“Um, I don’t. I’m not married.” Taylor spied a rack of wine bottles. She really hoped they weren’t being saved for a special occasion. Ami had just opened a treasure box of information, and if the wine would help retrieve more, Taylor was willing to sacrifice. “Would you like some wine before we go to dinner?”
Ami hung her purse on the back of one of the chairs and unzipped her jacket. “You probably think I’m crazy talking about all of this. But the way I see it, you’re practically a neighbor. I don’t know your grandparents that well, but they’re nice people. Sometimes it’s easier talking to people you don’t know. This town’s so small. You can’t say anything that the whole town doesn’t find out.”
It took two tries, but Taylor finally found the glasses. They weren’t wine glasses, but they’d do. The next search was for the corkscrew. She found that in the third drawer she tried. Pouring the wine, Taylor pried, “What happened to Mel? Why’s she so sensitive?”
Taking a drink—bigger than a sip—Ami began, “Well, it took me awhile to get the information. Apparently her ex is a piece of work. She won’t tell any of us his name. Some court-ordered silence thing. I get the feeling he was abusive.”
“And he has Mel’s daughter? How?”
“Money.”
“He’s rich?”
Ami nodded. “She hasn’t come out and said it. I only learned Nicole’s name one time when Mel was drunk. She kept talking about how pretty her daughter is and how much she misses her.” Ami leaned forward. “Now that she opened up to me, she talks privately about it from time to time. I’m pretty sure that the prick ex is remarried. Mel’s said, more than once, something about getting Nicole away from the bitch playing mommy.”
If Taylor’s training hadn’t kicked into gear, her jaw would have been on the floor. As it was, she was sure her pulse rate was off the charts. “What is she going to do? Is Mr. Diamond going to represent her to win back her daughter?”
Ami emptied her glass and poured another. “You’d think that, wouldn’t you? Like if you need to fight a court order and you work for a lawyer…” She shook her head. “I keep expecting Jefferson to tell me to counter something or do something. I want him to. I want to know this dickhead’s name, but so far, nothing.”
Taylor sipped her wine, using the term loosely. Whatever it was in her glass was too sweet to be considered wine. Not to mention, the insulting aftertaste. Swallowing the liquid, she asked, “So do you all try to keep the conversation away from kids?”
“Yes. Not always. I mean, Jefferson handles a lot of divorces and custody battles. At work we mention them. It’s when we’re out and she’s drinking. Usually she just turns off and leaves. It’s only been a few times when it’s just been the two of us that she’s confided in me. I promised not to say anything.” Ami shrugged. “I’m not very good at keeping a secret.”
Undoubtedly, a great quality for someone who works for the town’s attorney. No wonder small towns get the reputation of gossip mills. “Do you need to go home to Brian before dinner?”
Ami looked at her phone. “Shit, I do. I’d better go. My mom knows I go out on Fridays, but I usually go home and see him first.” She continued talking as she put her jacket back on. “My folks bowl on a league on Fridays. Since I go out with the girls, they take Brian with them to the bowling alley. I better hurry before they’re gone.”
“Okay, thank you for the coffee.”
Ami smiled. “Thanks for the wine. I know I sound like a bitch telling secrets, but the thing is, I like Mel.” She suddenly looked sad. “Not that she feels the same. I mean, we’re friends. I’d like it to be more than that, but I think she’s still hung up on that dick of an ex.”
Taylor’s eyes widened. This was much more information than she’d dreamt of retrieving.
“So the thing is,” Ami continued, “I don’t want her to get all pissy and leave the bar. I was hoping you’d help me out.”
“Sure thing.” Taylor pressed her lips together and pretended to twist a key. “Not a word from me. I won’t mention kids or dick exes.”
Ami laughed. “I don’t mind the dick ex conversation. I’m dying to know his name.” She reached for her glass and finished off what little remained in there. “This was great wine!”
Taylor nodded, trying to keep a straight face.
“I’ll see you in a little bit. Don’t forget. Nothing about the realty either, and…” Ami smiled. “…remember me.”
“Oh, I will. Thanks, Ami.”
