Fifty Shades Trilogy 03 - Fifty Shades Freed

pointing at Jack.
    “He’ll have an aching skull when he wakes,” Ryan says, gazing down at Jack with contempt. “But we need paramedics here to make sure.”
    I reach into my purse and pull out my BlackBerry, and before I can give too much thought to the extent of Christian’s anger, I dial his number. It goes straight to voice mail. He must have switched it off because he’s so mad. I cannot think what to say. Turning away, I walk down the hallway a little, away from everyone.
    “Hi. It’s me. Please don’t be mad. We’ve had an incident at the apartment. But it’s under control, so don’t worry. No one is hurt. Call me.” I hang up.
    “Call the police.” I tell Sawyer. He nods, takes out his cell, and makes the call.
    Officer Skinner is deep in conversation with Ryan at the dining room table. Officer Walker is with Sawyer in Taylor’s office. I don’t know where Prescott is, perhaps in Taylor’s office. Detective Clark is barking questions at me as we sit on the couch in the great room. He’s tall, dark and would be good looking if it wasn’t for his permanent scowl. I suspect he’s been woken and dragged from his warm bed because the home of one of Seattle’s most influential and wealthy businessmen has been breached.
    “He used to be your boss?” Clark asks tersely.
    “Yes.”
    I am tired—beyond tired—and I want to go to bed. I still haven’t heard from Christian. On the plus side, the paramedics have removed Hyde. Mrs. Jones hands Detective Clark and me each a cup of tea.
    “Thanks.” Clark turns to me. “And where is Mr. Grey?”
    “New York. On business. He’ll be back tomorrow evening, I mean this evening.” It’s after midnight.
    “Hyde is known to us,” Detective Clark murmurs. “I’ll need you to come down to the station to make a statement. But that can wait. It’s late and there are a couple of reporters camped out on the sidewalk. Do you mind if I look around?”
    “Of course not,” I offer, relieved his questioning is finished. I shudder at the thought of the photographers outside. Well, they won’t be a problem until tomorrow. I remind myself to call Mom and Ray just in case they hear anything and worry.
    “Mrs. Grey, may I suggest you go to bed?” Mrs. Jones says, her voice warm and full of concern.
    Looking into her warm, kind eyes, I suddenly feel an overwhelming need to cry. She reaches over and rubs my shoulder.
    “We’re safe now,” she murmurs. “This will all look better in the morning once you’ve had some sleep. And Mr. Grey will be back tomorrow evening.”
    I glance nervously up at her, keeping my tears at bay. Christian is going to be so mad.
    “Can I get you anything before you go to bed?” she asks.
    I realize how hungry I am. “I’d love something to eat.”
    She smiles broadly. “Sandwich and some milk?”
    I nod with gratitude, and she heads into the kitchen. Ryan is still with Officer Skinner. In the foyer Detective Clark is examining the mess outside the elevator. He looks thoughtful, despite his scowl. And suddenly I feel homesick—homesick for Christian. Holding my head in my hands, I wish fervently that he were here. He’d know what to do. What an evening. I want to crawl into his lap, have him hold me and tell me that he loves me, even though I don’t do as I’m told—but that won’t be possible until this evening. Inwardly I roll my eyes . . . Why didn’t he tell me about the increased security for everyone? What exactly is on Jack’s computer? He’s so frustrating but right now, I just don’t care. I want my husband. I miss him.
    “Here you are, Ana dear.” Mrs. Jones interrupts my inner turmoil. When I glance up at her, she hands me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, her eyes twinkling. I haven’t had one of these for years. I smile shyly and dig in.
    When I finally crawl into bed, I curl up on Christian’s side, dressed in his T-shirt. Both his pillow and his T-shirt smell of him, and as I drift off I silently wish him safe passage home . . . and a good mood.
    I wake with a start. It’s light and my head is aching, throbbing at my temples. Oh no. I hope I don’t have a hangover. Cautiously, I open my eyes and notice the bedroom chair has moved, and Christian is sitting in it. He’s wearing his tux, and the end of his bowtie is peeping out of the breast pocket. I wonder if I’m dreaming. His left arm is draped over the chair, and in his hand he holds a cut glass tumbler of amber liquid.