clicking through it, aimlessly chattering as she did. It was almost as if she was giving me a virtual tour of the Jackson’s tumultuous marriage. “Oh, there’s loads of juicy stuff in here,” she said. “In this filing, the wife claims that the husband had sex with his mistress – who I guess is now his wife – in front of the kids.”
I wrinkled my nose. “That is disgusting,” I said. “What else have you got?”
“This one has the wife requesting that the judge disallow visitation unless the mistress isn’t present,” Kristin said. “This one is also from the first wife and requests an increase in child support. Oh, this one is fun. It looks like the wife wanted to change the last name of the kids because she said they didn’t want a phila
nderer’s last name.”
“What about from the husband’s end?” I asked. “Daniel Jackson doesn’t seem like the type of guy who would take all of these filings lying down.”
“Definitely not,” Kristin said. “Let’s see … okay, here they are. His first filing asks for joint custody of the kids. After the wife filed for sole custody of the kids he amended his petition to ask for the same.”
“On what grounds?”
“She was forcing them to drink the Kool-Aid,” Kristin replied. “That’s his statement, not mine. I think he means she was trying to poison the kids against him.”
“That’s exactly what that means,” I said. “What else is in there?”
“Um … it looks like he filed a petition to have his child support knocked down because he claims his soon-to-be-ex-wife was a falling-down drunk who flashed her boobs to random strangers on the street.”
“Is that true?”
“There aren’t any police reports in here, so I can’t be sure,” Kristin said. “It looks like these two went out of their way to accuse each other of everything under the sun, but they never backed it up.”
I fought to contain my giddiness and failed. “I’m definitely going to need a copy of this. Can you print one out?”
“Sure,” Kristin said. “It’s probably going to take a little bit. Do you need to see anything else?”
“It’s funny you ask,” I said. “While we’re in the divorce documents, can you pull up Tad Ludington’s? I would love to poke around in there for a few minutes.”
“Sure,” Kristin said. “I’m actually surprised you didn’t want to look at those sooner.”
“I’ve been off my game,” I explained. “I’m over that. Now I’m playing a new game and I’m not going to lose.”
I STROLLED into The Monitor’s newsroom when I finished at the courthouse for the day and headed straight for Fish’s desk. I dramatically dropped the files I got from Kristin on top of his keyboard and then took a step back and crossed my arms over my chest.
“What is this?” Fish asked, clearly nervous. We hadn’t seen each other since he informed me the dumbest man in Macomb County was taking over my story.
“Those are the documents from the Jackson divorce,” I said. “It proves every single thing I wrote in my article. Those two have accused each other of at least fifty heinous acts, including the ones I wrote about.”
“Where did you get this?”
“The courthouse. Where do you think?”
“That was smart,” Fish said, exhaling heavily. “That was really smart. I can’t believe we didn’t think of that sooner.”
“I blame you,” I said, glancing around the newsroom. “Where is Duncan? I want my story back.”
“He’s meeting with MacDonald in the front office,” Fish said.
“That’s fortuitous,” I said, grabbing my files and moving back toward the hallway. “I want MacDonald there when I drop the hammer on Duncan, too.”
“Avery, be careful you don’t make things worse,” Fish said, scampering behind me. “You’re not going to get what you want if you make a scene.”
Every scene I’d ever made stood up in the back of my mind and begged to differ. “It’s going to be okay,” I said. “I have this all under control.”
Fish was understandably dubious. “Avery, I think you should let me talk with MacDonald about this. He’s sure to see reason if I approach him from a place of logic.”
“I’ll do that.”
“You don’t ever approach anyone from a place of logic,” Fish argued. “I’m worried you’re going to make things worse. You don’t have those mitten puppets do you? He’s not going to think it’s funny if you do a puppet show. Just … don’t make things worse. That’s all I ask.”
“It’s not possible to make things worse, so don’t worry about it,” I said, strolling into the front office and giving the secretary – who bore a freaky resemblance to a praying mantis – a haughty look. “I’m here to see the publisher.”
“He’s in a meeting.”
“I know,” I said. “Is he in the conference room or his office?”
“He’s in the conference room,” the secretary said. “You can’t go in there, though. It’s a private meeting.”
I ignored the order and breezed past her, pushing open the conference room door without pausing and gracing both Jim MacDonald and Duncan Marlow with the most pleasant smile I could muster. “I’m back.”
MacDonald leaned back in his chair, his eyes shrewd as they looked me up and down. “Don’t you knock?”
Duncan snickered. “She’s never met a polite thing to do she liked.”
