The Hazards of Hunting While Heartbroken (39 page)

“Checking email,” I say. “I couldn’t sleep.” I reach for the mouse to sign out, but Oscar’s across the room before the screen changes.

“You mean you’re checking
my
email.” He’s trying, and failing, to keep his voice level. And probably cursing himself for not closing out of the account. Or for choosing such an inquisitive girlfriend.

I want to say something that makes him the villain, but I appear to have lost the ability to form words. Oscar’s ears burn bright red and the veins on his neck bulge. I wonder again if his violent streak could ever be directed at a woman. I can’t believe my stupidity and impatience. Why couldn’t I have come here to look around sometime when he was at work?

Because I was over eager, of course.

Oscar folds his arms across his chest and glares at me. His liquid brown eyes seem to harden. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“I think you’re up to something illegal,” I blurt, stunning myself. “You have
way
more cash on hand than any other ad exec in Manhattan, and last weekend, I heard from a reliable source, that you could be involved in that big sex trafficking ring.”

“You can’t possibly believe that,” he says, almost dismissively.

“Judging by what I just saw, I think it might be true.” I fold my arms across my chest defensively.

I can tell by the look on Oscar’s face that he wasn’t expecting an answer even remotely close to the one I just recited. As if to underscore my point, he says, “And I thought you might be snooping for evidence of another woman.”

“Well, I wasn’t. Should I have been?”

“No. I’m not in the habit of proposing to one girl while keeping another in the wings.”

“How gentlemanly of you. So did you really buy my apartment with money from child porn?” I’m surprised at how bold I sound, since I’m still wondering whether he could get angry enough to throttle me.

“I’m good at my job, Zoë. And whatever else you saw was spam.” I can tell by his voice that he doesn’t truly expect me to buy this.

“Most people don’t store their spam.” I wince as this comes out, and half expect him to lunge at me, but evidently Oscar’s too calculating for that. I can tell he’s trying to figure out what, if anything, I could possibly know.

Before he can re-group, I push myself out of his big leather chair and say, “I think I should go.” My voice wavers and I feel tears coming on. I expect him to reach out and grab me, or block my way, but he lets me walk right past. I grab my purse off the kitchen counter before dashing out the door.

“I have side deals with clients that are over your head.”

Wow. I guess now I’m sure he was never with me for my intellect, because even if I bought this dumb excuse about side work, I don’t think—at least I hope—I’d never stay with a man who claimed something to be beyond my mental capabilities. Anger and indignation move in and push out any residual sadness I had left. There’s nothing left to say.

I bolt for the hallway.

My heart is racing by the time I reach the elevators, only thirty feet down the hall. I pound on the call button, as if that will make it arrive faster. I can’t believe he hasn’t come after me.

I’m sick to my stomach by the time the elevator doors close. The graveyard shift doorman looks more than a little surprised as I fly through the lobby, out onto the sidewalk. Only then do I recall that I’m barefoot and wearing a bathrobe. A very fluffy feminine one at that. The street is eerily calm, quieter than I’ve ever seen it. A light but steady drizzle sparkles against the street lamps and adds a rawness to the already chilly fall air. Only a few cars pass, and there’s not a cab in sight. Not that most taxis would stop to pick up a crazy lady in a robe, even if it’s accessorized with a Marc Jacobs bag, and even if the whole scene is playing out in New York.

I try the cab company whose number is programmed in my phone. The woman who answers warns me of a ninety minute wait. I consider walking for about half a minute. That would be foolish at 3 a.m., even with shoes and without the cold rain. Sheepishly, I do something I’ve never seen anyone under fifty do: I go back inside and ask the doorman if he can find me a ride.

He tries his best to look unfazed and professional, as if there’s nothing strange about having one of the residents’ girlfriends come down half naked in the middle of the night and ask him for assistance. While he calls some undoubtedly overpriced car service to ferry me home, I call Angela’s brother-in-law. He answers on the second ring, sounding totally asleep.

After apologizing profusely for waking him, I tell Max about the email account, and recite the login name scrawled on my hand. “I’m sorry I don’t know the password. He’s at his computer now, probably deleting stuff.”

