Total pages in book: 112
Estimated words: 105734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 529(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
I’ll just close the book on both those chapters and start fresh tomorrow. I won’t tell anyone anything about what went on these past few days, and with any luck, they’ll magically disappear.
I linger in the shower until I’ve washed away all traces of that crappy apartment. Dragging myself back to my bed, I pass out almost before my head hits the pillow. I hope it won’t take long for my brain to paint over the memories of what’s transpired recently. The sooner I can let all this go, the sooner I can get back to my real life.
CHAPTER 30
SOFIA
The moment Frankie leaves the conference room. I have trouble breathing. I was sure he wouldn’t shoot me in front of everyone in the office, but when I can’t see him anymore, the panic really sets in. I wonder if he’ll be waiting for me in the parking garage, or if he’s already planted a bomb at my apartment.
I feel a rush of blood envelop my brain, and I know I’m going to have a panic attack. My face is flushed and my lungs are tight. I get dizzy and I’m forced to sit down. I put my head in my hands and do my best to breathe. I’m not a basket case, but I’ve had enough panic attacks to know that they all end pretty swiftly. I just have to hang in there, and I’ll be okay in a few minutes. But when the crisis passes, things don’t look that much better.
I’m still directly in Frankie’s line of fire. He could take his revenge on me in ways I haven’t even contemplated yet. What if he arranges to have me arrested for trespassing, or decides to go after my parents?
I have to get out of here and do something, but for the life of me, I can’t come up with a plan. I had the foresight to take some photos of the journal before I handed it over. I also have the pictures Mario took of the restaurant. Maybe I can connect one source with the other and come up with a way to get ahead of the eight ball.
I gear myself up to leave the conference room, but the moment I step out into the bullpen, I get a head rush again. I run to the bathroom, worried that I’m going to throw up. Inside, the fluorescent lights don’t help. I pick a stall and drop to my knees, but nothing comes out. I feel like a college kid waiting to puke during a frat party. I’m drunk off Frankie’s threats but not drunk enough.
I kneel there, shaking, grasping the porcelain bowl with both hands. Someone else walks into the bathroom, interrupting my crisis. I close my eyes, waiting until they pick their own stall and lock the door.
I rise slowly, going to the sink to splash water on my face. I gaze at my reflection in the mirror, wondering why I don’t look worse. Sure, I look like I’ve had a bad day, but there’s no indication that the woman in the mirror is wanted by the mob. She just looks like an ordinary reporter, one who hasn’t had enough sleep.
I straighten my shoulders as the other woman comes out from her stall. I smile stiffly and leave the bathroom before I’m drawn into conversation. Back at my desk, I sit down. I’m determined to take this basket of lemons that life has handed me and make lemonade. If I can find a way to nail Frankie and his family to the wall, then maybe I can emerge from this situation intact.
However, as soon as I attempt to go over my notes, I discover that they’ve all vanished. There’s nothing in my home drive except for a few letters I was editing. Those are from months ago. Everything recent is missing, as if someone came through and swiped everything off my physical desktop.
In a panic, I check my backup drive and find that one is empty as well. Whoever did this is good. I didn’t even know they were here, and they got away with everything. There’s one obvious culprit, and that’s Frankie. He was here before I arrived, giving him ample time to mess with my things.
I lean back and close my eyes. This isn’t happening, I tell myself. It can’t be happening. But then I think about Danny, and the way he looked after he died. I didn’t want to believe that was real either, but it was. And every day since then, I’ve been dealing with the ramifications of that reality.
Calmer now, I return to my computer. There has to be something that Frankie didn’t find. I open one folder after another, hoping to find something incriminating. But all the research, the data, and the photographs are gone. I only have what’s left on my phone, and that’s a small sample of what I’ve collected these past few weeks.