And I still have the Cayman money. My nest egg. I can build back my US funds. It’ll take a year, maybe two, but I’ll build it back. I push the missing millions out of my mind and focus on Mike. I need a new hacker. Someone to dig for information on Mike. Find out his address and full name. Then pack up FtypeBaby and RUN right to his door. Then, depending on what I find, I can either hug the man to death or chop him into pieces. I feel something on my cheek, and brush at it, surprised when my finger comes back wet. Wet. My eye teared up. I stare at it in surprise. Blink rapidly and dare my body to produce more weakness.

I eat a roasted turkey breast and mashed potatoes boxed dinner. Drink water and check e-mail, hoping against reason for something from Mike. I don’t know what I’m expecting. A heartfelt apology with a treasure map to my fortune? Another clue, this one leading me to discover the big bad monster that I am to run from? I’d take either but get nothing. Nothing except twenty-two client e-mails, covering everything from fawnfests to marriage proposals. I distract myself from growing anxiety and return them all, most with template letters I keep saved on my desktop. Thirty minutes. Twenty-two letters. I’m still jittery when I finish.

I use the restroom, brush my teeth, and floss. Redesign my toilet paper pyramid.

I am useless, an emotional ball of confused. Camming has always worked to distract me, but I can’t imagine getting online right now. Smiling for strangers when I only want to know what has happened to Mike.

I hate him.

I’m scared for him.

The seesaw between the two will drive me mad.

CHAPTER 77

UNLESS MIKE IS completely insane, it’s now been two days, making today Thursday. Two days that Mike’s sat here, his head against the iron frame of his bed, his wrists handcuffed out like he’s Jesus. Two days without food or water. If only that fucker had come on a Wednesday, successfully avoiding Jamie while giving him only a day to hang. Thank God he hadn’t come on Monday. He might not have made it—two days are about all his weak mind and body can take. He’s already going crazy. Last night, he couldn’t sleep. Could have sworn whispers from the corner of the room were singing along with holiday hell. The chorus is chanting through, his damn fingers tapping along, every spare thought in his head drowning in its words. Jamie’s bang brings him back, wakes his conscious up from the slippery slope of death. His mind swims upward and he blinks, eyelashes stuck together, crude grit in the edges of his eyes. Trying to swallow, to call out, there is no spare saliva, and she wouldn’t hear him through the duct tape anyway. He feels drained, like he has sat under a heat lamp until every pore in his body is dried into a dead leaf that will crumble under a firm touch.

She bangs again, a firm pound on the front door, and he can picture her, a hip cocked, hands weighed down with groceries, a frustrated breath blowing a curl of red hair out of her eyes.

She doesn’t have a key, a past decision he now curses. But his sexual needs are frequent. Should she decide to pop by unannounced, he didn’t want her walking into a fuckfest. Plus, he’s not an invalid. And she’s not a nurse. She’s a friend—one that is paid. One who saves him from having to battle the inconveniences of the outside world. Those inconveniences, the hassle of getting a chair in a vehicle, over a curb, through a crowded restaurant—those are why he just stays here. And… fuck. The stares. The looks of pity. He left all that behind. Online, no one knows that shit. Online, he is a god. Online, he is the man he was always meant to be. The man that adorable, cocky little kid should have grown into.

He can hear her. She calls his name, frustration turning into something else. Worry. Worry is good. He strains to hear more, but there is nothing. Then he hears the incredible sound of the bedroom window lifting, and the curtains parting to reveal one frizzy head. She looks the wrong way first, toward his computer, then turns her head back, toward the bed, and freezes. Their eyes lock, and if there was a way to smile without ripping half the skin off his lips, he would.

“Shit.” The word a hiss. She shoves herself forward, through the low window, and lands in an uncoordinated heap of legs, arms, and red hair, a foot swinging out, and he hears the crack of glass as there is an awkward collision. It is one of the most beautiful things ever seen.

She flings herself to her feet, rushes to him, and pulls, with trembling fingers, at the edge of the tape. There is no notice of pain, only the feel of her soft touch, the concern in her eyes, the warmth of possibility that he will live. As soon as his mouth is free, there is the dart of a dry tongue as he licks his lips and speaks. “Water.” She reaches for the water bottle on the bedside table. The one that he’s stared at for days, just far enough from reach to literally drive him insane.