Taylor waited until Ami’s car backed down the drive to call Phil. As she meticulously put the Townsends’ farmhouse back in the order she’d found it, wiped down anything with fingerprints, and headed back to town for dinner, she shared her newfound knowledge.
IT HAD BEEN a long time since Phillip Roach had sat fully on the wrong side of the law. Perhaps all he’d done to help Claire escape the clutches of Catherine London as well as stay off the FBI’s radar wasn’t legal, but it wasn’t this. This was the Phillip Roach of years ago: the one who knew his objective and accomplished it at any cost. This was the man he thought he’d always be but had somehow put to rest. The stark difference between years ago and today was with the issue of the order. In special ops and even in private hire, he received an order and he carried it out.
Today, there was no order.
If there had been, in Phil’s current state of employment, it would have come from Claire or Rawlings. Phil refused to allow either of them to be involved. They didn’t know his plans or what Taylor had learned from Ami Beech, and they never would.
Somehow, despite the elevated stress the packages and letters instilled, the Rawlingses had come to terms with them. Phil’s family had a sense of peace with their security. He had too, until there was too much—too much evidence that moved his calm, experienced mind into a cyclone of terrorizing thoughts. One seemingly innocuous clue was the color of Patricia’s hair. Red. People who wanted to stay hidden changed their hair to a neutral color, one that blended into the masses. Patricia’s color screamed for attention, or more accurately of arrogance.
Another finding that shouted for recognition was what he saw in her new home. When Phil entered her house to hide the tiny cameras and he walked into a small bedroom, the pink paint and white twin-sized bed made him nauseous. Learning of Patricia’s discussion with Ami of her daughter turned that feeling into a full-blown sickness. A bead of sweat materialized on Phil’s brow at the mere thought. The woman was either delusional or genius. Unfortunately, Phil feared the latter. Patricia was establishing herself in this small community and constructing a believable backstory. If her plans came to fruition, she would arrive back to her house and job with her daughter, the one she claimed was taken by her ex. The members of her inner circle would never question this child and Nichol’s life would be forever, irrevocably changed.
With each minute, Phil’s blood pressure rose. The thick fluid coursed through his veins, thundered in his ears, until his vision clouded with the red pooling behind his eyes. Patricia’s plans would not happen. Phil knew that with all of his heart and soul. He also knew that the Rawlingses would never, could never, know why the mailings stopped. If Phil could have done it without anyone’s knowledge, he would have. Unfortunately, he’d already let Eric and Taylor into too much of the operation.
As Phil waited for Patricia’s arrival in her living room, Eric waited nearby with the car. Over the years the two men had developed a trust that only comes with time and experience. Eric was a stand-up man who devoted his life to Rawlings, even initially at the sacrifice of Claire. Though Rawlings claimed Eric had nothing to do with Claire’s kidnapping, Roach knew in his gut that Eric helped. Rawlings couldn’t have gotten her back to Iowa alone. The flip side to their partnership was that Phil himself felt the same way. If push came to shove, and it had come close, Phil would always choose Claire. Knowing that their two main goals were combined gave Eric and Phil the common objective. And with Nichol, there was no doubt: both men would
lay down their lives.
Taylor’s help had proven invaluable. The pink room was a subtle warning, but Ami’s declarations were a full-blown alarm. No one expected the office manager of the Diamond Law Office to be so forthcoming. It was doubtful Eric or Phil would have reaped the same results as easily. Nevertheless, at this juncture, as Phil awaited Patricia’s arrival, Taylor was in Iowa with Claire and Nichol: the fewer people who knew the truth about this day, the better. The timing was perfect: with Rawlings out of town, Eric and Phil’s absence would appear as though they’d accompanied Rawlings to Chicago.
The sound of a key turning in the lock of the side door brought Phil back to present. Again his heart rate increased, as he heard not only her footsteps on the kitchen floor but the sound of her voice. His surveillance equipment had yielded very little, but it had revealed Patricia’s routine. Each night she returned from work, entered through the kitchen, locked the side door, and hung her keys on a nearby hook. Her next stop would be her coffee maker, where she’d set it for her evening cup. On most nights she didn’t go out of the house until morning. Never in the time he’d been watching had anyone been with her.
