George's Suspicions Grow

The steady ticking of the clock echoed through the dimly lit study, only interrupted by the sporadic clacking of laptop keys. George sat hunched over his desk, a furrow etched into his brow as he tried to focus on his crime novel. But each word that materialized on the paper seemed dull and lifeless in comparison to the wild thoughts swirling through his mind.

"Damn it," George muttered under his breath, raking his fingers through his curly hair. He couldn't shake the image of Julie from his thoughts. Her participation alone in that experiment troubled him - she had always been so wholesome, so vehemently against cigarettes and everything they represented. Yet there she was, willingly participating in a smoking experiment, although due to a hefty compensation that was promised.

But that wasn’t the main reason for his worries. He could still feel the chill that had crept down his spine when he realized he hadn't received the weekly check-in message from his wife last Sunday at all. And the previous one, two weeks ago now, was bland and short. The gnawing uncertainty had been festering inside him ever since, poisoning his every waking moment.

"Enough of this, I can’t write a single sentence without my mind wandering. I need some fucking answers," George growled, slamming his fist onto the wooden desk. Desperation clawed at him, as he snatched up his phone and dialed Amanda Collins' number with trembling fingers. Again.

"Come on, come on," he urged, the words barely audible as they escaped through gritted teeth. Each ring felt like an eternity, the silence on the other end of the line suffocating him with every passing second.

"Damn it, just pick up," George pleaded, his voice laced with equal parts worry and frustration. But all he got in return was the cold, unforgiving tone of the dial tone, mocking him and leaving him more **** than before.

"God damn it!" he yelled, tossing the phone onto the desk, almost breaking its screen. George buried his face in his hands, the weight of his emotions pressing down on him. He thought of Julie, her once infectious laughter now replaced by a hollow emptiness that haunted him.

"Where are you, Julie?" he whispered into his hands, **** back a sob. "What the hell is going on there? Why didn’t you write me?"

George's heart ached with an intensity he had never known before, his love for Julie melding with the fear of losing her forever. As he sat there, consumed by his own torment, he vowed that he would stop at nothing to unravel the truth and find out what was going on with his wife.

He recalled the events of a few days prior, when he had driven to the Institute in an attempt to find answers about his beloved wife. The sky had been just as dark then, the clouds seemingly conspiring to match the turmoil within him.

"Dr. Graham," George muttered under his breath, remembering the name of the elusive researcher who had allegedly contracted Dr. Collins for the experiment. Upon arriving at the Institute, he had been directed to Dr. Graham's office, only to find that the man was perpetually "out" whenever George tried to make contact with him later. It was as if the universe itself was determined to keep him from discovering the truth.

"Julie," he whispered, her name like a prayer on his lips. His imagination didn’t help him one bit; he imagined her bound and helpless, subjected to whatever twisted scenario his mind conjured up. His stomach churned at the thought that she might also be deceiving him, enjoying herself with her lover on some exotic beach. Bile was rising in his throat as his mind painted vivid, erotic images of her being fucked by some dude. A sickening mixture of desire and disgust coursed through his veins, threatening to consume him.

"God damn it, I need answers!" George growled, pacing the room like a caged animal. The storm outside mirrored his own inner tempest, each flash of lightning illuminating the darkness that threatened to swallow him whole.

"I need help," he said, pausing in his restless wandering, "I won’t be getting any answers on my own, it’s time to bring in the cavalry."

Bathed in the faint glow of desperation, with a single beacon of hope guiding him, George found himself perched on a bar stool, cradling his whiskey as he anticipated Connor's arrival. He was more than just a friend; he was a seasoned detective from the local precinct - an ideal help for this uncertainty and confusion.

Connor was single and he found a substitute in George's company, often unveiled intriguing narratives from his caseload. These real-life chronicles served as fodder for George's crime novels, adding authenticity to his plots. Through years, their bond had grown over shared stories and George found himself giving Connor valuable advice for some tough cases. Now, however, George needed to tap into his reservoir of experiences more than ever before.

"Hey, George," Connor greeted as he slid onto the stool beside him. His voice was gruff, roughened by years of late nights and hard cases. "You sounded pretty **** on the phone, buddy. What's going on?"

"Connor, I..." George faltered, struggling to find the right words. He inhaled deeply, ready to dive into the tumultuous sea of his uncertainties. "This is about Julie. She wanted me to keep this under wraps, you know, due to a bit of embarrassment. But now, I have to talk about it with somebody... she's participating in this... study on smoking effects and I can't shake off the feeling that something isn't quite right."

