Chapter Twenty-Nine

There was so much whispering and so many puzzled looks among the programmers about Max’s abrupt departure that I finally called Abigail into my office on Monday afternoon and told her that what she’d originally predicted had come true. Max was mysteriously blacklisted in the tech community and it had ruined his chances at our company. I really wanted to blab the whole story about Taggert, but it wasn’t my tale to tell. I’d already told Paul and it hadn’t helped one bit.

“This is so shitty!” She ran her fingers through her hair until it stood out from the sides of her head in purple spikes. “Ridiculously unfair!”

“Yeah.” I swallowed hard. What else was there to say? It was shitty and unfair and our efforts had failed. She looked so outraged that I quickly went on before she organized some sort of developer walkout. “Paul tried to fight it. You can’t be mad at him. He was overruled by Jack.”

I lifted my hands in a pathetic shrug. “Max probably wouldn’t want any more gossip spreading around, OK? I just wanted to let you know what happened so you guys didn’t think he made some sort of coding error or upset anyone here.”

She snorted. “Max doesn’t make coding errors, Tess. He ran circles around everyone here, and we have a pretty sharp team. Plus, he’s about the nicest person I’ve ever met. Who would he upset?” With one of her trademark eye rolls, she left my office.

He’d upset me plenty. Just by existing.

Ugh. This hollowed-out feeling would eventually disappear, right? The leaden, suffocating feeling on my chest had to evaporate soon, didn’t it? I’d only known the guy for a month. It would be completely ridiculous to keep feeling like the world had ended. I knew that. I wasn’t some sixteen-year-old dealing with her first bad breakup.

But I was having a hard time eating. I woke every night around 3:00 a.m. and stared at my dark ceiling until the alarm went off.

Jack Sorenson was correct in that signing Away-Ho brought a lot of new business through the door. But despite the increased workload caused by the influx of new clients, the week dragged on. Paul was in a bad mood on Tuesday because the Cubs were definitively not going to the World Series this year. On Wednesday, Kat arrived in San Francisco and sent me dozens of photos of her minuscule new apartment. By Friday, the photos included new faces. Kat had always made friends quickly.

I called my mother every day to make sure that Kat’s departure hadn’t sent her into another downward spiral. She didn’t appreciate my heightened vigilance. “I’m not the one speaking in a monotone like a depressed serial killer, you know.”

The only thing that made me feel even the tiniest bit better was the world’s reaction to the mysterious vanishing of the Fucking Sex Ghost’s site. Micki, Joe, and Toby sent me links to a bunch of online speculation from the Ghost’s newsletter recipients. Theories ranged from “the dude probably got arrested” to “some bitch put him in the ground, yo.”

Toby followed up with a group text. Did you get the Ghost locked up?

To which Joe responded: Nah. Tessie totally murdered him. Thumbs-up emoji.

I stalked the Facebook group of the FSG’s victims and felt warm inside when I read their happy, relieved posts. One of his California victims wrote, “For the first time I can go on a date with someone new and not be terrified that he’s going to Google me and see me with my ex on the Ghost’s site!”

One of the Texas girls responded, “Yes! Except for me it’s a job interview!”

The same woman who had written the New York Post editorial that I’d read in Natasha Long’s office wrote a follow-up letter. “My sources say that it wasn’t a legal action that got the site taken down. And there’s no way in hell the Ghost took it down on his own. So, with no proof, I’m going to choose to believe that this was the victims of NCP’s answer to the #metoo movement. I’m choosing to picture some glorious vigilante who did the right thing. I’ll never know how it happened, but all I can say is thank you. Thank you to the Ghost killer.”

#ghostkiller even trended on Twitter for a day or two.

I wondered if Max was following all of this too. I hoped so. He didn’t get much else out of his association with me. At least he deserved to feel like the hero he was.

On Friday afternoon, Jack Sorenson officially offered me the VP position. As soon as I verbally accepted, Paul sent out his official “I’m retiring” email to the entire staff. While I’d known it was coming, seeing the details of his departure in black and white made me more emotional than I would have expected. First Kat, now Paul. Two of the closest people in my life, leaving my day-to-day world. Biting my lip, I reached around to trace the anchor on my lower back.

In Paul’s email, he said he knew the transition would be seamless because I was his successor. It put a lump in my throat—one I quickly had to swallow as dozens of staff stopped by my office to congratulate me.

It should have been one of my favorite workdays of all time. But all I could think about was how much better it would be if Max were still here. How he’d lean on my office wall and congratulate me with a wide grin. How he’d looked across the conference table in the meeting with Away-Ho and said, “She’s the boss.”

