Annihilate Me 2: Vol. 1 (17 page)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The next morning, news of
Audric
Dufort’s
death was
everywhere.
 
That was
expected—the man was an icon in the city, and he deserved all of the
public condolences and accolades he received.
 

What wasn’t unexpected was that the
Post
had made Alex and I part of the story.

After a fitful sleep, each of us
rose at four in the morning.
 
After
all that had happened the night before—from my attack against Stephen
Rowe to what had happened to
Audric
himself—the
idea that sleep was even possible was a joke.
 

And so, after giving up on sleep
and holding each other quietly for a few minutes, we slipped out of bed, deciding
it was best to just start the day.
 
While Alex collected the morning papers, I went into the kitchen to make
coffee.
 
My nerves alone were enough
to make me feel sick to my stomach, which was nothing new these days given the
pressure Alex and Wenn had been under.
 
But my nausea only intensified when Alex returned to the kitchen, sat at
the island, and tossed the
Post
onto the countertop.

“And so it gets worse,” he said.

I pulled two mugs out of a cabinet
and turned to him.
 
He was wearing
nothing but his boxer shorts, his dark hair was tousled, and he looked furious
to me.
 

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

He motioned toward the paper.
 
“Have a look.”

With a sinking feeling in my gut, I
went over to the counter, picked up the
Post
, and saw that Alex and I were
on the front page, with an empty wheelchair and a smashed window just behind
us.
 
In the photo, surprise was
stamped on my face and Alex looked nothing if not horrified by what had just
happened.
 
The headline was as
massive as it was cutting:
 
“WENNFAIL.”
 

On the paper’s lower right corner
was another photo, this one fit snuggly in a circle.
 
It was a grainy photograph of
Audric
Dufort’s
smashed body lying
on the sidewalk outside his son’s penthouse on Fifth.
 
The cutline that ran beneath it was even
more hurtful, unfair, and abusive:
 
“Alexander Wenn fails to save
Audric
Dufort—and his own company.”

And that’s all it took—my
stomach hitched, and I ran into the half-bathroom just off the kitchen and
threw up whatever I had left in my stomach, which wasn’t much.
 
As I launched into a series of dry
heaves, Alex hurried into the room and crouched down beside me.
 
He reached for my hair and held it away
from my face while he rubbed my back.

“Jennifer,” he said, when the
heaving slowed.
 
“Please don’t be
sick.
 
They’re idiots.
 
It’s the
Post
.
 
Nobody takes them seriously.”

When I was finished, he reached for
a towel off the rack beside the sink and handed it to me.
 
I pressed it against my lips and my
chin, and then went to the sink, turned on the water, and dipped my mouth
toward the running stream while tears stung my eyes.
 
I swished, spat, and took in a long pull
of cold water and swallowed.
 
When I
stood up to look at myself in the mirror, I looked as if I’d aged a decade
overnight.
 
All of the color had
drained from my face.
 
Alex was just
behind me, his hand resting on my shoulder.
 
I reached for and grasped his hand as I
leaned against his body.

“I’m so sorry,” I said.

“There’s no need to be sorry.”

“I’m not talking about throwing
up—though I’m also sorry about that.
 
What I’m sorry about is what people are doing to you.
 
It makes me sick, Alex—literally.
 
I hate it.
 
You deserve better than this, and I should
be able to protect you from it.
 
You
tried to save that man.
 
We both
did.
 
And now look how they’ve spun
it.
 
I don’t even want to know what
they’ve written about you in that fucking rag.”

He met my eyes in the mirror, and I
could feel his concern for me, as well as his love and his compassion.
 
“Then we won’t look,” he said.
 
“We’ll just get on with the day and
forget about it.
 
As I said, it’s
the
Post
.
 
They’re a
tabloid.
 
They don’t matter.”

When I’d composed myself, I turned
to him.
 
“But we have to look, don’t
we?
 
We have to know what they’ve
written, so we can be prepared for whatever might come our way later
today.
 
And it will come, Alex.
 
People will react to that story.
 
My first instinct is to protect you, and
I will do anything that it takes to do so.”
 
I lifted my eyes to the ceiling and took
a deep breath.
 
“I don’t know what’s
wrong with me.
 
It’s embarrassing.
 
I’m stronger than this.”

“You are strong,” he said.
 
“You proved that last night with
Rowe.
 
But this is different,
Jennifer.
 
You’re upset for two
valid reasons—
Audric’s
death and what you just
saw on the cover of that paper.
 
Don’t worry about it—I will rise above this.
 
So will you.
 
Right now it’s just my turn to be kicked
around by the tabloids.
 
It happened
to my father.
 
It happened to me
after Diana died, when they blamed her death on our failing marriage.
 
And now it’s happening again.
 
I’ll come through this.
 
We’ll
come through this.
 
But I’m worried about you.”

I shook my head at him in the
mirror.
 
“I don’t want you to be
worried about me.
 
This won’t happen
again.
 
