Miss You Mad: a psychological romance novel (15 page)

William nodded politely and slipped in behind him. Within moments he stood before the apartment that could answer all his questions. He used his health card to jimmy the door open. With a deep breath, he gave it a push.

Walking into Hannah's apartment was like walking into the heart of his most delicious memory. He pressed the door closed with a click, leaning against it, and took a long deep breath. He held it, savoring the feel of it trapped in his lungs, the taste of her scent on his tongue. He thought if he concentrated hard enough, he'd be able to imagine her standing at her canvas. He didn't dare open his eyes afraid of the empty room because he knew she wasn't there.

Her apartment, a wide-open expanse that lacked definite rooms was too bright even without the lights being on. Sunlight invaded the area through three skylights on the slanted roof of the north wall. It bounced back from the white walls and heightened the sense of space. On one side of the room, were hung four empty canvases, on its perpendicular wall, empty frames. Of course, there was a sofa and a few chairs, nothing terribly special. To the right was her kitchen where she had installed a large, weathered butcher block as table. He remembered forcing her backwards onto that butcher block. He'd pulled a wooden spoon from the utensil drawer and smacked her ass pink with it. He'd jammed little plums from her fruit bowl into her pussy till her juices were sticky on his face. He remembered her moans of pleasure. He recalled how hard she'd come around his prick.

He touched the edge of the wooden fruit bowl. Empty.

And yet, the apartment looked like it waited for its occupant. Perhaps she hadn't fled, after all, but had simply taken a vacation. If she decided to actually leave for good, she would have packed up her apartment. He put his knapsack down and studied the space.

He'd seen the view often enough through the camera's eye, but that eye could be deceiving. It framed things, things that the videographer wanted to be seen in a certain way. It didn't, for instance, reveal how she enjoyed a good cup of tea. William's inspection, on the other hand, showed that the tea canister was nearly empty. The camera often showed Hannah's bare skin and sometimes bare canvas, which she industriously covered with paint as if it were indecent. But it never showed the bedroom where she was most vulnerable, where she begged to be pleasured and pained and where they enjoyed three wondrous nights of such fierce intimacy that even he was sore for days.

It never revealed why she hung empty canvases on the wall as if they were complete paintings. And why, as if they held paintings, she hung empty frames on the opposite wall. Surely an artist would have her walls covered with artwork, her artwork, someone else's artwork. But no, there was none.

The camera angle never told the story of the box on the coffeetable filled with black and white photos. The photos were of people that William supposed wandered the streets and that she had noticed. But the photos were imperfect. Incomplete. Rather than a full face, she had zoomed in on the mouth, or eye, or jawline.

He dropped the picture he was holding back in the box and considered all these things, all the while telling himself how lucky he was to have made it to the inner sanctum, past the cameras and the make-believe, to the heart of the artist.

And now she was gone. And all that was left to him was a single canvas lying on her bench as though she planned to pick it up at any moment.

Even so; things weren't right.

The apartment lacked the smell of cooking, the scent of soap and humidity of breath. She hadn't been home for a while. The tall stool and narrow table were empty. The tin cans were empty. That meant her brushes and painting things had gone with her. He knew by the colorful abstract canvas on the easel that Hannah had, indeed, put up archive video. The recorded canvas and this one were very different. It bothered him, made his chest tight and his hands clench into painful fists.

Those things were nothing to the way he felt knowing that the earlier gentleman had gone through her things.

William moved over to the area where she kept her bed. It had obviously been made but was now rumpled as if someone had rolled around on it. The dry sink next her bed was slightly out of line from the wall. Worst of all, however, was the froth of purple lace on the floor next to the bed.

That bit of purple lace choked off Williams breathing.

He knew those panties. She had peeled them off in front of him their first night together and even in the midst of a frenzied rush to get completely naked, she had tossed them neatly into the hamper. She wouldn't take the time to close her bureau drawer and not bother to pick up anything she had dropped.

The cocksucker had rifled through her things.

He couldn't bear the sight of those panties on the oak floor. Neither could he bring himself to bend down to pick them up. He scanned the room, and noticing a broom in the corner, went to retrieve it. Holding on the brush, William poked at the lace with the tip of the handle. He skewered the panties through the leg hole, and, opening the top drawer of the dresser, slipped them in. He felt better knowing they weren't lying out on a bare floor, vulnerable.

He backtracked his way to the door where he had left his knapsack. Bending, he opened it up and pulled out his pen and journal. He could rip a piece of paper from the back of the journal and scratch out a note to her. He could tell her that the gentleman who had been in earlier had rifled through her things without thinking enough to be considerate of what he did with them. But where to put it? Where would be the best place to stick the note, so that she would find it? William strolled through the apartment, skimming surfaces, contemplating. He decided the refrigerator, if it had a magnet, would be the perfect place.

But it already had a note. A note written in a feminine hand. A note written to someone named, Howard.

Howard,

Things have gotten way too weird. I've picked a little rural town in Nova Scotia. My plane leaves tonight for Yarmouth. I'll text you when I get my new number, let you know if I'm staying.

Yarmouth, Nova Scotia. Hadn't he overheard the teller say she had transferred money there to Miss Hastings?

William chewed hard on his tongue. He felt his lip tremble. His chest heaved with anxiety. Damn that man. That man had to have been Howard. She would let Howard know what she decided. When she decided. Howard with the puppet lips and black sunglasses that hid his eyes. God knows what was behind those sunglasses. Blue eyes, black eyes, blood shot eyes that were tired because they stayed up too long getting things ready for her. Damn. Things started closing in on William. He didn't think he could breathe.

She'd been fucking Howard. All along, probably even when she was with William, she was thinking of Howard. This puppet lips bastard who left her panties on the floor, who stole things from her apartment.