I stayed at the office late, plowing through work that didn’t need to be done until next week. But why leave early? I wasn’t hungry for dinner. Kat was gone, and I wasn’t feeling up to a night at Fizz, trading quips with Micki, Joe, and the guys. When I heard the vacuum cleaners from the cleaning crew, I reluctantly got to my feet. A bottle of wine and whatever looked good on Netflix—it’d probably be my new Friday night routine, at least until it didn’t hurt as much to breathe or move or think.

I left the office and skidded to the Merchandise Mart train station as quickly as I could. The temperature had dropped steeply this week as though the Chicago winter had woken up early in a pissy mood and said, “It’s November now, bitches. Brace yourselves.” I hated when the temp dipped below thirty degrees in November. When you knew warm weather wouldn’t arrive until late May, the early cold just made the winter seem endless.

Waiting on the train platform for the “L” with the wind howling through was pure torture. The inch of bare skin between the bottom of my skirt and the top of my boots was going to be raw and chapped. No more skirts or dresses for a while. The train finally roared in and I hopped on, shivering. I found a seat, but the train grew more and more crowded as we headed north. Soon, a guy was standing right over me, just the way Max had stood the night he finally told me the story about Aria.

I closed my eyes. Max. If I ever wanted to eat or sleep again, maybe I needed to stop pushing him out of my head. Because when my guard was down, usually after a couple drinks while I stared at the ceiling, all I did was think about him. His face, his voice, his hands. Every word he’d ever said to me, and how they made me feel. How I constantly wanted to impress him. How he made me want to be the best possible Tess. How I wanted him texting me, insulting me with that twinkle in his eye, feeding me donuts, staring at my face while I came, putting me in a bath when I cried. How I wanted to do all of that back to him times infinity. How I wanted him—

Actually, that was it in a nutshell. I just wanted him. In my life, in my world, in my head, in my bed. He was my new green eggs and ham.

But how could I convince him of that when I’d acted like such a bitchy nutcase? He hadn’t so much as butt-dialed me since Kat’s brunch, and I couldn’t blame him.

As the train approached my stop, a series of get-Max-back ideas danced through my mind. Maybe I could wear the Puss in Boots outfit over to his house and try to lure him back through sex? Hmm. That would be easiest on me, and Max did like the costume. But sex had never been the problem with us. My gut told me it was too flippant of an approach. I couldn’t erase what I’d said and done with a manipulative bout of sex. Even if it would be fun.

Maybe I could write him a letter? A long one that described everything that happened with Daniel and the life-hangover it’d left me with. One that tried to explain how I’d gotten confused and pushed him away. Was that too old-fashioned? Or maybe just too chickenshit?

Probably. If I really wanted him, I’d need to be an actual grown-up. I’d need to invite him out, pray to God he accepted, and then explain in person. After that, the ball would be in his court. Could he forgive me for freaking out? Would he want to try dating me? My stomach roiled. It was a perfect setup for a stinging rejection.

But…he was worth the risk. Even if he gave me the verbal equivalent of a slap in the face.

I descended the “L” station stairs, took a deep breath, and pulled my phone out of my pocket. Crap. My phone was completely dead. In all the fuss of my promotion announcement, I hadn’t plugged it in today. Oh well. I could use the walk home to rehearse my “I’m sorry and I swear on all the French fries and bourbon in the world that I won’t push you away again” speech.

I was so focused on putting words together in my mind that the cold walk home took no time at all. But as I approached my building, I saw a truly bizarre sight. Roz was pacing the block…dressed in black leather?

When she saw me, she broke out in a full-on sprint before I could protest. “Where have you been? Why is your phone off?” she screeched. “Mohawk’s going crazy looking for you!”

“What?” I said. “Why? Is Micki OK? And what are you wearing?”

She shooed me emphatically through the front door and up the stairs to my apartment. “Plug your phone in! Call her back! Now!”

I wanted to demand answers, but she was already half wheezing with excitement. “Down, girl,” I ordered, pushing her gently into a chair. “I’ve had a hell of a past month. I am not starting November with one of Tess and Roz’s Excellent Adventures at the ER.”

As soon as I got the phone plugged in, I dialed Fizz. Micki picked up on the first ring. “Holy shit, Tess.” Micki’s voice was hushed and the background was quiet. She couldn’t be tending bar. “I’m in my office. The Ghost is here. At Fizz!”

I froze. “What?”

