Читать книгу My Name is Nell - Laura Abbot - Страница 7

GRIPPING THE STEERING WHEEL of his Escalade, Brady Logan clenched his teeth and focused on the road ahead. The road away. He should give a damn. Most men would. But he felt nothing, not even relief.

When he’d made his final tour of the elaborate, expensive, now-empty house in the upscale Silicon Valley community where he, Brooke and their daughter Nicole had made their home, he’d been dry-eyed, detached. After locking the front door for the last time, he’d paused, studying the blinding white-stucco exterior, waiting for any emotion that would make him feel alive. Nothing. Only the familiar numbness.

Now, driving past the sleek four-story headquarters of L&S TechWare, nestled among the lushest landscaping an unlimited budget could provide, he still felt nothing.

Eight months ago he couldn’t have imagined picking up like this and walking out. With only ingenious ideas, damn hard work and luck, he and his friend Carl Sutton had built a successful software company, now traded on the Nasdaq. He’d married a beautiful blue-eyed California blonde, purchased the gadget-laden home and cars, hired a live-in housekeeper and yard man and been accepted for membership in clubs so prestigious you didn’t inquire about initiation fees, you simply wrote the check—a large one. In short, he had “arrived.”

The best things, though, money couldn’t buy. Brooke had been far more than a trophy wife. She was his other half, full of fun where he was serious, understanding of his long hours and driven work ethic. When he’d thought life couldn’t get any better, Nicole had come along and grown into a loving, giggly, remarkably unspoiled preteen who’d won his heart in a way no one else ever had.

Brady gave L&S TechWare one last glance in the rearview mirror, then headed for the Interstate. It didn’t matter where he was going. He should care, but he didn’t. The important thing was that he was going.

Carl had accused him of running away. Hell, maybe he was. As he saw it, though, he had two choices. Stay and slowly, steadily, implode, or get out of Dodge and look for any spark left of the man named Brady Logan.

Here all that remained were sights, sounds, smells and memories—oh, God, the memories—reminding him that in one horrible instant, everything he loved had been wiped from the face of the earth.

Vaporized by one irresponsible drunken son of a bitch, who just happened to be driving a loaded gasoline tanker.