“Wait for the signal,” I muttered. “I’ll be in touch.” I hung up, tucking the burner phone in my rear pocket as I dipped into the crowds of Carnaby. I needed to lay low and wait for Boston to die down before striking again, bigger and brighter than before.
* * *
Stay away from my man, bitch. Or I’ll slit your throat and paint a fucking picture with your blood.
Outsiders would scroll right past the anonymous comment without a second thought, jaded to virtual threats of violence, but the words stopped me in my tracks. It was a direct threat against Kee, and simply reporting it with a click didn’t seem adequate. So I called my attorney.
Soon after I hung up and kept reading, my breath caught. There was another. And another. And another.
Dozens of vile comments were aimed at Kee on a standard news article. It was nothing scandalous. Nothing wild. Just a refresher on Boston’s lost social scene sweetheart.
I wonder if he’ll paint the portrait for your memorial, sweetie. That’s all that’ll be left after I’m finished with you.
My mouth went dry as my heart thundered in my ears. There had to be hundreds of them, each more twisted than the last. Some hinting at violence. Others detailing every horrible thing they were going to do to her.
I closed the page and leaned into the leather of the pub booth, nausea rolling through me in waves. She was safe. There were armed guards outside. Nothing could happen to her. I replayed it the mantra in my mind, but it wouldn’t stick. I could only hope the next few moves would.
I found loyalty and silence in the forgotten ones, my little sparrows willing to fly into the fire for me in return for kind words and a fat stack of hundreds. I turned to those who needed a friend most, giving them the dignity they deserved while allowing them to earn an honest living. It was a win-win situation for everyone.
One might think I was insane for trusting my life’s work with the forsaken, but it didn’t bother me one bit. Society was the one who needed readjusting, the ones who tossed aside the undesirables like trash rather than humans. I chose to pick them up rather than force them down, and in the process found a group more loyal than any normal person.
The coverage in Boston burned bright, but by the end of my first week in London, it had started to wane. More questions than answers plagued the Bold’s exposé, experts and conspiracy theorists poking holes in his words.
Soon Kee’s face disappeared from the news cycle, though horrible comments still popped onto past posts, threats sprinkled in here and there, appearing as fast as the sites could take them down.
I wanted to jump on a plane home to start the cleanup process but knew better than to step into that trap. They were still waiting to pounce, the security detail reporting paparazzi activity around Kee’s apartment despite the fact that she wasn’t there.
They even bothered poor Lil, though the stick of dynamite met them with fire and fury, dropping more f-bombs in a one-minute interview than I thought possible.
I only had to wait a little longer. Once the next act in the circus kicked off, I was free to move without fear. They’d be so busy chasing their own tails in Paris they would miss me slipping back into Boston entirely.
Until then, it was a waiting game.
One I couldn’t lose.
Keely
Luxury didn’t mean comfort.
Every inch of Ethan’s home was grand, and I spent a good portion of my first week exploring it, the rooms an intricate web of opulence. A gourmet kitchen. A bar. An indoor lap pool. A home gym. Everything a person could ever want within four walls.
Everything except for Ethan.
I was hoping he would be hiding somewhere inside, opening each new door expecting him to be on the other side. But he wasn’t.
Despite the beauty all around, I was alone. Not just alone, but alone and losing my mind.
A guard brought clothes from my place along with my laptop and textbooks, my cell phone charger the only item in the pile I was excited to see. I didn’t need to ask how they gained entry, knowing Ethan likely supplied them with his key.
My phone stayed glued to my hand as I paced the penthouse, willing it to ring, hoping for something from Ethan. But nothing came. So I texted him again.
Call me. Please.
It sounded desperate, but I was desperate. Desperate for calm. Desperate for him. Desperate for answers.
He said he loved me, but you don’t lie to those you love. You don’t leave them. Definitely not in times of need.
After nine days of nothingness, I found myself reclining in a leather theater seat watching reruns of game shows. I didn’t know if I was more surprised that Ethan had a theater in his home or that I didn’t know the price of laundry detergent, failing miserably in the latest round of the show. Who even knew winter mint was a scent?
My phone buzzed for the hundredth time, likely my parents still short circuiting after the short and sweet I’m fine text I’d sent. I knew the simplicity would drive Mom up the wall, but I needed to let them know I was safe.
But it wasn’t. It was Rick, replying to the message I’d sent days earlier.
Rick: Your anger is misdirected. Nothing I’ve published is untrue.
He was baiting me, I knew it, but dammit, I bit. Hard.
It takes a big man to publish lies to advance their own career, huh? What happened to journalism’s code of ethics?
Not only had he lied about me, but he’d lied about himself. About Ethan. He deserved more than a bite.
Rick: No lies, hon. Just love. Speaking of that, how’s your man? When’s his next
