“How many matches did he have?” I’m curious. You told me that I was the only one you’d picked from that sea of pursed lips and offered cleavage. You said it was my eyes, blue, glowing against pale skin and jet hair. Hypnotic—that was the word you used.
Kirk offers that enigmatic smile again. “Just one. He only chose you.”
I’m restless, anxious, sit forward in my seat.
“How could you even get that information?”
“I work for a pretty powerful firm. They throw a lot of money around.”
Is it that easy? I wonder. Is everything in this world about money? Dad would say yes, of course it is. The root of all evil.
“What about me?” I venture. “How many matches?”
How shallow, right? You’d ask too if you could. Wouldn’t you want to know how many people thought you were cute. Again, that flicker of amusement.
“You only liked three people and they liked you back,” he says. “But, for the record, you had tons of potential matches. But it seems that you only chose a handful of men, including our friend. Picky, like you said. Or—you have a type.”
Our friend. But you’re not my friend, are you, Adam? I don’t even know your name, your real name.
I’m not sure why, but everything comes out in a rush—about last night, how you stood me up, how I went to your place and discovered it was a vacation rental, the cryptic text you sent. Of course I keep to myself what I revealed to you.
Kirk asks for the vacation rental address and I give it to him, telling him also about my email to Joe the superhost.
“Has he gotten back to you?” he asks.
I pull my phone from my bag and check my email. “Not yet.”
I keep my eyes down, swiping again and again with my thumb, waiting for an answer.
“So, the last time you saw Adam?” he prompts, bringing me back to the conversation.
“Monday,” I say. “He spent Sunday night with me and left for work in the morning.”
We made love before the alarm went off, both of us half asleep, my secret in the air all around us. Your eyes gave me everything I needed—passion, understanding, comfort. You weren’t afraid or distant. If anything, you seemed closer, your arms wrapped so tight around me, so deep inside me. I still feel you.
“Where did he claim to work?” Bailey asks.
“Uptown.”
“Company name? Address?”
I shake my head, a little embarrassed. You’ve told me, of course. Or did you? “I don’t remember. Something to do with forts or locks or vaults.”
There’s a bit of skepticism etched into his brow.
“You’ve never been to his office?”
“Just the other day for the first time. I didn’t go in, just waited for him outside.”
Just like the apartment, I realize. I’d been to the Chelsea place just often enough that I had a mental model of where you lived, just enough that I didn’t question the truth of it. It was too early to have met your coworkers, to have accompanied you to the office Christmas party. After all, you hadn’t met any of the people I work with. In fact, I hadn’t even introduced you yet to Jax.
“Where was that?” His tone is patient, coaxing.
“Uptown. Seventy-Ninth between Broadway and Columbus. Maybe?”
“Address?”
“No. Sorry.”
“Feel like taking a ride up there with me? See if you can find it.”
I check the time. I have to get to the studio. “I can meet you later,” I say. “I need to work.”
He doesn’t ask me what I do or where I work, just offers a nod. How much does Bailey Kirk know about me, I wonder. The thought makes me a little uneasy. I have imagined myself as hidden, private. Privacy is a thing of the past. Was that true?
“What time can you meet?” he asks.
“I can be there by four. Corner of Seventy-Ninth and Broadway.”
“Okay,” he says. “It’s a date.”
How does he know I’ll be true to my word? Maybe he doesn’t need to know. Seems like I was easy to find, in spite of my believing otherwise. How many times do I enter my address to have something shipped, or for a membership to this or that, thinking it’s private, secure, protected? What information did I provide Torch? Oh, wait, I didn’t. Jax did everything. But she’s the only person more careful with my secrets than I am. Other than Robin.
Or maybe Kirk can see that I want to meet him, that I’m hooked, into him, into you, into the missing girl already. After all this is my beat—people and their problems. Maybe he can see that I want to know what’s happening, maybe more than he does.