I check my phone . . . no messages.
Please call me.
I get a vision of my Jameson all alone in his big apartment, and my heart aches. I’ve decided that I’m going over there tomorrow night and knocking the door down.
I can’t give him the space that he needs . . . I need him.
The door buzzes, and I jump up, excited. Jameson. I run to the telecom to see two police officers on the screen. I push the button. “Hello?”
“Is that Emily Foster?”
“Yes.”
“Can we come up, please?”
“What’s wrong?” I whisper. Oh my God, what’s happened?
“We need to talk to you.”
“Has something happened?” I stammer.
“Let us in, please.”
“Okay.” I push the button with my heart pumping hard.
Moments later they knock on the door, and I open it in a rush. “Hello.”
Two solemn-looking police officers force a smile. “Are you Emily Foster?”
“Yes.” My heart begins to race.
“Can we talk to you for a moment, please?”
I stand back. “Yes, please come in.”
“We would like to talk to Jameson Miles, please.” They look around my apartment and then turn their attention back to me. “Is he here?”
“No, he isn’t.” I feel my heart begin to pump harder in my chest. “What’s this about?”
“He’s wanted for questioning in regards to an assault earlier this evening.”
“What?” I frown.
“Gabriel Ferrara was attacked tonight outside a restaurant by Mr. Miles. A warrant has been issued for his arrest.”
“Is he all right?”
“Mr. Ferrara has significant facial injuries and has been taken to the hospital.”
I put my hand over my mouth in horror.
“What happened?” I ask.
“Mr. Ferrara was getting into a car when Mr. Miles approached him in the dark. A fight broke out, and Mr. Miles assaulted him.”
“Where was this?”
“Out the front of Bryant Park, opposite Lucina’s.”
“Oh my God,” I whisper. “Is Jameson all right?”
“Witnesses say he ran off through the park.”
I close my eyes in relief . . . thank God.
“You have the wrong person,” I stammer. “Jameson would never attack someone. He’s the CEO of a company, not a pub brawler.” That’s a complete lie; I know Jameson would love to beat Ferrara to a pulp . . . “I don’t know where he is,” I assert with renewed determination.
“Can we search your apartment?” the policeman asks.
“Of course. He’s not here, though.” I stand back to allow them access.
The police search the apartment and come back to me in the living area. They hand me a business card. “As soon as you hear from him, you need to call us. If you don’t, you may be charged with obstruction of justice. Hiding a person of interest from authorities is a very serious offense.”
“Okay.” I storm to the door and open it in a rush. “Good night.” The officers leave, and I close the door behind them with a slam.
I put my two hands over my mouth in horror and dial the number.
Jameson’s phone rings out . . . he wouldn’t answer my call anyway. “Damn it.”
In a panic, I call Tristan.
“Hello.”
“Tristan,” I stammer. “Do you know where Jameson is?”
“What’s wrong?” he says.
“The police were just here, and Jameson apparently assaulted Ferrara. They’ve issued a warrant for his arrest. Do you know where he is?”
“What?”
“He’s not answering my calls, and witnesses said he ran off across the park.”
“What the fuck?”
“What do I do?”
“I’ll try calling him and call you back.”
“Okay.” I hang up and begin to pace . . . where are you?
Moments later Tristan calls back. “He’s not answering. I’ll come over.”
“Thank you.”
An hour later Tristan and I walk through Bryant Park. We haven’t talked other than about finding Jameson. He’s angry with me about Jake and obviously doesn’t want to discuss it.
I’m angry with me.
It’s one o’clock in the morning, and now I’m getting frantic. My eyes roam over the park in the darkness. “Where could he be?” I whisper.
“I don’t know. Try calling him again,” he says.