“Tom, you have to go to the police with what you’re telling me.”
“No!” He practically screams it, grabbing my shoulders with force. “No. I can’t go to the police. The Lockes aren’t to be messed with. They’re too powerful. I’ve seen them destroy people, careers, lives. I don’t want that for me, and I don’t want that for you—”
“But if what you’re saying is true, then—”
“The answer’s no, Mia. No. I can’t do it. I just…can’t. But I am going to put in my notice, and I’m going to get us far away from this company. All I care about is keeping us safe and, after today, I don’t feel safe.”
“I don’t want to lose you,” I admit, resting my head on his chest. His heart is pounding. “Maybe you shouldn’t go back at all.”
“Listen, there’s…there’s another thing I should tell you.”
I sit back up. If it’s possible, his face is even paler than before. “What’s that?”
His eyes dart back and forth between mine, and my body tenses. What is he about to tell me? It feels like it might be bigger, somehow, than what I’ve already learned.
He lets out a breath. “Nevermind. It’s not important. I’m getting out.”
“Tell me, Tom.”
“No, it was…” He waves me off. “It was about a client. I shouldn’t say.”
He’s shaking even more now, and I know whatever he was planning to tell me, it is definitely bad. How had I never noticed how much his job affected him? How had I not seen through the façade that was Locke Industries? Why had he stayed for so long?
“Okay. Look, it’s going to be okay.” We sink further into the couch together, and I stroke his chest, trying to calm him down though I don’t feel calm myself. “It’s going to be okay, you hear me? You’re going to be okay.”
He kisses the side of my head, and we sit in silence, my mind reeling with the day’s events, the discoveries I’ve made. So much has happened, and it’s killing me, but I have to stay strong. It’s obvious how much he needs that from me right now.
He leans in to kiss me. “You’re my strength, you know that?” he asks when our lips separate. “You’re the only thing that keeps me going some days.”
“Same, baby,” I tell him, rubbing my hands down the sides of his face. “You’re the only thing that matters to me.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Mia
TWO MONTHS AGO
“Oh, shit. Oh, shit. Oh, shit.” I rouse from sleep, rubbing my dry eyes as I try to take in what I’m seeing. Tom’s standing at the foot of our bed, pacing back and forth with his phone in his hand.
“What’s the matter?” I ask, sitting up.
“I…I don’t have access to my work email.”
“What are you talking about?” I close one eye, still not quite sure what’s happening.
“They…they restricted me. I don’t have access.” He’s out of breath.
“Why are you checking your work email?”
“I got a notification that it was accessed from a computer that wasn’t the usual, and when I tried to check the app, it says I’m denied.”
“Do you think you were hacked?”
“No,” he says definitively. “The only person who can deny me access is the system administrator, who’d only be acting on Orrick Locke’s orders.”
“I’m sorry, I’m confused.”
“This isn’t Orrick’s doing, though. I know it. It’s got to be Iris.” He pounds his palm on his forehead. “I know how she thinks. She has to be behind this, but to what end? Are they planning on firing me?”
He’s talking to himself, causing quite a panic. I throw the covers from my legs and stand, trying to stop him. “Tom, look at me, talk to me. What are you saying? Why would Orrick or Iris want to block you from your email? What reason would they have to fire you?”
His eyes go dark, even in the shadows of our bedroom. “I have to go.” He starts to move around me, but I stop him.
“What are you talking about?”
“Listen to me.” He takes hold of my shoulders, and I notice the mist in his eyes. “I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t know what they’re planning, but I do know that when Orrick and Iris decide to get rid of someone, there’s little that can stop them. I’ve seen it happen. They’re ruthless—”
“Why would they want to get rid of you—”
“I have to fix this, Mia. I have to fix this. I love you so much.” He kisses my lips, but it’s cold, tears streaming down his cheeks and transferring to mine. “Whatever you hear, I want you to promise me you won’t believe it, okay? You know me. You know me better than anyone.”
I nod, and suddenly I’m crying, too. Why does this feel like goodbye? “Of course, I know you, Tom. What are you going to do?” I follow him out of the bedroom, down the hall, and to the door. He slips on his shoes. I grab his arm, trying to stop him, trying to understand. “Please wait!”
“I’ll be back,” he promises, but his eyes tell me he doesn’t believe it. He pulls his arm from my grasp. “I love you.”
“Tom, please!” I grab hold of the door, begging him to explain. “Please just tell me what’s going on. Don’t go. Not yet.”
“I have to go, Mia. I have to. I love you. Please don’t follow me. I love you.” He pulls the door from my grasp.
“Tom, please! Please don’t do this. Please.”
“I have to, Mia,” he says, his voice harsh. “I have to.” He looks apologetic as he shuts the door without another word, and I sink to the floor in tears, confused and heartbroken as ever.
I don’t sleep the rest of the night, but when morning comes, Tom still hasn’t returned home. My phone is absent of any missed calls. I try to call him, but it goes straight to his voicemail.