Phil held his breath and listened to Patricia speak and waited for the other voice. The revving of the Keurig echoed, but no other voice came. He sighed with the audible confirmation: Patricia was talking on the phone.
Stepping silently into the shadows of her living room, Phil waited, knowing that her next stop would be her bedroom, where she‘d change her clothes. Once her conversation was complete, Phil planned to make his presence known. There was no need to be coy. Patricia would recognize him the moment she saw him. They’d had more than a few conversations in the past.
As she made her way to her bedroom still talking, he remembered hearing about the reason for her firing. A smile graced his lips as he recalled Brent filling him in on the details. Brent was the one to authorize the larger than normal severance package. After all, Patricia Miles had been the assistant to the CEO of a billion-dollar conglomerate. Half a million dollars should have been sufficient to secure her silence and allow her to slip away. Changing her identity was never part of the deal. Brent offered glowing recommendations for Patricia Miles. She could have easily moved to any Fortune 500 company and done well. The situation she now faced was her own doing.
Phil tugged on the fingers of his leather gloves and continued to listen. Patricia was still in her bedroom when she finally said goodbye. It wasn’t until she walked down the hallway toward her waiting cup of coffee that he made his presence known. Stepping from the living room, Phil silently moved toward the brightly lit kitchen.
“Ms. Miles,” he stated in a cold, even tone.
Patricia’s shoulders stiffened as he heard her gasp. Slowly she turned his direction. Confusion and fear swirled in her eyes as anger and determination vied for dominance. Prying her tense lips apart, she finally asked, “Mr. Roach? What are you doing in my home?”
Moving his head slowly back and forth, he said, “Come now. I’m sure you can come up with a better question than that. I have one: what’s an MIT and Stanford graduate doing in Olivia, Minnesota, working as a paralegal? Especially someone who received a handsome settlement with the promise of glowing recommendations? Ms. Miles, you could be living the high life in New York or better yet, someplace abroad, perhaps London.”
Her ashen pallor intensified as Patricia’s gaze slowly moved around her kitchen. “I-I want you to leave.”
The spring sky through the window had begun to darken. He couldn’t have orchestrated a better cover. Along with removing herself from the radar, Patricia had also chosen an isolated home, at least a half mile from the nearest neighbor. A low chuckle rumbled from somewhere deep within Phil’s throat. One that even he thought sounded sinister. “Really, Ms. Miles, your time for making demands has expired. I have demands now.”
Her frightened eyes moved to his.
“Ms. Miles, my demands are basic and straightforward. You were given the opportunity to make yourself scarce and go on with your life. Instead you chose to seek revenge. The Rawlingses have had more than enough of that—enough to last a lifetime. I want you gone and out of their lives. I don’t want you to attempt to contact them in any way—ever again.”
“Who said that I—”
“Don’t play dumb. Your intelligence is what’s gotten you this far. Try capitalizing on it. It could save your life. Tell me you’ll leave them alone.”
“Save my life?” she asked. “What does that mean?”
“I gave you the answer. Say it.”
“I’ll leave them alone.”
Phil heard the lie roll off her tongue with ease.
“I don’t know what you planned to accomplish with your mailings, but whatever it was, it’s over.”
“Tell me what you mean, over?” The panic showed in her eyes. “What are you going to do? Does Mr.… Tony know you’re here?”
Phil reached into his pocket. “No. No one knows, which is not to your advantage. I’m here to warn you.”
“Warn me?”
“Give up your quest, whatever it is. By using the U.S. Postal Service to send your threatening mailings you’ve committed a federal crime, one that’s punishable by up to twenty years in prison.”
Her back again straightened defiantly. “I never threatened anyone. And as I recall, you’re not in law enforcement.”
“I’m not—another disadvantage for you. And you did threaten. You also attempted to manipulate and harass, all punishable by law.”
“Fine,” Patricia said, shuffling her feet to move away from Phil. “No one can prove it was me.”