Max says he’s looking into it as we speak, and sounds about a thousand per cent more alert by the time he asks, “Where are you now?”

“In the lobby of his building.”

“Good. Don’t go back upstairs. Catch a cab home and call me when you get there. And thanks for the tip.”

When I hang up, I feel a hand grip my shoulder. My whole body tenses. Oscar has pulled on some clothes and followed me down here.

“I think you should come back upstairs. We need to talk this thing through.” He’s arranged his expression to look contrite, and he’s obviously determined to make the doorman think we’re having a routine lovers’ spat. As if to underscore his intent, he says, “There’s no need to make a scene.”

“I should go home.”

“I really wish you’d come back up.” His hand slides from the top of my shoulder to my arm and he digs his fingers in so it hurts. A lot.

“Let me go,” I hiss. Inexplicably, the doorman picks this exact moment to disappear from the lobby. I have no idea whether he’s ducking into the men’s room, making some kind of security rounds, or mistakenly thinking we desire privacy, but we’re suddenly alone. Oscar readjusts his grip on my arm and drags me towards the elevator.

I don’t know why I don’t scream. Maybe it’s too unreal. This is Oscar. The same mushy, romantic Oscar who swept me off my feet in September, who sends me flowers at work and cooks me gourmet meals, who met my family and proposed marriage less than a week ago. I don’t find my voice until the elevator doors slide shut and we start our ascent. When I open my mouth, what comes out is a blood curdling wail I didn’t know I was capable of emitting.

“These cars are soundproof.” He’s doing his best to sound bored and blasé, but his eyes betray him. Oscar is furious. “So scream all you want.”

I’m not sure what I’m thinking, or maybe I’m not thinking, but the next thing I know, I’m kicking my now suddenly very ugly boyfriend in the shins. He starts to yowl but catches himself just as the elevator stops and the doors start to slide open. As he grabs my arm, it suddenly occurs to me that this is a high end building. They must have security cameras everywhere. If I can stall long enough, or act distressed enough, sooner or later the bored night watchman will notice and lumber up here to investigate.

Instead of allowing Oscar to guide me out of the elevator, I drop to the floor and sit on the carpet, cross legged. “I’m not following you anywhere. If you think you’re going to drag me into that apartment again, you can forget it.”

Oscar is obviously fighting to keep his anger in check. He draws a deep breath, exhales loudly, then squats so we’re at eye level. “Zoë, it’s just
me
. I don’t know what your imagination has cooked up in the middle of the night, but whatever you think, it’s way off. Now could you please get up and come inside before all the neighbors hear us?” He tries to force a conciliatory expression.

“I don’t believe you.” While I’m disinclined to tell him I looked in the briefcase and found his secret stash, I’d think the emails alone would be enough to alert any normal person to a potential problem.

“Fine.” He pushes himself off the floor, then in one motion bends down and scoops me up. I kick and punch at him as he carries me the short distance to his door. I try to squirm out of his grasp, but he’s got a surprisingly secure hold on me. I aim my foot between his legs and manage to hit my target on the second or third try. He curses me under his breath and starts to bend forward in pain but catches himself and manages not to drop me until we’re through his door. He slams it shut behind us.

“Security just saw that whole performance.” I clamber to my feet and close my robe, which had flapped open during the trip from the elevator. “If you wanted to kidnap me, you’d be better off doing it in my lower rent building.” My voice starts to waver. I want to sound confident, but I’m unsure. Maybe nobody noticed the spectacle in the elevator and hallway. Or maybe the man downstairs doesn’t get paid enough to care.

“I don’t care if Joseph saw our little lovers’ quarrel or not. I’m much more interested in why you’ve been snooping through my emails.” He’s managed to back me against a wall so I can neither dash to the door, nor move further down the corridor into the apartment. I can’t believe any of this is happening. It feels utterly surreal.

“Snooping is the lesser evil here.” I try to say it with confidence, but I’m squirming, trying to create more distance between his face and mine. I can feel his breath on my skin, and for the first time ever, it repulses me.

“I beg to differ. I think trust is important, no, not important,
essential,
to a relationship and you just blew it.”

“No, Oscar, I didn’t blow it. I did what I had to do to find out the truth.”

