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Alannah storms to her car and peels out.
I get into my car, check my phone for the message from Kenny with the address for Jeannie Gilligan, then punch it into my navigation system.
I already know Craig Jenkins spent time with Jeannie yesterday. Kenny followed him to her house. He was there over an hour, and he clocked being tailed on the way home. Kenny’s good. Jenkins must be good, too. Would be nice to have him in our pocket, but if he keeps his end of our bargain and doesn’t cause me further hassles, I’ll grant my wife’s wish and let him continue to wear his white hat.
I had Kenny do a quick background check, nothing too deep, but seems like there’s not much to tell of her life. Jeannie Gilligan moved here after high school, and reconnected with Hallman the freshman year of college. Enrolled in his school, likely to rekindle their thing. She grew up on the same street as Adam Hallman (formerly Dalton), dated him long distance for a year in high school, they split, and she’s been carrying a torch ever since. She has a 9-5 clerical job at the courthouse, has very few friends, is trying to make money with a side hustle as an online influencer, and has a steady routine.
On Tuesday nights at seven o’clock, she goes to a thirty-minute hot yoga class six blocks from her apartment. I kill time in the bookstore, buying a couple of books for Chloe, then five minutes before class is set to finish, I park near the yoga studio and watch the door.
Yeah, I’ve got people that can do this for me, but in a situation this personal, a situation that involves slandering Chloe’s name? It’ll be more impactful coming directly from me.
She steps outside the yoga studio with another woman, and they stand outside talking for a good ten minutes. I’m ready for this to be done. I want to get home to my wife. I also haven’t eaten since breakfast at my parents’.
Finally, they go separate ways.
She walks about a hundred feet and then cuts right down a side street. I jog until I get to the turn and then slow down, keeping thirty or forty feet behind her.
She hasn’t looked back for a good block and a half, so I squat, nab a small rock, and pitch it. It pings off the side of her head and bounces off her shoulder.
She startles, grabs the side of her head, and looks over her shoulder. It takes a solid three seconds before her body language tells me recognition has hit. I pick up my pace. Anger burns hot in my system. This bitch.
She rushes forward, holding her head, but power-walking away from me, digging through her bag, likely going for her phone and maybe some pepper spray. She breaks into a jog, still rifling through the bag, and so I rush her. She stumbles, falling to her hands and knees on the sidewalk.
She squeaks out a sound of pain and looks up at me with giant eyes.
She’s generically attractive. Dainty. Probably used to getting her own way. Just has that look about her.
After a quick scan of my perimeter, I lift my foot and put my boot to her shoulder. I’m putting next to no weight on it, but she immediately loses her balance and now her cheek is pressed to the pavement. And the urge is there to kick her in the face, to stomp on her head.
How fucking dare she go after Chloe.
I resist the urge.
“Chloe Steele, formerly Turner, does not exist.”
She whimpers.
“At all. Understand? You don’t speak her name. You don’t type it. You don’t discuss her whatsoever. Not with anyone.”
I pause for a few beats, then add, “Yeah?”
She whimpers and nods. She’s crying. There’s snot coming out of her nose.
I back off just two paces and spit. The spit lands on her face.
I walk into the house at nearly eight thirty and the aroma of food lingers. I’m fucking starved.
The sight of Chloe’s bare feet on this kitchen floor in the house I bought for her? I’m hard. I take in her skintight blue yoga pants, her little white crop top showing me her belly button. The look on her face? I can’t be sure, but she might be looking at me differently.
I’m harder.
She’s got her hair tucked behind her ears, her teeth are chewing her bottom lip, and she’s drying a frying pan with a look in her eyes I don’t recognize. Almost like she might be happy to see me.
I set the bookstore bag on the counter, taking an exaggerated whiff of the air as I wrap both arms around her waist and take her lips with mine. She tastes like wine. The whites of her eyes are so bright white. Her eyelashes are so full. The shape of her mouth is fascinating. I never grow tired of watching it move as she talks.
I caress her face, thinking about the fact that she’s mostly quiet around me. I want her lips moving, want her telling me things, want to hear her wants. I want to know that she’s happy. I want to know that she loves that I give that to her.
“Guess I missed Taco Tuesday.”
