She turned to see that he was frowning. Speaking up went against his training. But he had obviously gauged her determination and decided it was better to get what was coming over with than have her searching the property for hours, haranguing everyone she saw. “I’ve texted him several times, but he’s not answering. At this point, I don’t know what to do, so…I guess he can tell you himself if he wants you to leave. I’ll take you to his wood shop.”
Wood shop? Simon didn’t seem like the carpenter type, but maybe the project he’d mentioned involved wood.
“Thank you.”
Hurrying to keep up, she followed as he crossed the grass and went behind the tennis courts, past the pool house, the guesthouse, a second barbecue area, this one with a koi pond, and what looked like an outdoor dancing pavilion.
At last they came upon a giant cabinlike structure at the far corner of the property. “This is it?” she asked.
He waved her ahead of him. “This is it.”
Heart pounding for fear of what she’d find, and the disappointment that might go with it, she knocked on the door.
There was no response but she could hear a saw going inside. She tried the handle.
It wasn’t locked. She poked her head in. “Simon?”
At first she thought the shop was empty. She spotted the saw, but there was no one near it. The motor grated as the blade whirled freely. “I don’t think he’s here, either—” she started to say, but then she saw the blood. “Oh, my God!”
Simon’s driver stood behind her. He noticed the drops the same second she did, but he found his employer faster. Pushing past her, he dashed across the concrete floor to where Simon sat, slumped against the wall, blood covering his hands and phone and staining his clothes.
She hurried over and crouched on the other side. “Simon? What happened?”
“I don’t think he can hear you,” the driver said, and he was right. Simon’s eyes were glassy, his skin cold and clammy.
Standing, Gail pulled her phone out of her purse. Her hands were shaking so badly she could hardly dial, but she hit 9-1-1.
* * *
“How long do you think he was bleeding?” Gail stood in a corner of the hospital waiting room, conversing quietly with Simon’s doctor.
“Considering the size of the cut?” the doctor replied. “At least an hour.”
She attempted to swallow, but her mouth was too dry. “So…was it a suicide attempt?”
A tall, spare man with gray hair, the doctor pursed his lips. “I don’t believe he was trying to kill himself, no.”
“Then why didn’t he seek help?”
“Who can say? Maybe he thought he could get the bleeding under control, that he only needed to sit down and put some pressure on it. But it was much worse than he realized and he eventually went into shock. To be honest, thanks to significant sleep deprivation and the lifestyle he’s been leading, I’m not sure he was in a clear frame of mind to begin with.”
She could certainly confirm that. “What about alcohol? Was he drunk when this happened?”
“No. There was no alcohol in his system at all.”
For some reason this helped her relax and made her tear up at the same time. It meant he was trying. “He told me it’s been three days since he’s had a drink.”
“How much was he drinking before?”
“A lot.”
“Maybe he’s going through withdrawal and that figures into this somehow. It can cause depression, anxiety, myriad other things. I’m guessing this accident is a culmination of a number of factors. Including exhaustion.”
“But not suicide.” For some reason, she needed to hear him say that again.
“I doubt it. A saw would be an emotionally daunting way to take your own life. Besides, only one of his hands is cut and not near the wrist. This was an accident, but…the fact that he didn’t immediately call for help might say something about his state of mind. Then again, it might not. It could’ve happened like I said.”
“Gail? What’s going on?”
Ian had arrived; he was hurrying toward her. Thanking the doctor for taking the time to speak with her, she turned and greeted Simon’s manager. “He’s going to be okay.”
His eyes darted between her and the departing doctor. “What the hell happened?”
She blew out a long breath. “I’m not sure. The doctor thinks it was an accident.”
“You don’t?”
The image of Simon sitting on the floor of his woodshop, cradling his hand and staring off into space as if he’d just as soon slip away came to mind. Why didn’t he call someone? He had all kinds of domestic help on the property. The doctor didn’t feel it was an active attempt to take his own life, but he’d intimated that it could have been a passive one, which still gave them plenty to worry about. “I don’t know what to think,” she admitted. “Except…Simon needs a break, Ian.”
He scowled. “What do you mean?”
“I mean he needs a break, a real break. Some time to take care of himself, to get back on his feet emotionally and physically, to rest from all the demands on him.”
“But he’s under contract for promotion! I already told you that. And he’s supposed to start another movie in two weeks.”
She was so upset it didn’t take much to set her off. “You said you could clear his schedule in early November for our wedding.”
“I was talking about a weekend or maybe even a week. But he’s slammed with work before and after.”
“I don’t care! Get him out of whatever obligations he’s got. He shouldn’t be working in this condition.”
“I can’t just—”
“Yes, you can.” She grabbed his arm to make her point. “It’s only money.”
“Easy for you to say. It’s not your money that’ll be lost, not your career that will suffer. This film he has coming up—it’s supposed to be the kind that makes or breaks a career. The producers are pressuring me to make sure he’ll be at the studio and in good shape.”
A couple on the couch glanced up, so she pulled Ian farther into the corner and lowered her voice. “He nearly cut off his hand. Whether that was an accident or not, he didn’t seek help. He sat on the floor as if he didn’t care whether he lived or died and nearly bled to death. If that isn’t a cry for help, I don’t know what is. Now get on the phone and call whoever you have to, but tell everyone that Simon will be unavailable for the next three months.”