by C. B. Clark
But someone had tracked her down. Someone knew her true identity.
Was Clara right? Could the lawyer have information about Athena’s missing parents? If so, that was the ultimate bait guaranteed to draw her out of hiding. She licked her dry lips. What if the lawyer was working for Angus Crawford? The pounding in her head intensified to a deafening booming, and the overwhelming, bone-deep ache for a drink raged through her like a Category Four hurricane. She tossed the ball of paper across the room where it landed on Otis’s front paws.
He raised his head and sniffed at the paper ball. His ears pricked, and questions shone in his expressive eyes.
“Sorry, boy. Poor shot.”
He yawned, exposing sharp, white canines, laid his head back on his paws, and closed his eyes.
She sank back on the couch, drawing her knees to her chest and hugging a blue velvet throw pillow. Closing her eyes, she inhaled a shaky breath through her nose and released the air from her mouth, focusing on the slow rise and fall of her abdomen. The furious pounding in her heart eased, and a heavy exhaustion settled over her. She drifted off to sleep.
Chapter 4
Tears streamed down her cheeks. Terror iced her heart as she raced from room to room, calling their names. A fresh onslaught of fear staggered her at the ominous emptiness surrounding her. “Mom! Dad! Where are you? Please don’t leave me.” But her pleas were too late. They were gone.
A shape materialized out of the gloom…tall, lean, dark…infinitely terrifying.
She whimpered, pivoted, and fled out of the house, stumbling over hidden roots and rocks, crashing into trees, fighting through the clinging prickles of wild raspberry bushes.
She ran until her chest heaved and her lungs burned as if they were on fire. Her heart pounded with such ferocity she feared it would burst from her chest. Too exhausted to run farther, she sank to the cold, damp sand, curled into a ball, and closed her eyes.
Her pursuer’s labored breathing pierced the late-night air. “Maggie!”
Risking a peek, she opened her eyes and shuddered.
He loomed over her. “Why are you running from me, Margaret? I’m here to help.” His glower fixed on her; his gaunt face twisted into a parody of a smile. His thin lips shifted upward, teeth gleaming in the glow of the flashlight he carried.
She scuttled behind a washed-up log, her small hands scrabbling in the soft sand, tangling in the crackling strands of dried seaweed and broken shells.
His fingers wrapped around her shoulders, his nails digging into her tender skin as he dragged her from her hiding place.
She opened her mouth to scream, but her throat was too tight, and no sounds emerged.
She lurched up, heart pounding, adrenaline coursing. Her body vibrated with the primal instinct to fight or flee. In the next breath, she realized where she was—home, safe—and she sagged back on the couch. The remnants of the nightmare dissipated like gossamer wisps. Panic drained out of her, and she clutched the pillow to her chest.
Nails scrabbled across the bare floor, and Otis galloped across the room.
He launched himself at her, landing with a thump that shook the couch and knocked out her breath. Plopping his big body on top of her, he licked her face, washing away her tears.
She patted his head and velvety soft ears. “I’m okay, boy.” Oh man, she loved this dog. He had a sixth sense where she was concerned and knew when she was upset and needed comfort. She wiped the perspiration dampening her brow and wrinkled her nose. The sour smell of fear and dog slobber hung in the air. Giving Otis a final pat, she heaved him aside and crawled off the couch and headed to the bathroom for a shower.
She tugged her shirt over her head and shoved her leggings off her hips. Next came her bra and panties. Stepping into the shower, she turned the water up as hot as she could stand. As the cleansing spray washed over her, the sharpness of the all-too-familiar dream faded.
When the social workers sent Athena to live with her aunt, disturbing dreams plagued her, and nearly every night she’d awakened in tears. Clara held her for hours until Athena calmed enough to go back to sleep. Over the years, as the rawness of her loss faded, so too had the nightmares. But along with the cessation of the frightening dreams came a far worse fate—she couldn’t remember what her parents looked like or the sound of their voices.
Clara had an old photo album that had been rescued from the family’s small home on Shelter Island. Pictures of Athena’s mom and dad were glued to every page.