“He’s asking around about you! He asked me about a tall woman with reddish-blond hair who hangs out here a lot. This is nuts!”

Nuts? Actually…no. I’d spent a lot of time thinking about the FSG’s victims and how they were reacting to the site vanishing, but I’d strangely spent almost no time considering the actual Ghost’s reaction. And I should have. After all, Max and I had demolished the man’s livelihood and celebrity in one fell swoop.

She lowered her voice to a whisper, sounding worried. “Listen, he’s putting on the charm to anyone who talks to him, but he looks angry to me. He’s barely drinking, and he’s not looking for a hookup.” She paused. “I was so shocked to see him in person that I just walked away when he asked about you. Luckily, Joe also pretended not to know who he was talking about, so the others followed his lead. But there was a lot of confused eye contact among them, and I think the Ghost knew they were lying.”

My mind was racing. Somehow dear old Westley knew the site crash was related to me. Maybe he’d run some analytics software on his servers and had seen that my video was the very first thing deleted before Max started wreaking the rest of his havoc? But what was the connection to Fizz?

“Of course, it’s Joe’s fault that he’s here in the first place,” Micki muttered.

I snapped back to attention. “What do you mean?”

“The idiot posted something on Twitter. Something like ‘I know the #ghostkiller. Chicago ladies don’t stand for that kind of shit.’” She huffed. “I made him delete it, but it was up for a full day before I saw it.”

Now that made sense. If Westley was searching for clues and saw that post, the next step would have been to examine Joe’s social media. He’d posted dozens of pictures of us at Fizz over the years. Westley would have recognized me and put two and two together.

Adrenaline coursed through my veins. Yes! This was going to be a kick-ass Friday after all.

“So don’t come in tonight. We can beat Joe up together tomorrow. If the Ghost asks me about you again, I’m going to say that you left the neighborhood,” Micki went on. “Hopefully, he’ll just leave.”

“No!” I exclaimed. “Tell him I’m on my way. Micki, do not let him leave before I get there.” Sure, I’d already taken away his money and his fame. But that wasn’t nearly enough.

Roz did a fist pump, and I suddenly understood her outfit. I covered the phone’s mouthpiece and gave her a once-over. “Are you trying to look like Black Widow from the Avengers?”

She nodded briskly. “And I’m totally pulling it off.”

Actually, she really was. Scar Jo at seventy would have nothing on Roz. But before I could verbally agree, Micki shouted, “Do not come in, Tess! That is a terrible idea. I don’t want you to get hurt, and I don’t want trouble in my bar.”

“Trust me,” I soothed. “Neither of those things is going to happen. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

As soon as I hung up on Micki, Roz leapt to her feet again. “We just need to stop at my apartment and get my gun out of the safe.”

“Forget it,” I said sternly. “You know how I feel about you and that fucking firearm.” Her elderly age was not the sole reason every resident of our building treated Roz with respect. Everyone lived in fear of the armed and nearsighted vigilante on the second floor.

Disappointment shaded her features, but she quickly rebounded. “My Taser then.”

“Jesus Christ.” I pointed her at the chair again and dialed Natasha Long’s cell phone. Since it’d been printed on her business cards, I figured it was fair game to call even after hours on a Friday. That’s what having a lawyer on retainer was for, right? (Did I have her on retainer? I didn’t remember, and I didn’t care.) Hopefully, she didn’t have fancy plans tonight. I let it ring through to voice mail. Undaunted, I kept calling back again and again. Usually people intuit an emergency after such behavior and will eventually pick up.

On my fourth straight call she answered, her voice tense. “Yes?”

“So sorry to bother you, Ms. Long. It’s Tess Greene.” I was a little out of breath from all the excitement. I hadn’t anticipated a face-to-face encounter with my nemesis when I’d chosen my tightest pencil skirt this morning. “I know where the Sex Ghost is. He’s here in Chicago, at a bar on the north side.” I rattled off Fizz’s address. “Can you help me with the whole bench warrant thing? He can be arrested, yes?”

I heard her excuse herself and the sound of a chair backing away from a table. I’d caught her on a night out after all. She must have stepped out from the restaurant to the street because I heard an ambulance going by.

“I can help,” she said simply. If I weren’t mistaken, there was a note of excitement in her voice. “I’ll call my contacts at police headquarters immediately and get the ball moving. Since it’s not an emergency, it may take a few minutes though. How can you be sure he’ll stay at the bar?”

I’m quite certain the smile on my face at the moment would have scared any living man. Maybe even a few dead ones. “Oh, he’ll stay.”