Tatum.

He groaned and sat up. There was more banging and he pressed a hand to his head. He couldn't remember how much he'd had to drink. It had been a lot. A glance at his liquor cabinet showed it to be wide open and completely empty.

There was more pounding.

“Sanders!” Jameson yelled, rubbing his face. There was no answer and he lifted his eyes to the ceiling. “Sanders! Get the goddamn door!”

Silence, followed by bang bang bang.

He growled and stood up, started marching across the room. There was a crunching sound, and before he could fully realize what was happening, something sliced through his heel. He hissed and lifted his foot. A chunk of glass was imbedded in his heel. He yanked it out and glared at it. Then he looked down and lost his glare.

Glass was everywhere. No, not glass. Crystal. Broken crystal, scattered all over the ground. A wide swath of floor, from the liquor cabinet to the wall across from it, was coated in broken tumblers and bottles and decanters. It all came back to Jameson. He had broken every piece of glassware in the room, after Sanders had left.

After she had left.

The pounding wasn't going away, and now that he knew why Sanders wasn't answering the door – because he wasn't there – Jameson made his way to the front of the house. Someone was knocking, over and over. Jameson stomped up and yanked open the door.

“What?” he barked.

A police officer blinked at him. Jameson was surprised, but he didn't show it. He kept his glare in place. The officer was young and tall. Taller than Jameson. He looked gangly and nervous, like it was his first day at basketball camp. Jameson raised his eyebrows, glancing between the cop and the police cruiser that was parked in the driveway.

“Um, is this the residence of ...,” the cop checked a notepad. “Jameson Kane? Or Sanders Dash ..., Dashke ...,”

“Yes,” Jameson cut him off.

“Are you -,”

“I'm Jameson. This is my home. What do you want?” he demanded. The cop swallowed nervously.

“Uh, we wanted to let you know, we found your car,” he answered. Jameson's eyebrows went back up.

“My car?” he asked, not having a clue what was going on. The cop looked down at the notepad he was holding.

“Uh, a Bentley, registered to a Jameson Kane and a Sanders Dashke ..., uh, yeah. License plate WXC1-,” the cop started to prattle off. Jameson held up a hand.

“Yes, I know my own license plate. What about the car?” he pressed. Now the cop looked surprised.

“Um, it was reported stolen,” the cop explained.

“Stolen?”

“Yes. Mr. ..., Mr. Sanders reported it stolen, last night. It's being towed here, right now. I just had some questions,” the cop told him.

“Sanders reported our car stolen?” Jameson clarified.

Someone had stolen the Bentley? He hadn't even known it was gone, and if he had, he would've just assumed Sanders had taken it. He was practically the only one who ever drove it; it was more his than Jameson's.

Who would want to steal the Bentley? After Sanders had put in his “notice”, Jameson had kicked everyone out. Just walked into the main lounge and yelled at everyone to get the hell out of his house. Petrushka Ivanovic, his ex girlfriend, had argued to stay, but he had practically thrown her out onto the porch and then slammed the door in her face.

Then Jameson had locked himself in the library and drank himself stupid, cursing both Tate and Sanders while he destroyed all his crystal. Was it possible that one of his disgruntled party guests had stolen his car? Most of them were wealthy in their own right; they could buy their own Bentleys.

“Yes, last evening,” the cop continued. “We found it soon afterwards. There's some minor damage to the vehicle, but it was like that when we found it. We took pictures, but you'll want to contact your insurance company.”

At that moment, a tow truck started rumbling up the drive. Jameson stared in shock as his car was pulled around, right in front of the porch. The entire passenger side of the Bentley was scratched up, as if it had side swiped something and then dragged along it. The sideview had been ripped clean off.

“What the fuck happened? Did you find the person who stole it?” Jameson demanded, stepping out onto the porch. The cop flipped through some paperwork.

“Yes. Actually, that's how we found the car. An officer who had responded to a 9-1-1 call noticed the car idling in the middle of the road, he called in the plates,” the cop read off the notes.

“Did you arrest the thief?” Jameson asked.

“Not yet. From what I understand, it was a woman. She was found unconscious in a pool in the Beacon Hill Athletic Club,” the officer explained.

Tatum.

“Unconscious?” Jameson repeated, his voice soft. More pages flipped in the notepad.

“Um, that's how she was found, that's what the officer at the scene reported. Uhhh, let's see ..., okay, the report says that when paramedics arrived, she was having generalized seizures. A man on the scene said she had vomited prior to -,”

Jameson didn't hear any more. He turned around and walked back into the house without saying a word. Walked straight back in to his kitchen and opened a cupboard next to the fridge. Pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniel's. Twisted off the wrapper and cap, chugging as much as he could before he had to breathe again. There was a creaking noise behind him and he became aware that the cop had followed him. Jameson took one more drink before leaning against the counter.