“Tom, it’s Mia. Call me please. I need to know that you’re safe. I…I love you.” My voice cracks, and I hang up, feeling conflicted and angry. How could he do this to me? What has he done to me, exactly? How could he leave me with absolutely no answers at all?
I pull up the Facebook app on my phone and scroll through my timeline, stopping when I see Tom’s face in a headline. When I read it, my breathing stops.
Local Man Named Person of Interest in Vance Corporation Bombing
I click on the link, scrolling through the article.
Thomas Carey, 28, of the 12 North Neighborhood of New Gilford has recently been named as a person of interest in yesterday’s bombing of Vance Corporation. The bombing, which left eleven dead and a number injured, took place just a block from Carey’s employer, Locke Industries. Last night, the board members of Locke Industries, a multi-billion-dollar security company, contacted police to let them know they had reason to believe their employee might be able to provide them with answers as to what happened and why. Mr. Carey’s current whereabouts are unknown at this time.
This story is still developing.
I’m stiff, and it’s possible I’ve forgotten how to breathe. I read through the article again, recalling each moment of the previous day. Tom couldn’t have done this. It’s impossible. He’d been on the phone with me when the bomb went off. He had nothing to do with the bombing. He’d never do something so horrible. Is it possible Orrick and Iris set him up? And, if so, why?
Chapter Thirty-Six
Mia
TWO MONTHS AGO
Within hours, Tom’s Facebook page is littered with posts from strangers and friends alike. They’ve all condemned him.
How could you do this?
F*ck you, Tom
WHAT DID THEY DO TO YOU?
YOU MONSTER TRASH
You will pay for what you’ve done
BRING BACK CAPITAL PUNISHMENT
Take him out back and kill him
This monster doesn’t deserve a trial
I’ve always known he was going to snap one day
SEE THE CRAZY EYES? GOD IS WATCHING, HE WILL GET JUSTICE FOR THOSE PRECIOUS LIVES
Absolute trash
He’s
the worst kind of person
If anyone sees him, tell me! I’d love to find him before the police do…then he won’t need a trial
#Prayersforthevictims
THEY WERE INNOCENT
I hope he fries!
TAKE DOWN HIS PICTURES @FACEBOOK, we should remember the victims, not this evil SOB
Rot in hell!
I wish they’d stop reporting his name
I wish they’d shoot him in the street
I read through with tears in my eyes, the once-happy pictures of us now littered with horrible, disgusting comments. Every post he’s ever made is filled with vile comments, destroying all of our memories in seconds.
Though we haven’t updated our relationship status yet, someone we went to school with has identified me in a picture with him, and now the vitriol has found its way to my own page.
They go through, trashing every picture, responding to every status I’ve ever posted. Somehow, I’m just as guilty as he is. Guilt by association, I guess.
I have seventy-three message requests just in the last hour, every one of them telling me I should kill myself or kill him. Every one of them blaming me for what happened.
I haven’t responded, just trying to process what’s happening and figure out why Tom won’t answer his phone. Still, the messages come in.
I lay my phone down, sick to my stomach from all the hate. I’m hanging on by a thread, and I have no one to talk to. I consider reaching out to one of the girls from work, or my sisters, whom I haven’t spoken to in years, but each one risks being turned away. Do they believe what the media is saying? Do they hate Tom, too? It’s safer to deal with it alone, but that doesn’t make it easier.
I curl up on the couch, letting the tears flow freely. I miss him so much it hurts. I just want to know he’s okay, that he’s coming back to me, and that we’re going to figure this out. I don’t want him to think I’ve given up on him or that I believe what they’re saying about him. I want to keep him safe.
I cry until I fall asleep, though my sleep is restless and interrupted. At one point, there’s a thump outside my door, and I stand, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. Could it be him?
I rush to the door, checking the peephole, but I don’t see anyone. I pull the door open, the hallway barely lit from the moonlight seeping in through the windows. There’s no one there, but I’m immediately hit with a putrid smell. I put a hand over my nose, convinced I’m going to be sick.
I gasp when I look at my door, a brown streak trailing down the green paint. It’s shit—whether human or dog, I’m not sure. There’s a pile on the navy blue hallway carpet just in front of my door.
I shut it, letting out a haggard breath. There’s no chance this is a coincidence. How did they find out where I live? I no longer feel safe in my own home. My eyes fill with fat tears in an instant, and I run to the kitchen sink, unable to make it to the bathroom in a rush to empty my stomach. I vomit down the drain, tears mixing with the liquid escaping my nose and burning my throat.
I just want this to be over.
I just want it to have been a bad dream.
I’ve only just gotten up the nerve to clean my door when, two days after his disappearance, there’s a knock on my door. I catapult toward it, eager to see his face. Please be him, please be him, please be him.
Thinking of the second-to-last time I opened the door, I hesitate. I check through the peephole and see two men I don’t recognize. I press my back against the door, trying to decide what to do. My heart races in my chest as I weigh my limited options, hoping they’ll go away.
“FBI, open up,” a loud voice calls, his hand pounding on the door again.
