“Wasn’t sure you were going to make it,” Sam said.
“Not sure I was, either.” She and Sam found their seats in the very last second-class car. Remi used Sam’s phone to text Oliver and Chad to let them know where they were headed and that they’d be in touch if they found the Ghost. When she called to check in with Selma, it immediately went to voice mail. Remi left a message.
Selma called back about a minute later. “Sorry, Mrs. Fargo, I was using the phone for a hot spot to get on the internet. We still don’t have everything up and running yet, but we should have a working bank account in the next day or so.”
“Good to hear,” Remi said. “We’re on our way to Calais.”
“You have a lead on the Ghost?”
“We hope so. We’ll find out soon.”
Sam leaned toward her, whispering, “The investigator?”
“Sam wants to know if you’ve heard from Bill Snyder on Albert’s case.”
“I called him to pass on our new phone numbers,” Selma said. “He thinks this hacking business bolsters the case that Albert was set up.”
“That’s good news, at least. What about Oliver’s sister? Anything on her?” Remi heard what sounded like a sigh of frustration from the other end. “She is okay, isn’t she?”
“He saw her at the door, so he’s sure she’s fine. But there’s not a lot of movement in the house, other than her ex, and another man who’s visited a few times. He fits the description of the man Sam shot when you were using the Faux Ghost to rescue Chad’s mother.”
“Frank.”
“Possibly. His worry, right now, is triggering a hostage situation if he attempts to make contact. He’s fairly certain both men are armed.”
Remi repeated the information to Sam.
“There’s not a lot we can do about it,” Sam said. “We’re going to have to trust that Snyder can handle things.”
68
Allegra turned on the water, filling up the sink, while Trevor cleared the dinner dishes from the table. He set them on the counter beside her, his fingers lingering near the black-handled butcher knife on the cutting board.
“No,” she whispered, pushing his hand away.
“Why not? I sleep three feet from him.”
She wasn’t about to let Trevor take this half-baked plan to kill his father, then live with the guilt of that for the rest of his life. “Because I said so.”
“We have to do something.”
“We will.”
He turned away, but not before she saw that stubborn tilt to his chin.
“You have to trust me, Trev.”
He refused to look at her as he walked out.
“Trev?” Allegra turned off the water and started to follow him, until she saw Dex watching her. Not wanting to alert him that they’d been talking about anything other than dirty dishes, she picked up his empty bottles from the table, taking them into the kitchen, as though that had been her intent.
Long ago, when Dex first raised a hand to her, she was certain she could change him. It never occurred to her that the person she needed to change was herself.
Looking back, she knew the only reason she’d found the strength to leave Dex at all was her fear that he’d turn his violence toward her son instead of her. And ever since, she’d harbored a sense of guilt for not providing the perfect life for Trevor—that, somehow, refusing to let him see his father was depriving him of some necessity. That guilt was at the foremost of her mind when Dex showed up at her door after all that time. She’d thought that if she let Trevor see him, just for a short while, it would be enough. Dex would leave, and they could get on with their lives.
That Dex would’ve involved them in something so horrible never occurred to her. How could she have been such a fool?
She dropped the bottles in the trash, started the water again, eyeing the knife, the dried bits of onion stuck to the blade. It didn’t matter what happened to her. She was going to make sure that her son walked out that door uninjured.
Somehow, she had to convince him that she was on his side or he’d never let down his guard.
With sudden insight, she knew how to do it, and by the time she finished the dishes, her plan was fully formed. She grabbed the dish towel, drying her hands on its once-cheery blue and white checks that now looked stained and dingy from too much use. “We need laundry detergent,” she said, walking into the front room, where Dex sat, watching TV.
“It can wait,” he said, not looking at her.
“How long? We—”
He glared at her. “Seriously? That’s what you’re worried about?”
“Actually, no,” she said. “I— I heard something.”
“Heard what?”
“The other morning,” she said, lowering her voice. Dex’s attention was on the television, his expression telling her he was only half listening to her. “When I thought it was you down here, talking on the phone. Whoever Frank was talking to, it was about you.”
His focus shifted from the television to her, the annoyance on his face replaced by suspicion and wariness. “Out with it, then.”
“I—” Her resolve started to falter, and she was grateful she still held the dish towel, using it to hide her trembling hands. She checked the stairwell, making sure that Trevor wasn’t hiding there. “I heard him telling this person that once he made you take care of us, he’d take care of you.”
He gave a slight shake of his head and turned back to the television. “Go back to the kitchen.”
Sow distrust. She had to make him think she was on his side. “Did you hear me? He wants you to take care of us. And then, he’s going to turn around and take care of you. You know what that means . . .”
Dex clutched the arms of his chair, his eyes boring into her. “He is going to take care of me. By giving me my share of the Ghost money.”
“He’s twisted you against your own family. Trevor’s your son.”
