My wife will literally fight you in defense of her belief that Marshawn Lynch was the greatest running back to ever play the game. On and off the field, she adored everything about the guy. Believe me when I say he felt the same way about her. And while she couldn’t wear franchise gear at work, she practically lived in the ‘beast mode’ jersey he’d given her when she’s at home.
Though she’d earned awards, rubbed elbows with the industry’s finest, her heart lied with Lynch.
So much so that when he invited us to his home in California for a Saturday barbecue, we went.
Not only that, Pharis showed up wearing his jersey and spent most of the day playing ball.
Out in the street.
On concrete.
My tiny wife has no clue she’s tiny.
On the field she was a giant.
She lived like one, played like one, and loved like one too.
I had lit my cigar and was reaching for my bourbon when Aaron said, “Do you think he will follow her to Miami?” God, would we ever talk about something other than this? One day, I fucking hoped so. “Griff budgeted for a security detail and the condo is being outfitted with safety measures as we speak. If the motherfucker follows, I’ll be ready.”
“Are we dealing with Casanova or someone else?” Butch asked, mirroring the exact thoughts I’d never voiced. Because Casanova, to our knowledge, didn’t break into people’s homes to graffiti and install cameras. He didn’t send letters, trash offices. He took, he tortured, he killed, period.
Everything that has happened to Pharis said personal.
Very personal.
It also says if this was Casanova, he evolved.
“That’s what keeps me up at night,” I confessed. “Neighbors haven’t seen shit, those dates panned out, security feeds at the stadium were wiped clean, those cameras could be bought anywhere and that letter was placed inside on her table. If this isn’t Casanova, then who the fuck is it?”
Slamming my drink back, I pondered that while Aaron took a call. When he hung up, he said, “Eddie, the girls got to the house. Pharis is gone.”
“What do you mean gone?”
“Door’s open, no sign of forced entry, purse is on the kitchen counter, car’s in the garage, but Pharis is gone.”
Sending my glass sailing, I roared, “Fuck!” and dialed her number only to get voicemail.
“I’ll drive,” Butch said, throwing cash down and we all hauled ass to his truck while I kept redialing.
“Units are on the way,” Aaron said, tearing down the city streets.
“Answer, baby,” I begged dead air. “Pick up the phone, superstar.”
“Almost there,” Butch said, but I didn’t respond.
We weren’t even to a stop when I jumped out and cleared the porch in a single leap.
Taking stock of the kitchen, I ignored a hysterical Bridget and furious Connie.
When Connie got in my face to scream this was my fault, I handed her off to Aaron and ordered him to handle her. What he did with the girls, I didn’t much care.
Looking around the house, Connie was right. Nothing was out of place.
“How the fuck did he get in here?” I yelled, pulling my hair at the root.
Gently, Butch placed his hand on my shoulder and said, “She was expecting the girls, Eddie. The door was unlocked.”
Right as I comprehended sirens, my phone rang displaying a FaceTime call from Pharis.
“Pharis! Where the fuck are you!”
“Eddie,” she whimpered, her voice slurred. “Sorry.”
“Baby,” I quaked. “Why is it so dark, where are you?”
“I–” she stumbled, trying to find the words. “Fugging coffin.”
If Butch and Aaron hadn’t caught me, I’d have eaten linoleum. “No,” I wheezed out. “Baby, no.”
Casanova. It was my worst nightmare come to life. My woman, my wife, buried alive.
“Don’t know how long I’ve been in here, Eddie. Darted and shoved inside,” she mumbled. “Gonna be so pissed if I die like this.”
“Listen to me,” I demanded. “You have to preserve oxygen, Pharis.”
“I do? Okay, what time is it?” she asked, and the sluggishness in her tone was apparent. Whatever she was injected with she hadn’t gotten out of her system yet.
“Just after nine, superstar. Plenty of time to find you.”
“Three hours,” she growled and the light from her phone gave me just enough illumination to see the tears of fury on her face. Plainly put, I was gutted. “So how long do I have?”
When she tried sitting up and her forehead met wood she roared, “Motherfucker!”
“Pharis,” I yelled into the receiver. “Focus on me, focus on my voice!”
“O-Okay,” she forced out. “You’re the boss...”
Fuck, she was really out of it. Beginning to lose it myself, I closed my eyes and fight the fury when Butch whispered, “Let me talk to her, Eddie.”
“No.”
“I have an idea,” he pushed. “Give me the phone.”
“Pharis, I need you to listen to Butch for a second, okay?”
“Kay,” she replied sleepily.
Fuck. Time was running out.
I couldn’t lose her like this.