I just feel powerless to
help you,” I said.
 
“That’s what’s
making me sick.
 
I should be able to
help you, and yet I can’t.
 
Why the
hell can’t I?”

“You did last night,” he reminded
me.
 
“With Rowe.”

“And how do you think he’s going to
react to that piece in the
Post
?
 
With glee, that’s how.”

His face softened.
 
“Does it really matter?”

“I don’t know yet.
 
I don’t know if he’ll take me
seriously.
 
If he doesn’t, I swear
to God that his wife will get a call from me.
 
Or a personal visit.
 
There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you,
Alex.
 
Nothing.
 
Not one thing.”
 
I turned and embraced him.
 
“I love you so much,” I said.
 
“I don’t mean to get so emotional.
 
But when people are out to damage you, I
apparently can’t help myself.
 
I
will fight for you no matter what.”

“Just not at the cost of your own
health, OK?
 
Now,” he said in my ear,
“how about a cup of coffee, and we can look over the
Post
if you
want.
 
That’s your call.
 
You said that you wanted to.
 
I don’t think that it’s a good idea, but
I know better than to get in your way when you’re like this.”

I wiped my eyes and smiled at
that.
 
“You know your wife well.”

“That I do.
 
She’s a tiger.
 
And this man is lucky as hell to have
her in his life.”

“So, let’s have at it,” I said with
a kiss on his cheek.
 
“Let me get us
each a cup of coffee, and we’ll face what the papers are saying together.”

“All right.”

“But first, you should check Wenn’s
stock.
 
This is exactly the sort of
thing that could knock it down in early trading.”

When Alex checked, Wenn was down
another fourteen points.

*
 
*
 
*

Later, before Alex and I left for
Wenn, Tank called Alex to warn us that there was a group of reporters waiting
outside for us.

“How many are there?” Alex
asked.
 
“A dozen?
 
Fine.
 
Is a reporter from the
Post
there?
 
Good.
 
Print and television?
 
Perfect.
 
We’ll be down in a moment.
 
Expect me to make a statement before you
lead us to the car.
 
Expect me to
keep it brief.
 
Yes, I’ll do it
outside.”

When he clicked off his cell and
put it in his pants pocket, I was emerging from our bedroom dressed for the
day.
 

“The press are here?” I asked.

“They are.”

“What do you plan to say to them?”

He grabbed his briefcase from the
kitchen counter and went over to the mirror in the entryway to straighten his
tie.
 
He didn’t answer me at
once.
 
Instead, what I saw when he
gazed at his reflection was an intensity that suggested an undercurrent of raw
anger.
 
My husband wasn’t an angry
man, but he had every right to be angry now, and I had to wonder what he had in
mind for when we reached the lobby.
 
I grabbed my own briefcase from the counter, and slung my handbag off a
chair in the living room and over my shoulder.
 

“Alex?” I said.

He turned to me with a smile and
kissed me on the forehead.
 
“Are you
feeling better?”

“Yes.”

“I love you,” he said.

“I love you, too.”

“Are you ready?”

I scrutinized his face and saw
something dark in his eyes that concerned me.
 
It looked as if he was about to go to
war.
 
“What am I getting ready for?
 
What are you up to?”

He held out his hand to me, and I
took it.

“Last night you asked me if I
trusted you,” he said.
 
“So now, I
need to know if you trust me.”

“You know that I do.”

“Then let’s go and see what I’m up
to,” he said.

*
 
*
 
*

In the lobby, Tank was waiting for
us just outside the elevator.
 
Usually, Alex greeted his best friend with good-natured small talk, but
this morning, he only nodded at Tank as the three of us crossed the lobby
toward the tall, double set of glass doors that were at the opposite end of the
cavernous space.
 
Through the wall
of windows to my left, I saw the reporters at the same moment they saw us leaving
the elevator and coming toward them.
 

And then, they swarmed.

Time seemed to slow.
 
Cutter was outside, and he was trying to
keep the crowd back when they pressed forward.
 
Max likely was in the car, ready to
drive us away whenever Alex was finished saying whatever it was that he wanted
to say.

“Just stand by my side,” he said to
me.
 
“That’s all I ask you to do.”

“Anything you want,” I said.

There were times when I consulted
Alex on his business, and there were times when I knew that it was best for me to
just trust his instincts and hang back.
 
Given the heat that was coming off him—and how wronged he’d been
in the
Post
this morning—I knew this was one of those times, and I
had a gut feeling about what was about to come.
 
So, I just stroked my hand against the
low of his back in a gesture of support as we followed Tank through the doors,
into the warm sunshine, and onto the sidewalk.
 

The moment we were through the
doors, mayhem ensued as a flurry of questions accosted us from every angle.
 
Alex ignored the questions.
 
“When you’re ready,” he said to the
crowd, “I’d like to make a statement.
 
But there will be no questions.
 
So, you can take my statement, or we can leave.
 
It’s your choice, but decide now.”