The Muse's Undoing

I can’t do that.

There’s no possible way I can cut Matthew out of my life because my ex-wife is misunderstanding something I could easily clear up. She trusts me. Doesn’t she?

I send Matthew a text instead of calling.

Won’t be home until late. I’m sorry. Please don’t wait up.

He doesn’t respond until I’m on the air. I check his message during a commercial break.

Matthew

Don’t work too hard. I love you.

Bile rises as I close the screen, and I swallow hard. When I leave the network’s building for the evening, uncertainty screams inside me. In the end, and I hate myself for this more than I can say, I tell my driver to drop me off at The Eastmoor.

I hate my apartment, too. I see it through Matthew’s eyes now. Clean lines, bland art, no heart. I don’t want to be here, but everything Maggie said is eating away at my brain. I’m scared to death to go anywhere near Matty tonight, and I feel the selfishness of that fear like an oil slick in my stomach.

Gibson arrives with a bottle of my favorite vodka about thirty minutes after I get home.

He was the only person I could think of besides Gavin that I trust. And bless Gavin, but he’s practically a kid. Also, I don’t know what the fuck Raven might have said to Nicole—whether she implied I was having gay orgies in my apartment with my kid sleeping down the hall or what.

But I’ll deal with her later. Tonight, I need a friend.

“Thanks for letting me drag you away from the club,” I tell him when I let him in. I thought of visiting him at his building first, but I can’t take any chances.

“I was surprised you asked. It’s not like you to reach out,” he says in that cool, smooth way he has.

Even outside his realm, Gibson Hayes carries himself like royalty. He wasn’t always like this. In college, he was a numbers geek and shamelessly devoted to Marianne. I missed when he became this new version of himself. Sometime when I was back and forth from D.C. reporting on Congress. He’s better looking than he used to be, too. And bigger. Dark haired and blue-eyed with a GQ model jawline and a rakish grin. He’s aging unfairly well. But somewhere in that broad chest beats the heart of a true and loyal friend, despite his reputation as a ruthless dealmaker or deviant.

“So,” he says. “I made a few calls. You want to tell me what the hell you did to piss off the Gallos?”

47

MATTHEW

When Fischer still hasn’t shown up by midnight, I start to worry. Working late is one thing, and while I’m not one to wait up, I run more nocturnal than not.

I texted him a few times, but no response, and granted—he could be busy, but still. It’s not like him to go this long without reaching out. I don’t like it.

Let me know you’re alive?

When I get nothing from that, I start pacing. Could he have gone home? Did something happen to Vaughn?

The thought of that makes my limbs go cold, and I throw on a hoodie while I’m making another round of the room. What do normal people do in these circumstances? Call hospitals? Check out their last known location? He was on the news. He seemed perfectly fine. Not like he was on the verge of a heart attack or anything that would have wound him up in a hospital… How many hospitals are there in New York City anyway? Probably a lot.

While I’m a second away from doing it, I stop myself from calling my parents to see if they know anything. They’d be the last to know, and they’re old. They probably go to sleep at eight.

Do I do something? Or do I wait it out? Do I trust him? Or do I panic?

I want to panic. My body is telling me to panic.

I don’t feel good. Restless, and more than a little pissed off. Rejected, too—there’s that in the murky mix.

By two in the morning, I am calling hospitals. Asking about Vaughn and Fischer. I have no way of knowing whether I’m calling all the possible places either one of them might have wound up, but I have to do something.

And still, I come up with nothing.

I text him again.