“Is he? Because you changed that when you divorced me and got custody. Wouldn’t even let me see the boy. Look at him now. Coddled so much, he’d rather spend his time upstairs than watch the telly with me. Anything happens to him, it’s your fault, not mine.”
The knot in her gut tightened, almost paralyzing her. Dex didn’t love anyone or anything beyond himself. Not even his son. Trevor was merely collateral damage in Dex’s revenge on her. But with crystal clarity she realized that she’d forgotten the one thing she needed to do to focus Dex’s anger elsewhere: make it about him. Giving a casual shrug, she started back toward the kitchen. “Well, I just thought you should know what else he said about you.”
“What?”
“He told whoever he was talking to that he was only using you to get the journal.” The lie came so easily, it surprised her. Still afraid to even look at him, she stared down at the dish towel as she let the words sink in.
“What else?” Dex asked.
“Something about you being a loose end, but that he’d take care of it.” She finally dared a look. “After that, I don’t know. I— I didn’t hear the rest.”
Dex’s expression hardened as he stared at her, his breathing sharp and shallow. “Loose end, eh?”
“That’s what he said.” An apologetic smile. “I just thought you should know because, well, I have an idea.”
“Why should I trust you?”
“Because I’d never do anything that might harm my son.”
The television droned on in the background, the laugh track sounding desperate and hollow, while Dex pinned her with his stare, his fingers drumming a beat on the arm of the chair. Finally, after what seemed the longest seconds of her life, he nodded. “Let’s hear it.”
“We have Trevor write the journal—what he remembers of it.”
“Why bother? The couple times he’s sat down with me, it’s not like I learned anything
that’s going to help. Wasn’t any mention of any treasure hidden anywhere, was there?”
“Not any obvious mention,” she said. “But you know best. I was only trying to help.” She shook out the dish towel, returned to the kitchen.
A few seconds later, he walked in after her. “What do you mean by obvious mention?”
She picked up a plate from the dish rack, drying it, as she talked, not wanting to seem too eager or too interested. “My brother and I read that journal quite often when we were young.” She looked over at Dex, saw him hanging on every word. “We even acted out the parts. Trust me. If that treasure had been mentioned anywhere that was noticeable, we’d have found it.”
“Then why’s everyone looking for it?”
“Simple. The treasure from the train robbery was never found, my ancestor wrote about it, and his cousin was responsible for stealing it. Arthur Oren is a direct descendant of that cousin and he’s looking for it. Who knows what stories his family passed down. It’s quite obvious, don’t you think? If Arthur Oren believes the answer’s in that journal, it must be.”
“The journal we don’t have. I doubt those Fargos are going to drop by and give it to us.”
“I’m quite sure you’re right,” she said, placing the dried plate in the cupboard, picking up another. “But we have the next best thing. Trevor.” She glanced at him, offering a slight smile, pleased to see that he was hanging on her every word. “So instead of having him sit down and tell us what’s in it, we have him write it down.”
“What good’s that going to do?”
“Even if they somehow get the journal from the Fargos, we—you’ll—have a head start. And with Trevor’s insight, if there’s anything to discover—”
“He’ll figure it out.”
“Exactly,” she said, running the dish towel over another plate.
“Except he already told Frank what he’d read.”
She nodded toward the trash, overflowing with empty bottles. “Between all the beer Frank drank and his pain pills, you think he’s going to remember even a tenth of what Trevor told him?”
Dex said nothing for several seconds, probably because he’d also been drinking. “How long do you think it’ll take him?”
“If he uses the computer, maybe a day or so.”
“Trev!” he yelled. “Get down here.”
Trevor took his time coming down the stairs, refusing to look at Dex, his eyes on her the whole time. “I’m tired.”
“I know,” she said. “But we need your help . . . I need your help,” she added, willing him to cooperate, hoping he’d read between the lines. “Do you think you could type up what you remember of the journal so that we could read it?”
His eyes flicked to his father, then back to her. “If I got some sleep. My brain’s too fuzzy. I’m tired.”
“It doesn’t have to be the whole thing,” she said, knowing that she needed something to show Dex or he’d change his mind come morning. She guided Trevor toward the office and into the desk chair, not giving him a chance to refuse. “Just a chapter.”
Turning the computer on, she hovered as only a mother could, moving the bills out of the way, tapping her finger on the business card, tucked in the corner of the blotter, left by the investigator when he’d shown up at her door to take the journal. “You can do this,” she said softly. “I know you can.”
Trevor poised his fingers over the keyboard, opening the word processing program. A blank document appeared, and he started typing.
Dex moved in beside her, and she rested her hand over the card, watching Trevor type. When she realized he was starting with the first chapter, she suggested he start later in the journal.
“I thought we wanted the whole thing,” Dex said.
“We do,” she said. “Eventually. But if we start where you fell asleep that afternoon, you’ll be able to finish it faster. Jonathon Payton was going to find Miss Atwater after she’d been kidnapped, and the detective was going to force Reginald Oren to help them capture the person who was behind the theft.”