“What truth?”

Either he’s unconvinced I know anything, or he’s taking some kind of strange delight in making me say it out loud. “You’re profiting from the exploitation of innocent, defenseless children.”

The blood vessels over his temples throb more violently and his face grows even redder. “That’s an awfully serious accusation you’re throwing at me.”

“I happen to believe it’s true.”

“Not that it’s any of your business, because we are so over, but I’ve made some strategic investments over the years. Some of them include interests in companies that distribute adult entertainment. But I’m not a pervert, and I’m not doing or even condoning anything depraved or illegal. I thought I knew you, Zoë. I thought you knew me.”

A large shot of adrenalin has kicked in from somewhere, and I realize I’m no longer feeling scared. Whether that’s reasonable or not, I’m unsure.

“People who invest in legitimate companies do not ferry second passports and suspicious checks around in their briefcases. Or exchange said briefcases with contacts in public places, as if you’re playing some stupid spy game. Or take bogus business trips to Southeast Asia. Or maintain numbered accounts overseas.”

The color drains from his face as I watch him realize that I’ve snooped beyond his Hotmail account. Before I process what’s happening, he grabs me by both shoulders and jams me against the wall. Hard. Then he gets in my face and through clenched teeth, asks, “What did you see? How long have you been spying on me, you wretched little bitch?”

“I saw enough to know you’ve been living a lie.” The tears are welling in the corners of my eyes and I will myself not to cry. My heart is pounding and I realize that Oscar is probably not merely capable of physical violence. He seems likely to perpetrate it against me at my next misstep.

“You’d better be prepared to get a lot more specific than that.” He readjusts his grip on my left arm and starts to twist the right arm back. It hurts and the tears well again. I’m starting to shake and I hate myself for it, even though it must be a perfectly normal and legitimate reaction. The little voice in my head chooses this exact moment to pipe up and tell me I am an idiot. In case I needed any clarification.

Oscar waits for me to volunteer something, but I can’t seem to choose or form the right words. “You’d better tell me what you saw. Right now.”

“I don’t need to tell you anything. You know what you have in your own briefcases. And it seems pretty damn disingenuous for you to get all holier-than-thou about me
snooping
, when you’ve been involved in something so unspeakably disgusting for years.”

The slap across my face hits me completely off guard. My fingers fly up to my cheek and the tears suddenly dry up. No man has ever raised a hand to me in my life and, but for the sting, it feels unreal now.

“I mean it, Zoë. I want to know exactly what you think you saw, and when.”

I’m too stunned to comply, even if I wanted to. He’s going to hit me again. For some reason, I suspect it will hurt more than the first time. I don’t know what to do. I feel paralyzed, both physically and mentally.

Oscar looks stunned, too, as if none of this is going remotely close to how he would have imagined. An insistent banging snaps me from my state of shock. In the half second it takes us both to process that the noise means someone is at the door, a booming male voice with Staten Island undertones demands, “Open up. NYPD.”

Oscar releases his hold on me, readjusts his bathrobe, runs his hands through his hair and exhales loudly before opening the door. Two uniformed officers push past him into the foyer. A man and a woman in suits, maybe detectives, follow a few steps behind. The older looking of the two regular cops speaks first. “Ma’am, are you Zoë Clark?”

I nod.

“We got a tip from another law enforcement agency that you might be in danger.”

I blink vacuously at my rescuers, unsure what to say or think. I pull my robe more tightly across my chest and wish I knew how much time has passed since I hung up with Max. It must have been a while, because I doubt he’s one to sound an alarm over nothing.

“Ma’am, we have a few questions for you. Do you want to get dressed?”

I nod again and turn for the bedroom just as the tears start to well.

Behind me, I hear Oscar make motions to follow. One of the cops stops him. “Oscar Thornton?” he asks.

Oscar answers yes in a tone that conveys a high degree of irritation.

“You’re under arrest,” the officer informs him. I don’t dare turn around. I hear the clink of handcuffs as the other cop starts to read Oscar’s rights. They sound exactly the same as they do on television. The woman detective escorts me to the bedroom so I can pull some clothes on. When we emerge, the uniformed cops have taken Oscar away.