Saturday . . . Sunday. . .

From a payphone, I had been calling Skylar's apartment all weekend. More than a dozen times, I'm sure. I lost count after five. And I got nothing, no one, not even a busy signal.

Then Monday came. After the obligatory phone call to my boss about my job—indefinitely suspended, I might add—I called Skylar again.

One ring. Two rings. Three—

"Hello?"

It was a man's voice, so I hung up the receiver with a slam. If that was Sam, he was home early, and he was in Skylar's apartment at seven o'clock in the morning. . . .

I didn't know what the fuck was going on, but I had the day off and the Jaguar, and I was determined to find out.

My first stop was Skylar's school in Boston—St. Mary's Academy for Girls. I arrived just as the morning bell rang. There were a few student and teacher stragglers, but I didn't see her. She must have arrived earlier, if at all. There was the possibility she called in sick again to recover from whatever happened over the weekend.

After that, I headed toward her apartment. I had never been there before—weird, I know—but I found her address in the glove compartment as well as her parent's address in Connecticut. By the end of the day, I would try both.

Her brownstone wasn't too hard to find. It was on a main drag beside Boston Public Garden. Her father, when selecting the place of residency for her and her golden-star fiancé, had good taste and an obscene amount of money to waste.

I double parked the Jaguar and rang the "Wakefield" bell. By the third ring, I gave up. I had her keys, but I wasn't a stalker. Well . . . not really. And the only one who was there at all that day was a man, probably Sam. I planned to spare myself the confrontation until absolutely necessary. I doubted he would still be there anyway. Everyone in the world seemed to have a job, except for me, of course.

Two hours later, I was in Westport, Connecticut, looking upon the biggest mansion I had ever seen up close. It wasn't even lunchtime yet and the woman who answered the door had a martini in hand. She swayed toward the doorframe, too intoxicated to stand straight, but she did it with added flair, as if she believed the process enhanced her glamour and sex appeal. I was face to face with Margaret Wakefield, Skylar's unmentionable mother. "Yes?" she droned.

"Is Skylar here?"

Her red lips pursed with amusement. "Aw, how sweet. The fisherman." She ambled closer to me, then around me. As she sipped her martini, her eyes wandered with enough libidinous energy to make me squirm. "Hmmm," she snickered. "I suppose I can see the appeal of a fling."

She probably meant that as a compliment, but it drained away what was left of my self-respect. With just a few harsh words, I was reduced to the temporary lapse in judgment, the fun distraction, the plaything, and nothing more. "Skylar," I reiterated. "Is she here?"

"No." She fussed with a strand of her unnatural blond hair. "She left." Her drink bobbled in her hand and splashed onto her button-up blouse. "Yesterday." She dusted off the liquid from the expensive fabric and then took a long swig of the Martini while eyeing me closely. "With Sam." As my whole world crumbled, the bitch had the nerve to wink. "But don't worry. I'm sure there will always be a place for you in her heart. And we do thank you for returning the Jag."

From the pocket of her cardigan sweater, she pulled out a wad of cash. She peeled off a couple of hundreds and tucked them into my palm.

Once I recovered from the shock of it all, I removed Skylar's car keys from my jeans. Margaret uncurled her manicured fingers to receive them. But at the last second, I twirled them along the key ring back into my hand. And while I walked away, I let the two hundred big ones fly into the warm spring breeze.

"I could call the police," she shouted.

I didn't pause or look back. "You do that. And tell them I say 'hi' while you're at it." I got back into the Jaguar and sped off, making sure the tire squeal was loud enough the disturb the neighbors. I hated all of them and considered Skylar a diamond in the rough for possessing a soul. It must have been divine intervention. She certainly didn't inherit one from her parents.

I made it back to Boston in time for her school's dismissal. When the first of the students began streaming out, I realized I was waiting in the wrong parking lot. The staff appeared to be leaving from other exits. Before I missed her again, I ventured out of the car on foot.

After waiting by the side of the building for a few minutes with no luck, I returned to the front. I was about to circle around to the back when I passed by a familiar face.

"Are you looking for Miss Wakefield?"

I spun around. It was Sarah, the girl with the red scarf. This time she wore a red leather backpack. It looked fancy for a twelve-year-old. "Yes. Do you know where I can find her?"

"No. Sorry. We had a substitute again today. She's been sick."

"Yeah, I know. Thanks Sarah," I said, and I turned to go.

"For what it's worth," she called after me. "She's been really happy lately."

I stumbled to a stop and felt tears collecting in my eyes. "That's good to know," I replied once I pulled myself together. "Thanks again. You've just restored my faith in humanity."

She gave me a toothy grin. "Good luck, Prince Charming."

~~~

The Rolling Stones. Paint it Black (1966).

https://youtu.be/O4irXQhgMqg