“Wrong again, Ms. Miles. The FBI has your DNA. I guarantee that if they catch you, you’ll be spending time behind bars. Perhaps we can arrange a shared cell with Catherine, since you’re using her idea.”
The color returned to her cheeks. “It was my idea to remind them, to remind her! No one’s taking me into custody. It’s her. She’s going back to the asylum where she belongs. You don’t understand.” She shook her head as her hands waved about her sides. “He needs me. I’ve been there for him. I was there for him. She’s crazy! She doesn’t deserve him…”
Patricia continued to protest as the textured handle of the cool pistol in Phil’s jacket pocket fit perfectly into the palm of his hand. The old Phil longed to end her ridiculous reasoning; however, the new Phil recalled Taylor’s warning. Never had Phil worried about the consequences of his actions; then again, never before had he had the concerns and relationships he currently enjoyed. The bonds he felt with the Rawlingses were double-edged. While he’d come to enjoy the affiliation and rapport, at this moment he felt that same connection limiting his capabilities. It wasn’t that he couldn’t kill Patricia. He’d killed before, and doing so again would guarantee her future silence. It was that for the first time that he could recall, Phil didn’t want to risk losing the life he lived. He didn’t want to disappear. Leaving his current life wasn’t an option.
“Enough!” he proclaimed.
The outline of a pistol was easily defined through the fabric of Phil’s jacket. Patricia’s eyes locked on his pocket. “Are you going to kill me?”
Phil narrowed his gaze. There were no detectable signs of emotion in his expression or tone as he stepped forward. “Give me answers, truthful answers, and we’ll discuss it.”
Perspiration glistened on her brow. “I-I have a life here,” she reasoned. Her body visibly trembled as she stepped back once, then again, inching farther and farther away. Each miniscule movement tried in vain to create an impenetrable gap, as if one more step would be enough to assure her safety. In reality, she could run the length of the house and the bullets in Phil’s gun would never miss their target. The two individuals continued to stare as only the sound of their breathing interrupted the looming silence. Finally the squeak of a chair against the worn linoleum announced the end of Patricia’s retreat. In an act of desperation, she lifted her chin and quipped, “Y
ou can’t just expect my death to go unnoticed.”
He smirked. “You’re living a life that doesn’t exist. There’s no Melissa Garrison. Once you’re gone, and if anyone cares enough to investigate, they’ll learn the truth: you were a lie. You never existed.”
“B-But you said that the FBI is on to me. They’ll know.”
“They’ll know that you willingly disappeared once and you did it again. That’s what happens to psychopaths like you. Perhaps you figured out that the bureau was on to you. Once you did, you panicked and moved on.”
Though Phil had yet to show her what he held within his pocket, her shoulders slumped in defeat at his reasoning. “What questions do you have?” she asked.
“I want the truth. If you’re honest with me, we might be able to work out a deal. If you’re not… let’s just say that I don’t make deals with people I can’t trust.” His training had kicked into gear. No longer was this emotional—he wouldn’t allow it. The outcome was up to her.
Swallowing hard, Patricia looked up. “What do you want to know?”
“What were your plans for Nichol?”
Patricia blinked repeatedly, keeping her gaze toward his ice-cold stare. “I-I didn’t have plans—”
Phil released the safety on the pistol. The faint click echoed through the otherwise still kitchen. “Try again.”
She took a deep breath. “I didn’t have it all worked out, but I’ve been laying groundwork…” Tears came to her eyes. “She doesn’t deserve everything. She took it all from me.”
With his free hand he grasped her arm. “What the fuck are you saying? She’s a little girl.”
“No! Not her,” Patricia retorted. “Claire! She doesn’t deserve to have him as a husband. I’d put years into him.” Shaking off Phil’s grip, she stared rebelliously. “He used to take me places. Did you know that? Does she? I doubt it. I went with him to business dinners and to meet with associates.” She cocked her head to the side. “And it wasn’t all business either. We traveled. It all ended when she came around, and I was supposed to plan their wedding? Really? Why would she expect me to do that?”