He couldn’t go back into the field without being shot, or at least reported. He had no way of contacting Wilde without heading back to the house. He was scared and angry and carrying fifty grand in a sack and he decided, Fuck it, I’m going to get a drink.

The Ties That Bind

THE TIES THAT BIND

Two hours later, hopped up on excellent old-fashioneds from Grays, he found his way back to the house. His phone lay untouched on the counter: no calls, no messages, no texts. Wilde had been screwing with him. Playing the same sort of games he always had.

Ethan called the number back, but it was blocked. Of course it was.

He put the money back in the safe, went to his office, tripping a little as he walked down the hall. He was very tipsy. He felt safe again in his lair, but the feeling fled when he turned on his computer. The New York Times piece had run, despite Bill’s assurances he’d get it quashed, and the internet was abuzz with the news about the sudden runner of Sutton Montclair.

Ten minutes of peace, and then Ethan’s mobile started ringing again, nonstop, reporters from all over trying to get a quote. How did they find his number? It was unlisted, and he and Sutton had always been so careful about giving out their numbers, but someone had found it and passed it around, and they were hunting him now. Bill. He’d bet Bill gave it to them, hoping for a juicy quote and a backlist sales bump. Or Wilde, torturing him, posted it somewhere.

He didn’t know which was worse.

It was all too much. He couldn’t take it. He felt the familiar chest squeeze, the worry and concern turning into a monster of anxiety. The media encamped on his front lawn, the police driving by, Wilde calling and threatening to blackmail him, Sutton’s friends shrinking away from him—Dashiell’s ghost, don’t forget your boy—it was too much.

He felt the desperation creeping in, the walls in his office getting close. He needed to leave. He needed to get on a fucking plane and depart for environs unknown, like Sutton, and not for the first time, the anger redirected toward her, at her selfishness. For leaving him to clean up her mess.

Maybe he needed to go for a run. Yes, that was the right thing to do. He’d wave to any reporters lurking in the shadows and run in the moonlight, the liquor sloshing in his stomach, then hole up again and ride out the storm.

If only. Ethan from another world would do that. Ethan now would sit quietly and let the panic overtake him, pour a fresh drink, and wallow while obliquely staring out the windows.