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To: Christian Grey

CCTV around Seattle tracks the white van from South Irving Street. Before that I can find no trace, so Hyde must have been based in that area.

As Welch has told you the unsub car was rented with a false license by an unknown female, though nothing that ties it to the South Irving Street area.

Details of known GEH and SIP employees who live in the area are in the attached file, which I have forwarded to Welch, too.

Details of known GEH and SIP employees who live in the area are in the attached file, which I have forwarded to Welch, too.

There was nothing on Hyde’s SIP computer about his former PAs.

As a reminder, here is a list of what was retrieved from Hyde’s SIP computer.

Greys’ Home Addresses:

Five properties in Seattle

Two properties in Detroit

Detailed Resumés for:

Carrick Grey

Elliot Grey

Christian Grey

Dr. Grace Trevelyan

Anastasia Steele

Mia Grey

Newspaper and online articles relating to:

Dr. Grace Trevelyan

Carrick Grey

Christian Grey

Elliot Grey

Photographs:

Carrick Grey

Dr. Grace Trevelyan

Christian Grey

Elliot Grey

Mia Grey

I’ll continue my investigation, see what else I can find.

B Sullivan

Head of IT, GEH

This odd e-mail momentarily sidetracks me from my night of woe. I click on the attachment to check through the names on the list, but it’s obviously huge, too

big to open on the BlackBerry.

What am I doing? It’s late. I’ve had a tiring day. There are no e-mails from the Bitch Troll or Leila Williams, and I take some cold comfort from that. I glance

quickly at the alarm clock: it’s just after two in the morning. Today has been a day of revelations. I am to be a mother, and my husband has been fraternizing with

the enemy. Well, let him stew. I am not sleeping here with him. He can wake up alone tomorrow. After placing his BlackBerry on the bedside table, I retrieve my

purse from beside the bed and, after one last look at my angelic, sleeping Judas, I leave the bedroom.

The spare playroom key is in its usual place in the cabinet in the utility room. I grab it and scoot upstairs. From the linen closet, I retrieve a pillow, duvet and

sheet, then unlock the playroom door and enter, switching the lights to dim. Odd that I find the smell and ambience of this room so comforting, considering I safe

worded the last time we were in here. I lock the door behind me, leaving the key in the lock. I know that tomorrow morning Christian will be frantic to find me, and

I don’t think he’ll look in here if the door’s locked. Well, it will serve him right.

I curl up on the Chesterfield couch, wrap myself in the duvet and drag my BlackBerry from my purse. Checking my texts, I find the one from the evil Bitch Troll

that I forwarded from Christian’s phone. I press FORWARD and type:

*WOULD YOU LIKE MRS. LINCOLN TO JOIN US WHEN WE EVENTUALLY DISCUSS THIS TEXT SHE SENT TO YOU? IT WILL SAVE



YOU RUNNING TO HER AFTERWARD. YOUR WIFE*

I press SEND and switch the volume to mute. I huddle under my duvet. For all my bravado, I’m overwhelmed by the enormity of Christian’s deceit. This should be

a happy time. Jeez, we’re going to be parents. Briefly, I relive telling Christian that I’m pregnant and fantasize that he falls to his knees with joy in front of me,

pulling me into his arms and telling me how much he loves me and our Little Blip.

Yet here I am, alone and cold in a BDSM fantasy playroom. Suddenly I feel old, older than my years. Taking on Christian was always going to be a challenge,

but he really has surpassed himself this time. What was he thinking? Well, if he wants a fight, I’ll give him a fight. No way am I going to let him get away with

ru

I’m so exhausted, I soon fall asleep.

I wake with a start, momentarily disorientated . . . Oh yes—I’m in the playroom. Because there are no windows, I have no idea what time it is. The door handle

rattles.

“Ana!” Christian shouts from outside the door. I freeze, but he doesn’t come in. I hear muffled voices, but they move away. I exhale and check the time on my

BlackBerry. It’s seven fifty, and I have four missed calls and two voice messages. The missed calls are mostly from Christian, but there’s also one from Kate. Oh,

no. He must have called her. I don’t have time to listen to them. I don’t want to be late for work.

I wrap the duvet around me and pick up my purse before making my way to the door. Unlocking it slowly, I peek outside. No sign of anyone. Oh shit . . .

Perhaps this is a bit melodramatic. I roll my eyes at myself, take a deep breath, and head downstairs.

Taylor, Sawyer, Ryan, Mrs. Jones, and Christian are all standing in the entrance to the great room, and Christian is issuing rapid-fire instructions. As one they all

turn and gape at me. Christian is still wearing the clothes he slept in last night. He looks disheveled, pale, and heart-stoppingly beautiful. His large gray eyes are

wide, and I don’t know if he’s fearful or angry. It’s difficult to tell.

“Sawyer, I’ll be ready to leave in about twenty minutes,” I mutter, wrapping the duvet tighter around me for protection.

He nods, and all eyes turn to Christian, who is still staring intensely at me.

“Would you like some breakfast, Mrs. Grey?” Mrs. Jones asks. I shake my head.

“I’m not hungry, thank you.” She purses her lips but says nothing.

“Where were you?” Christian asks, his voice low and husky. Suddenly Sawyer, Taylor, Ryan and Mrs. Jones scatter, scurrying into Taylor’s office, into the

foyer, and into the kitchen like terrified rats from a sinking ship.

I ignore Christian and march toward our bedroom.

“Ana,” he calls after me, “answer me.” I hear his footsteps behind me as I walk into the bedroom and continue into our bathroom. Quickly, I lock the door.

“Ana!” Christian pounds on the door. I turn on the shower. The door rattles. “Ana, open the damned door.”

“Go away!”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Suit yourself.”

“Ana, please.”

I climb into the shower, effectively blocking him out. Oh, it’s warm. The healing water cascades over me, cleansing the exhaustion of the night off my skin. Oh

my. This feels so good. For a moment, for one short moment, I can pretend all is well. I wash my hair and by the time I’ve finished, I feel better, stronger, ready to

face the freight train that is Christian Grey. I wrap my hair in a towel, briskly dry myself with another towel, and wrap it around me.

I unlock the door and open it and find Christian is leaning against the wall opposite, his hands behind his back. His expression is wary, that of a hunted predator.

I stride past him and into our walk-in closet.

“Are you ignoring me?” Christian asks in disbelief as he stands on the threshold of the closet.

“Perceptive, aren’t you?” I murmur absentmindedly as I search for something to wear. Ah, yes—my plum dress. I slide it off the hanger, choose my high black

stiletto boots, and head for the bedroom. I pause for Christian to step out of my way, which he does, eventually—his intrinsic good ma

eyes boring into me as I walk over to my chest of drawers, and I peek at him in the mirror, standing motionless in the doorway, watching me. In an act worthy of an

Oscar wi

“Why are you doing this?” he asks. His voice is low.