“What a great insult, Duncan,” I deadpanned. “Your quick wit surely does amaze me. You must be some sort of verbal wizard.”
“You shut up,” Duncan hissed. “I don’t have to put up with your mouth. I’m the one handling the big story now. I’m in charge.”
“Not anymore,” I said. “I want my story back.”
“You can’t have it,” Duncan said.
I ignored him and focused on MacDonald. “I want my story back.”
“We’re still checking to make sure you’re in the clear,” MacDonald replied. “As soon as things are settled and you’ve been vindicated you can have your story back.”
“Wait a second,” Duncan protested. “This is my story now. I’m keeping it.”
“Go back to picking your underwear out of your butt and let the adults talk for five minutes, Duncan,” I ordered, causing MacDonald to smirk. I tossed the documents on the table in front of the publisher. “That proves every single thing in my story.”
“What is this?” MacDonald asked, peering at the documents.
“Those are all of the filings in the Jackson divorce,” I said. “It proves they had a tempestuous relationship and accused each other of some really out-there things. Each one of those documents is signed, notarized and stamped by court personnel.”
“Really?” MacDonald was intrigued. “This proves what you said in your story was true?”
“It proves they accused each other of a nonstop litany of things,” I clarified. “Most of these accusations got flung but never filed with the police. That’s an important distinction. For our purposes, though, it’s proof.”
“You can’t say that,” Duncan argued. “Daniel Jackson says his wife was lying when she said all of those things about him.”
“That doesn’t matter,” MacDonald said. “We didn’t need proof that he did them. We only needed proof that the wife said he did them. She hasn’t picked up her phone or returned any calls since the interview.”
“She either feels bad about what she said or wants to let Daniel stew,” I said. “Given their history, I’m guessing she wants him to suffer and is enjoying the fallout of what she said. I don’t really care what she’s doing. I just want my reputation and story back.”
“It’s my story now,” Duncan said. “Tell her, Mr. MacDonald.”
MacDonald narrowed his eyes. “I need to go through these documents myself,” he said. “If what you say is true, though, you can have your story back. I’ll call you with my decision tomorrow.”
“Don’t call before noon,” I instructed. “I plan to have a late night and I don’t want you ruining it.” I turned to leave and met Fish’s stunned look without blinking. “Never underestimate me again.”
“Where are you going?” Fish asked.
“I have to write a story about the stupid Christmas decoration murderer and then I have family dinner,” I said. “Once I’m done, I’m out of here. I … um … have a personal issue to address.”
Fish said something, but I wasn’t sure what it was. My mind was already on Eliot. He hadn’t returned my text, and he wasn’t at his pawnshop when I left the courthouse. I was feeling emboldened thanks to my discovery. My biggest problem now was finding Eliot.
Where was he? And, more importantly, was he willing to forgive me? I was done playing games with him, t
oo.
15
The weekly family dinner is mandatory. There’s no getting out of it. If you die in a terrible automobile accident you’re still expected to show up. That’s the only reason I found myself walking into the family diner at seven sharp instead of searching Macomb County for Eliot.
He was missing. Okay, he wasn’t missing. He was hiding, though. I texted him six times and called him twice. He didn’t pick up. He didn’t text me back. He didn’t show up at his apartment or my house. He was gone … and it was driving me bat-shit crazy.
My family is odd. Actually, that’s putting it mildly. We’re close in a codependent way. We like to pick on each other. We also like to spend time together. I enjoy many family dinners. Driving an hour north and being forced to put up with my mother’s evil eye when I really wanted to be out looking for Eliot was going to be torture, not fun, though.
Like a good girl, I reported for my torture.
The family table was mostly full when I entered, so I took the opportunity to sit with Derrick and my cousin Mario at a nearby booth. My grandfather held court at the far end of the family table – I couldn’t be sure, but it sounded as if he was telling the story about the time he got naked and flashed the neighborhood women when he was skinny-dipping – and I was happy to be out of the line of fire.
“Where’s Eliot?” Derrick asked, glancing over his shoulder. “Is he meeting you here?”
“Why? What have you heard?”
Derrick stilled. “I heard you and Eliot got in an argument,” he said. “I assumed you made up. Jake said he stopped by your house yesterday and you were … gross.”
I made a face. “Is that the word he used?”
“Actually he said you smelled,” Derrick said. “He said your hair looked as if you hadn’t washed it in weeks.”
“That’s because Lexie made me do hot yoga,” I complained. “I hate hot yoga. Regular yoga is bad enough. Hot yoga is the worst thing ever invented. I maintain a man thought of it, because no woman would be that stupid.”
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