I dial his number and keep walking through the darkened park when we hear something.
Tristan’s eyes widen, and he holds up his hand. “Shh, listen.”
From the darkness, we can hear a faint ringtone. It goes silent, and I redial his number.
We both look around frantically, and then we see the white glow as the screen lights up. “Here.” I run over to the side and see a phone lying in the grass. My eyes widen in horror as Tristan picks it up. He swipes it on and puts in the code, and the screen lights up.
His eyes rise to meet mine. “It’s Jameson’s phone.”
We both look up across the darkened park as a sense of fear sweeps through me. “What the hell has happened to him?” I whisper.
It’s four o’clock in the morning, and Tristan and I are frantic. We’ve walked for hours. Alan, Elliot, and Christopher are all out looking for Jameson.
“He’s probably just hiding out from the police somewhere. He’ll be fine,” Tristan tries to comfort me. I’m in full-blown tears now; there’s no hiding my distress.
“This is all my fault,” I whisper as we walk. “If I didn’t go to that setup, none of this would have happened.”
“What do you mean, setup?”
“Jake told me that he had information on a story that Ferrara was publishing the next day about Jameson and that he would tell me out of work. I didn’t want to worry Jameson, so I lied and went to meet him. He just wanted to get me alone, and he kissed me. I slapped him across the face and left, and then the next day . . .” I shrug. “You saw the pictures.”
He frowns. “So you weren’t seeing Jake?”
“No,” I snap. “I’m in love with fucking Jameson, you idiot.” I sob. “And he won’t let me explain.”
“Fucking hell, what a mess.” His phone rings, and he quickly answers. “Hello.”
He listens. “Yes.” He listens some more. “Is he all right?” He gasps. He puts his hand over his chest. “Thank God.”
“What?” I mouth.
“Thank you. I’m on my way.” He hangs up.
“What?” I whisper.
“Jameson is in the hospital.”
“What happened?”
“He was hit by a car.”
My hands fly over my mouth in horror.
“He’s okay—just a concussion.”
“Oh, thank God.”
“I’m going to go get him.”
“I’m coming,” I demand.
“Em . . .” He pauses. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. The paps will be everywhere after this Ferrara bullshit, and Jameson doesn’t need more publicity. Who knows what reporters are at the hospital? Jameson specifically wants you kept out of the spotlight. Let me talk to him, and I’ll call you when we get home.”
Hope blooms in my chest. Is he trying to protect me?
“But I didn’t do anything wrong, Tristan. I want to see him.”
Empathy wins, and he takes me in his arms. “Let me get him home safely, and I’ll call you.” He pulls back and holds me by the arms as he studies me. “I promise I’ll call you. I’ll drop you home and then sort him out, and then I’ll call you. You have my word.” His eyes search mine.
“Okay.”
We walk for a moment in silence.
“I’m going to find out who stole the money if it’s the last thing I do,” I whisper.
“Emily, that’s a bad idea. Leave it to the detectives. You’re tired and emotional. Let’s get you home.”
I nod, knowing that he is right about everything and hating it even more.
Jameson
I watch the nurse take my pulse as she holds my hand, and I inhale deeply. She’s older and motherly, the kind you want looking after you.
“How’s the headache?” she asks.
“Still there.”
She smiles and gets her flashlight and shines it in my eyes to inspect my pupils. “You have a serious concussion. You’re very lucky to be alive, young man.”
I hear chatter from outside, and Tristan appears at the door. “Hey.”
“Hi.” I smirk at the worry on his face.
He rushes to my side. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“He is not fine,” the nurse interrupts. “He got hit by a car. He could have been killed. As it is, he has a very serious concussion.”
Tristan drags his hand down his face. “Jesus.”
“He’s staying in for the night, and as long as all his preliminary tests come back clear in the morning, he can go home.”