"Smoking study?" Connor raised an eyebrow, his interest clearly piqued. "That doesn't sound like Julie at all. Tell me more."

As they sipped their drinks, George recounted the events that had led them to this point – Julie's loss of job, Dr. Collins' sudden invitation and a promise of $100,000, and the chilling silence that now hung between them like a shroud. With each word, his fear and frustration grew, fanning the flames of his desire to uncover the truth.

"Well, it sounds a bit shady, I have to admit," Connor muttered, rubbing a hand over his stubbled chin. "I can see why you're worried, George. It looks like there's more to this 'experiment' than meets the eye. But it’s far too early to jump to any conclusions. She let you know at the beginning communication would be limited."

"I know." George slammed his glass down on the bar, the sound echoing through the dingy establishment like a gunshot. "But that’s exactly why I need your help, Connor. Can you look into this Dr. Collins for me? I can’t find anything on the web, it’s like she doesn’t exist."

"Of course, man." Connor clapped him on the shoulder, his firm grip a lifeline in the midst of George's turmoil. "You know I've got your back."

"Thank you," George whispered, his voice raw with gratitude and relief.

"I really want to help you, so you need to explain me everything about this, alright? I need to see the whole picture," Connor said, tapping his fingers on the sticky surface of the bar. "Tell me about your relationship with Julie. Has there been any...change in your intimacy lately? Any arguments or issues that could have led her to do something… uhm, unlike her?"

George paused, the question stirring up a mix of hidden wants and silent worries. "Well, we've always been pretty good in bed, but for the past year or two..." His voice trailed off as he got lost in his thoughts. "It's changed. Less frequent and, honestly, kinda dull. She's been so caught up with the kids, her job and hitting the gym that when we finally do get some alone time every month or so, it's over before you know it. She'd just go through the motions and wait for me to finish. I don’t think she did it intentionally; her head just wasn't in the game. We never really had any big blowouts, except maybe when she'd take her perfectionism and discipline a bit too far. You know how she can be. So… nothing out of the ordinary here."

"Interesting," Connor murmured, etching thoughts onto a cocktail napkin. "Truth be told, that seems fairly typical for a pair raising children, from what I gather. But are you having any suspicions… about her? You catch my drift..."

"Nope, not at all...well, not until now," George's words trailed off into the thick silence. He turned back to face Connor, his voice laced with a raw, unfiltered hint of irritation. "I can't figure out if she's in some sort of danger, or mixed up in some affair, or if all this mess is just cooked up by my own mind! I'm totally lost here, Connor!"

"Okay, okay," Connor said soothingly, trying to calm his friend. "Let's focus on the this study. Now, you mentioned that it was run by an Amanda Collins, right?"

"Right," George confirmed, his voice tight with anger. "I don’t know who she really is, she told me over the phone that the Institute hired her as a subcontractor for this smoking experiment. That’s all I know."

As the words tumbled from his lips, he watched a flicker of recognition pass over Connor's face, his brow furrowing in concentration.

"Wait a minute," Connor said suddenly, his gaze sharpening as he stared at George. "You said 'smoking experiment'? I think I remember something about that. Yeah… a colleague of mine worked on a case where a woman sued a psychologist over some **** during a similar study. Years ago, I think."

"Really?" George's heart began to race, the first tendrils of hope creeping into his chest. "Do you remember any names? Details?"

"Names, huh? Not my strong suit. Kinda sucks in my line of work, doesn't it?" Connor tried to inject a bit of humor into the tense atmosphere but fell flat. George looked at him with a silent plea in his eyes and Connor massaged his forehead, struggling to dig up more details. "Shit man, I can’t remember anything else... I'll need to hit up my coworker about this when I'm back at the station. But trust me, George, I'll dig up whatever dirt there is."

"Thank you, Connor," George breathed, the weight of his uncertainty lifting ever so slightly. As they sat together in the murky gloom of the bar, their resolve hardened, and the shadows seemed to whisper promises of dark revelations yet to come.

The engine of George's car hummed as he navigated the familiar streets, his mind a whirlwind of thoughts centered on Julie. His children, Lily and Tim, hopped into the backseat after school, immediately picking up on their father's disquiet.

"Dad?" Lily's voice cut through his thoughts like a knife. Her blue eyes, mirror images of her mother's, were filled with concern. "Is everything alright?"

George **** a smile onto his face and glanced at her in the rearview mirror. "Of course, sweetheart," he said, attempting to keep his tone light despite the weight on his heart.

"Your face looks all scrunched up," Tim piped up from the backseat, his youthful features reflecting concern.

"It's just work stuff," George said dismissively, hoping to dispel their worries.

