Chapter 143


    What can I say?


    I’m staring nkly out of the window when Mrs. Jones knocks on my office door.


    “Would you like some lunch?”


    “Yeah. Sure. Thank you, Gail.”


    “Very good, Mr. Grey.” With a polite smile she leaves me with my thoughts. I’m still trying to think of


    something to respond to Ana, when I hear the ping of a new message arriving from my iMac.


    From: Anastasia Grey


    Subject: Here’s the Thing…


    Date: August 26 2011 13:56


    To: Christian Grey


    I will take your silence as an admission that you did indeed return to Seattle because I CHANGED MY


    MIND. I am an adult female and went for a drink with my friend. I did not understand the security


    ramifications of CHANGING MY MIND because YOU NEVER TELL ME ANYTHING. I found out from


    Kate that security has, in fact, been stepped up for all the Greys, not just us. I think you generally


    overreact where my safety is concerned, and I understand why, but you’re like the boy crying wolf.


    I never have a clue about what is a real concern or merely something that is perceived as a concern by


    you. I had two of the security detail with me. I thought both Kate and I would be safe. Fact is, we were


    safer in that bar than at the apartment. Had I been FULLY INFORMED of the situation, I would have


    taken a different course of action.


    I understand your concerns are something to do with material that was on Jack’sputer here—or so


    Kate believes. Do you know how annoying it is to find out my best friend knows more about what’s


    going on with you than I do? And I am your WIFE. So are you going to tell me? Or will you continue to


    treat me like a child, guaranteeing that I continue to behave like one?


    You are not the only one who is fucking pissed. Okay?


    Ana


    Anastasia Grey


    Editor, SIP


    Cursing and shouty capitals, too. Two can y at that game.


    From: Christian Grey


    Subject: Here’s the Thing…


    Date: August 26 2011 13:59


    To: Anastasia Grey


    As ever, Mrs. Grey, you are forthright and challenging in e-mail.


    Perhaps we can discuss this when you get home to OUR apartment.


    You should watch yournguage. I am still fucking pissed, too.


    Christian Grey


    CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.


    Fuck it. I don’t want an e-mail fight with Ana. I storm out of my office and into the living area. My temper


    eases at the sight of the cold chicken sd that Mrs. Jones has prepared for my lunch.


    Maybe I’m so mad because I’m hungry.


    “Thanks,” I mumble.


    “I’m going to the Greek deli that Mrs. Grey likes, to pick up her favorite foods from there for this


    evening. She’ll just have to pop them in the oven or microwave to heat them up.”


    “Great,” I say, distracted. Why are Ana and I always fighting these days?


    “Mr. Grey—” Mrs. Jones is trying to get my attention.


    “Yes.”


    “Thank you for this evening. But I must say you look tired. Have you thought about taking a quick nap?”


    I frown. A nap? I’m not a child. “No.”


    “It’s just an idea.”


    “I’ll take it under advisement,” I mutter, and bring my sd into my office.


    Welch calls while I’m eating.


    “Welch.”


    “Interesting development in the Hyde case,” he rasps in his gruff voice. “Turns out Hyde’s van in the


    garage was kitted out with a mattress and enough ketamine to fell a Texas rodeo.”


    “Ketamine. Shit.” I was right!


    “Yes, sir. And syringes.”


    I grimace. I loathe syringes.


    Welch continues, “Looks like our boy will be charged with attempted kidnapping, first degree. They’ll


    probably throw in criminal trespass, robbery, and illegal possession of a firearm, too. Also, there was a


    note.”


    “rk showed me the note.”


    “Mean anything to you?”


    “No. And Hyde left it in the van. Maybe he changed his mind about that, because it’s nonsensical.”


    “Maybe. He was delivering lights to one of the new tenants in the building,” Welch growls.


    “Delivering lights? What do you mean?”


    “Yes. He was working for a courierpany. The client lives at apartment sixteen.”


    “Oh, yes. I’ve met him. Young guy. That’s how Hyde got ess; he’s a wily bastard.”


    “That he is, sir,” Welch agrees. “One more thing. I’ve heard from King County PD and the FBI. The


    prints match.”


    “We have him!”


    “It looks like it.”


    “There must be a Detroit connection, but I’m damned if I know what it is,” I mutter.


    “I’ll keep digging,” Welch responds. “That’s it for now.”


    “Thanks for the update.”


    He hangs up, and I look at the remains of my lunch. My appetite has evaporated. What the hell did that


    evil motherfucker have nned for my wife? Kidnap. Rape. Murder. And he had syringes. Perhaps he


    was going to inject her with a filthy, dirty syringe. Bile rises in my throat, but I swallow it down.


    Fuck.


    I have to get out of here and get some fresh air. Abandoning my lunch, I walk out through the living


    room and, ignoring Gail’s anxious look, take the elevator down to the main lobby. The photographers


    have gone, so I slip out the front entrance and walk. And walk. And walk.


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