William tapped the floor with his foot. It started tapping faster. His arms started flapping in time with the feet tapping. He started spinning in circles; he stopped, gasped, and ran headlong through the apartment.

William flew to his knapsack and pulled out the pen. As God was his witness, he'd not imagine one scene with her lips around another man's cock, letting him spank her till she came. Not. One. More. Thought. He'd dig into his forearm until tears hit his eyes and streamed down his cheeks.

But then William heard a noise. It sounded like a key being turned in a lock. Everything closed in. The walls got too close, the air lost its oxygen. Even the bed had somehow slid across the room and into William's legs. Someone was coming in. Someone with a key. Howard. It had to be Howard.

There's that fuck. There is that disgusting little vermin with the tiny little lips.

William held the pen in his fist, close to the base, so that he could stab it into Howard's arm. He held tightly so he could ream one long and satisfying cut down his face. He stabbed and stabbed and stabbed into whatever piece of flesh was the nearest. Oh, how good it did feel. The voices, all of them, stopped. Sweet relief enveloped him.

He took a breath. A long, staggering breath. The walls receded; the air shuddered. William noticed he was sitting on Hannah's bed. Her pillow was in his hand, or rather, the remains of her pillow.

Howard had not come in. His key had not turned in the lock.

But he felt better. And he knew what he had to do.

He had to go to Nova Scotia.

William didn't want to be on the plane. Such a small space, so many people sitting too closely together. But, again, it was a necessity. One couldn't get to Nova Scotia in short time without boarding a plane. Hannah had obviously left the city and gone to one of the god-forsaken maritime provinces. He researched the town, Google-mapped as many streets as he could, seared pictures of the place in his mind.

He paid for the ticket with his mother's money he'd stuffed into the deposit box. The clerk passed him the paper across the counter. No sooner was his hand on it, than she walked away. Not far, just enough that William knew she wanted to be free of his energy zone. Strange, it seemed his energetic self stretched further and further beyond its normal perimeter. He could gauge it by how far away other people needed to get. Not that it mattered. He didn't need them. He needed Hannah.

Not long ago he'd believed he only needed mother. Oh, he'd had friends once. Close friends. And those chums spent a good deal of time with him. Yes, he'd enjoyed it. But that was before.

He walked onto the plane, knapsack in hand, and searched for the seat that matched his ticket. As he sat, he retrieved his journal from its place in the bag. Writing, he decided, would be the best way to pass the time and keep from panicking. He turned to the last page and noticed the word written there. Mother. It seemed everything said her name. When had he written that? He thought for a moment, came up empty. Surely it was his handwriting. Nobody else would have been able to take his journal long enough to scribble into it. But could they? Had he kept it close, as close as he'd thought? It was possible he had laid it down without paying attention.

William thought hard. No. He must have written it. Even though it didn't really look like his handwriting. He thought harder. Yes, he'd been thinking about mother while he waited for Howard. Yes. He was certain of it.

He rummaged through his bag. He had forgotten to pack his pills but it wouldn't matter. Hannah would stop it all. He just had to find her. So what if he used Mother's money to find her. She would have understood like she understood everything. Fought for him when they would have poked into his brain. She made them settle for pills instead.

"Those pills kept you quiet," he said to the man who had taken the seat next to him. He was muscular and handsome but he knew that the person inside the build was a nasty, violent Richard Speck type of man. He enjoyed hurting people the way most enjoyed ice cream. His eyes had a vacant stare.

"That's what I think. And you hate me for it. You hate me that I let mother have them prescribed."

The man squirmed in his seat and the stewardess leaned in to offer him coffee. He refused. Then he asked to be re-seated and William was left alone to brood until the flight landed at a tiny airport and he disembarked into a 70s style tarmac. Such a backwards little town. He couldn't imagine anyone wanting to live there.

He spent most of his first night at the Irving gas station on what he discovered was Starr's Road. It seemed many of the important businesses for the small town were located on that strip. None of them seemed that important: a mall, a nightclub, food enterprises, and various gas stations, all equally ordinary.

He'd walked as far as he could before morning. A few times, he made circles of the blocks as he tried to find some sort of life. That's when he happened upon a group of young girls hanging around the high school.

"I'm looking for a place to buy a coffee," he said.

The girl looked him up and down.

"You missed the Tims, SmartAss," she said.

He froze, not sure how to respond. Fortunately, one of them--a girl with long brown hair hanging into her eyes and a sweet voice said, "There's the Irving. If you keep walking, you'll come straight to it."

"Thank you," he said, noting how normal his voice sounded. Maybe he was felling better. He looked back over his shoulder, checking to see if anyone was behind him. Except for the scenery and a few slow-paced cars, he and the girls were alone.

"You shouldn't talk to men you don't know," he said to the brown-haired one. He had the immediate sense she might be in danger hanging around this lot.

She spat a thick glob of mucus at his fee, making him jump back. He would have expected such grossness from the foul-mouthed one, not this sweet child.

"Don't worry, old man," she said. "We're good."

Old man. Since when did late twenties mean old? He forced his feet to move, turned purposely away from the girls and shuffled down the sidewalk toward the stop sign.

He thought he heard a soft chuckle bubble up from behind him but he didn't dare look over his shoulder. Instead, he sped up, forcing his feet to make a staccato beat on the cement sidewalk. The laughter followed. He imagined he heard the words coward and something else, a horrible word that sounded like it started with an M.

"I'm not," he said to the street ahead of him.

The M word drew itself out behind his ears, never quite getting to the second syllable. But he knew what it stood for. It was the word for a group of crows and he wasn't about to let that thought take hold.