“Start there,” Dex said.
Trevor lifted his hands from the keyboard. “I can’t concentrate with the two of you standing over me.”
Allegra glanced at Dex, relieved when he backed away. She followed him from the room, grateful when she heard Trevor typing, yet worried she might’ve been too subtle about what she wanted him to do.
69
JOURNAL OF JONATHON PAYTON, 5TH VISCOUNT WELLSWICK
1906
I raced home on Byron’s horse, not willing to believe that Miss Atwater was there until I saw her with my own eyes. Once I reached Payton Manor, I turned over the horse to our caretaker, ran into the house, through to the back and across the garden to the Dowager Cottage, throwing open the door. Reggie’s wife and child had gone to visit her mother, so I was surprised—and hopeful—to see a light on and Miss Atwater sitting at the pianoforte, plunking at the keys.
“Are you hurt?” I asked, once I’d caught my breath.
She stood, her expression one of confusion and surprise. “No, of course not. Merely worried about you. Your cousin happened by in his carriage, telling me that you sent him to pick me up, as you were worried about my safety. He said you went to fetch a night watchman.”
“My cousin?”
“Indeed. He was very apologetic, insisting that I wait here until you or he came back.”
“And you’re not hurt?”
“What could possibly befall me here, other than trying to amuse myself while I wait? The pianoforte is in terrible need of tuning. Several of the bass keys don’t even work.”
I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of such a statement.
And I might have, except she seemed to realize something was amiss. “Tell me, what troubles you so?”
“Nothing.”
“’Tis something,” she said. “I can see it in your eyes.”
I considered shielding her from the truth, not because she was a woman too delicate to hear, more because I wanted to see her again and worried she might recoil after hearing the sordid truth. Still, I wanted no lies between us. “My cousin was the mastermind behind the train robbery. He killed the engineers and the detective.”
As my words rushed out, telling her everything, a look of horror clouded her eyes. She shook her head. “No . . .”
Fearing that my revelations had forever turned her against me, I apologized.
She said nothing for several seconds, then, “He was lying to me? About men following you?”
“No. His men were following me. They knocked me out. When I came to, I— I managed to call for help. When I couldn’t find you—” The very memory caused me pain. I ignored it, drawing her to the pianoforte bench so that she might sit.
“I was in the same carriage as that madman?”
“I’m so sorry,” I said again. “If I could change things, I would.”
Her hand went to her mouth, covering her trembling lips. Suddenly she reached for my hand, encouraging me to sit beside her. “You came looking for me?”
“I was worried about you.”
“At great risk to yourself.”
“I cared nothing for that. Only to find you.”
“Mr. Payton—”
“Jonathon.”
“Jonathon . . .” Her voice softened to barely a whisper, as though trying out my name for the first time, to see how it felt.
“Miss Atwater?” I said when nothing more was forthcoming.
“Surely you’re not going to leave Mr. Bell to face your cousin all on his own?”
“I— I hadn’t really thought about it. I— I needed to see you safe.”
“And I am. But Mr. Bell . . .”
Miss Atwater’s concern made me realize the truth. Isaac Bell was out there because of my cousin. “I owe him my assistance.?
?? I said, standing. “I’ll see you safely home, then go to him straightaway.”
She stood as well. “I think you should go to him first. And I shall go with you.”
“You couldn’t possibly. What if something happens to you?”
Her dark brows arched, a look of determination on her face. “Please, don’t think me too forward, but you’ve stolen my heart. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you when we’ve only just found each other.”
In that one moment, I realized that if this were my last day on earth, I wanted it to be with her. “Miss Atwater,” I said, holding my hand out to her.
She clasped it tightly in hers. “Mr. Payton.”
When we arrived at the warehouse in my father’s carriage, Isaac Bell seemed to accept her presence without question. He was, after all, a man of extraordinary intelligence. Byron was a bit shocked, but he quickly came ’round, and the three of us listened while Mr. Bell outlined his plan. Miss Atwater glanced at my cousin, bound, gagged, and seated against the wall of the warehouse. “And what of him?” she asked Bell.
“He will be in the carriage, where you and Payton will be in charge of watching him. The two of you need to remain out of sight. Byron will pose as your driver.”
Concerned about Miss Atwater’s proximity to a murderer, I hoped to change Mr. Bell’s mind. “Is there some reason we aren’t turning him over to the authorities?”
“We may still need him,” Bell said. “You never know when something might go wrong.”
70
Arthur Oren’s dark mood lifted considerably as he arrived at Lorenzo Rossi’s Paris office. By the time he took the elevator to the third floor and the receptionist announced him, nothing could detract from the feeling of triumph now that all his meticulous planning was finally paying off.
The receptionist returned, saying, “Monsieur Marchand will see you now.”
“I was told Lorenzo Rossi would be meeting me personally.”