"But you're not working right now," Lily pointed out logically.

"Well..." George stammered for a moment before saying, "I'm just thinking about some things I need to do."

"You're thinking about Mom," Tim stated matter-of-factly.

George sighed deeply and nodded. "Yes... yes I am."

Lily reached over from her seat and took George's hand in hers. "It will be okay Dad." she said softly. “She is coming home soon, isn’t she?”

“Yes… she’ll be home very soon, sweetie. Just a few more days left and we’ll be all together again,” George **** himself to sound as convincing and jovial as he could. But no matter how much he tried to believe his own words or distract himself with small talk during their drive home, he could not shake off the ominous feeling that had settled deep within him. The nagging itch under his skin screamed for action - something to regain control over this spiraling situation and bring Julie back safely into their lives.

As the evening wore on, George found himself restless, pacing the floor of their home, his thoughts a whirlwind of desire, fear, and guilt. He replayed the conversation Julie had had when she was contacted by Collins, the way her voice had trembled when she'd described the experiment to him. How stupid he had been for encouraging her to participate!

Finally, the awaited ring of his phone pierced the silence, and George's pulse quickened. The moment of truth had arrived. He snatched up the device, holding it to his ear with clammy hands.

"Connor?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"Hey, buddy," Connor replied, his tone grave. "I've managed to dig up some information for you, but not much since my colleague is on vacation."

"Anything is better than nothing," George said, desperation creeping into his words.

"Alright, let's dive into this mystery," Connor began, his voice slightly muffled by the phone line. "So, we've got this psychologist guy on our hands, name is Mark Nichols." His tone was casual as if he was discussing the latest sports game rather than a potential threat to George's wife. "I did some detective work on him, you know how I love digging up dirt." A chuckle echoed down the line before he continued. "But from what I found so far, legally speaking at least, he seems clean... squeaky clean."

There was a pause on the line and George could almost picture Connor reaching for his drink - likely a glass of his favored whiskey - taking a slow sip before pressing on with the conversation. "Now here's an interesting tidbit I managed to unearth - our man is a widower." The word hung heavy in the silence between them.

"Turns out his beloved wife kicked the bucket about four years ago and left him sitting pretty with quite the inheritance. But here’s where it gets really juicy - they were only hitched for a bit more than a year before she passed."

He paused again and George could practically see him leaning forward in his chair.

"It gets better: when she married him our fresh bride was 84 years old with no kids to speak of; while our stud Mark was just 33 at the time." His voice held an ironic lilt as he allowed that information to seep into George's consciousness.

There was a hint of a smirk in his voice as he added, “You don’t have to be a seasoned detective to figure out the kind of man we’re dealing with here.”

George's frown deepened at the revelation, his words barely more than a whisper into the receiver, “Sounds like a vulture… a damn gigolo…”

"Exactly. And he scored big time. He did quite well, I see a lot of trips to South America and afterwards he apparently began with these studies on smoking. Always with women, conveniently.”

“I don’t like where this is going, Connor…” George interjected.

“Yeah… Now get this, buddy. The woman who threw that lawsuit at him? She was part of one of his smoking studies. And yeah, she accused him of sexual misconduct and all that jazz. But then, just a month later, poof! All charges were dropped and she's filing for divorce. Fast forward a bit and guess what? She's working for the guy. And here's the kicker..." He paused for effect, letting the suspense hang in the air. "She changed her name to... Amanda Collins."

George's heart skipped a beat, his stomach twisting into knots. Amanda Collins – the very same woman who had recruited Julie for the insidious smoking experiment.

"Jesus Christ," George breathed, his mind racing with dark possibilities. "This is fucked up! What are these people doing to my wife?"

"Listen, I get it, the whole thing sounds shady," Connor advised. "But we're not at a point where we can make any definitive statements. As for Julie, I highly doubt she's in any immediate danger. They're likely not involved in anything like organ trafficking or similar."

"Christ, Connor, is that your idea of reassurance?"

"No, no... Sorry, man, I didn't mean to make it sound like that. Let's just hold our horses until I can dig up more details, okay?"

"Yeah... sure thing. Thanks for this, buddy." George paused before adding, "You know what? Maybe you should try reaching out to Amanda. She seems to be avoiding my calls knowing my number but might be inclined to talk if a detective were on the other end of the line." He continued with a faint smirk playing on his lips, "Here you go; I’ve just sent her contact over."

"That's worth a shot," Connor agreed. "I'll give her a ring and see where it goes." He paused before adding, "And George... promise me one thing: don't do anything rash while we wait for more information."

“Of course I won’t, buddy.”