Win, Lose or Die by D. L. Fisher

Author:D. L. Fisher [Fisher, D. L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-07-05T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 18

GABBY RIZZO

I storm through the lobby of Foxcroft, my flip-flops flopping loudly against the wood floor, echoing through the massive space. I feel Greg's eyes on me, but I don't look back at him. I can't look at him right now.

As the distance grows between us, I unclench my fists and allow myself to breathe again. My heart is racing a mile a minute. It's the urgency of our situation and my anger toward my husband.

He has some nerve, considering. I think of all the things I should have said. Maybe I'm always looking for Susie because you're never around. Perhaps if you'd been there for me, I wouldn't have looked elsewhere. Maybe if you cared about our son more than yourself and about baseball…

It's too late now.

I have never wanted to see my best friend more than I do now. The nerve of my husband calling me obsessed. Greg's problem is he doesn't understand unconditional relationships. One of his many problems.

I imagine Susie is back in her room by now, snuggled up with Matt. He's probably rubbing her feet or stroking her hair while pretending not to notice the odor of Calvin Klein for Men that she brought back from the bartender. I guess sometimes you accept the things you hate about a person you love to keep from losing them. I've become quite the expert on that.

I crave the warm reassurance of my best friend. But it's not just Susie I want to see. It's Jake.

Matt claimed Jake didn't know anything about Cam's whereabouts. But if something were going on, who would he tell—the dad or the cool aunt? I've known Jake since he was a baby, and Jake knows he can trust me. He's a good kid, like Cam, and I'm counting on him telling me the truth. Because could he really have slept through his best friend getting snatched in the night from the bed adjacent to his? Jake never was a good sleeper.

I pound my clenched fist on the door to their room repeatedly. I press my face against the peephole but can't make out anything of substance. It's like I'm opening my eyes in pitch-black water. Then, as I'm about to turn to leave, I hear the shuffle of feet and jump back as the knob turns.

My heart is hammering in my chest. It's a sensation I've grown accustomed to this evening—the rhythmic thud quickening in pace each time I think about what may have happened to my son.

Matt opens the door, rubbing his eyes as if I've just woken him. Seriously, how could anyone sleep at a time like this? I guess it's easier to do when it's not your kid who's missing.

“Sorry, I must have nodded off. I was waiting, hoping to hear something.”

“Is Susie here?” I'm already looking past him, straining to see movement or bodies in the room. The answer to my question is written all over Matt's face. His eyes are swollen, blackish blue shadows circling out, and red-rimmed as if he's been crying.

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