I jump, ice-cold fear running through my body. I open the door cautiously, staring at the two suit-clad men standing in front of my door. The man in the front is tall and black, with a friendly smile. The man in the back is likely south Asian, with no smile at all.
“Can I help you?” I ask, my heart fluttering so quickly I’m afraid I’ll pass out.
“Are you Camilla Ramirez?”
“Camilla,” I correct him, using the Spanish pronunciation of my name, “but yes. I am.”
He pulls a photo from his front pocket, and Tom’s sparkling eyes are staring back at me. “Do you know this man?”
I take a step back, grasping the door. “Who are you?”
He pulls a badge from his pocket, flipping the case open and letting me have a close look at it. The man behind him does the same. “I’m FBI Agent Gladstone, this is Agent Hari. We’re here to ask you some questions about Thomas Carey.”
I don’t know whether they’re lying, but at this point, I’m so desperate to get some answers, I don’t care. Facebook is already flooded with conspiracy theorists and rage-fueled mobs. I refuse to check for any info there, and the news outlets haven’t posted any updates. I step back. “Come in.”
“Thank you,” he says. They slide their badges and Tom’s photo back into their pockets and enter my apartment. Getting right to business, Gladstone asks, “Have you heard from Mr. Carey?”
I shake my head. “Not since very early Thursday morning. He left here in the middle of the night. Look, I know what they’re saying, but Tom had nothing to do with this. He couldn’t have.”
“We’ll get to that, Miss Ramirez. Do you remember what Mr. Carey was wearing when you saw him last?”
I try to think back over the moment I’ve been replaying over and over in my head. I remember his face, remember the way it felt to have my heart ripped out as I faded into confusion, but I can’t for the life of me remember what he’d been wearing. The realization takes the wind out of me. How could I have already forgotten? I shake my head as my bottom lip begins to quiver with the imminent threat of tears.
He nods. “Okay, I need you to clear a few things up for me. First, I want to understand your relationship to Mr. Carey. We didn’t find any photos of you at his work, none of his coworkers knew if he was involved with anyone at all, and his Facebook status still shows single, as does your own. His mother is the one who directed us to you. She told us you are engaged, is that correct?”
I follow his gaze to the ring on my finger. “We are, yes.”
“And did Mr. Carey tell you anything about his work with Vance Corporation?”
I sniffle. “He never talked about his clients.”
“What about his work at Locke Industries?”
“He liked working there,” I say. “At least, I thought he did. Then, after the bombing, he said that some of the clients there do illegal stuff and Orrick Locke covers it up.”
The man looks skeptical. “And why did Mr. Carey tell you this after the bombing?”
I swallow. I’ve said too much. “He was…he was worried that was why it happened.”
The agents look at each other, and Hari writes something down in a notepad I hadn’t noticed in his hand. “He said that Orrick and Iris both left the building minutes before it happened. The bombing, I mean. They left minutes before the bombing happened.”
Gladstone’s eyebrows raise. “And why did he think that was?”
“He didn’t know, but he thought it was suspicious.”
“But he didn’t think to come to the police?” I’m digging a bigger hole for Tom with every word.
“He said the Lockes are too powerful. He was worried what might happen to him if he tried to tell anyone anything about them or their business.”
Hari nods. “Miss Ramirez, you understand hiding a fugitive is punishable by law, correct? If you know where Thomas Carey is and you don’t tell us, you yourself could be charged for a crime we don’t believe you were involved in.”
“I…I didn’t have anything to do with this, and he didn’t either. He was on the phone with me when the bomb went off. I heard it.”
“To be clear, we have significant proof Mr. Carey is, in fact, the one who placed the bomb. If he cooperates with our investigation, his sentence will likely be a lot more lenient.”
“I don’t know where he is,” I say. “I’m sorry. I wish I did. He left, and he hasn’t come back.”
The men look at each other. “Do you mind if we have a look around?” Hari asks.
“Go for it,” I say, waving my hand toward the hall behind me.
He begins walking toward my bedroom, where he’ll find nothing, while Gladstone stays with me. “You understand that if Mr. Carey contacts you, it’s in both of your best interests to contact us, right?”
“I do,” I tell him, though I suspect we both know I’m lying. I’ll protect Tom without question.
He pulls a card from his pocket. “Here’s my direct line. I want you to call me if he contacts you or comes home. I know you think you can trust him, Miss Ramirez, and I hope you can, but I want to keep you both safe here, okay?”
I nod, as Agent Hari reappears. “He’s not here.”
“I told you he wasn’t,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him.
“Well, thank you for talking with us, Miss Ramirez,” Gladstone says. “Keep that card, and give me a call if you need anything.”
I pull the door back open and, together, the men leave in silence.
I shut the door.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Mia
TWO MONTHS AGO
Three days later, Tom is declared an active suspect and is believed to be on the run. Still, he doesn’t call me. I watch the news daily, desperate for some glimmer of hope. Praying for a sighting just so I know he’s still alive. When I call his phone, it goes straight to voicemail. I’ve left enough now, the inbox is full. I’ve quit going to work, quit answering my phone. I’m not sure the last time I ate something.
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