When Athena studied the photographs, she felt as if she were looking at strangers. She knew the couple were her parents, but only because Clara told her.
It was only in her dreams that her mother and father came to life, but that too faded with the passage of years. What hadn’t diminished, what lurked in the dark corners of her brain, was the terror of that night, the sense of inexplicable loss, and her fear she’d been abandoned. No amount of therapy, or the pharmaceutical cocktails prescribed by a series of well-meaning therapists, nor the passage of time, helped. For a while, alcohol deadened her pain, but that too failed when her drinking careened out of control.
The letter from the Vancouver lawyer resurrected the old fears, and with it, the soul-destroying pain and sorrow. Her memories of that awful night so long ago were confusing, but her helpless terror when she saw Angus Crawford looming over her remained all too vivid.
He’d found her in her parents’ house and chased her to the beach. She hadn’t wanted to go with him, and she’d fought him, kicking and screaming, but he’d overpowered her and carried her to his cottage on the far side of the island. He’d taken her inside and set her on his couch where she’d huddled under a thick quilt, shivering and sobbing, clutching the soft folds until hours later when the police arrived.
And then her nightmare deepened.
Her parents had vanished. They weren’t on the island. The only item missing was the small skiff her father used for fishing and setting crab traps. Search parties scoured the island for days and searched the surrounding ocean inlets and small, rocky islands, covering every inch of the rugged terrain, but no one found any signs of the missing couple, their boat, or clues as to what happened.
Weeks later, when the police investigators packed up and left, Clara offered a sizable reward for information concerning the events of that terrible day, but no one came forward. Anna and William O’Flynn disappeared without a trace, leaving their only child behind.
The media had a heyday with the sensational story. Angus Crawford, the wealthy, elusive owner of Shelter Island and the couple’s landlord, was a prominent businessman in the city. He was often featured in the celebrity pages of magazines and newspapers, always with a beautiful, much younger, woman on his arm. His notoriety added fuel to the fire. He never gave interviews, despite repeated requests. His stoic silence increased the frenzy, as reporters vied to win a coveted interview. Any scandal involving the dashing, wealthy bachelor was news. Big news.
With no viable leads to follow, and after months of investigation, the police reached the conclusion that her parents, for unknown reasons, had sailed away on the missing skiff and were lost at sea in the cold, rough waters off the Pacific Northwest coast. But that didn’t explain why they’d left their only daughter behind, or why they hadn’t taken any of their possessions. The meager savings in their bank account remained untouched.
Rumors ran rampant…the couple was involved in drug smuggling and had met a bad end, they owed money to unsavory characters, they’d set out on an afternoon sail and were washed overboard and lost at sea… A local psychic even suggested they’d been abducted by aliens.
A year later, Clara hired an expert in locating missing persons, hoping he’d uncover a clue the police had missed.
Nothing turned up.
To this day, the disappearance of Anna and William O’Flynn remained a mystery. In the years since, the tragic story was featured on countless true crime television shows and podcasts. Every year on the anniversary of th
eir disappearance, the media rehashed the incident and wondered what part, if any, Angus Crawford played in the mystery.
Athena had her own ideas about what occurred. Nothing short of death would have convinced her parents to desert their twelve-year-old daughter. Angus Crawford was on Shelter Island that fateful day. She and her father had watched from a rock bluff as Angus sailed into the bay on his luxury sailboat, lowered a small dinghy into the ocean swells, and rowed to shore.
Her father had walked down to the beach to greet him.
The man tied Athena’s stomach in knots, so she’d run into the forest and scampered home. Later that afternoon, she was reading under her favorite tree in the front yard, and her mother and Angus Crawford began arguing. She couldn’t hear what they said, but the fury in his voice after her mother ordered him to leave chilled Athena to the bone.
When her parents went missing later that day, she knew Angus Crawford was responsible. As a twelve-year-old child, she was sure he was guilty. Twenty-three years later, she was just as certain. She twisted the tap and increased the hot water pelting her body.
She’d tried to convince the police of Crawford’s guilt, but the detective in charge of the case had smiled pityingly, mouthed meaningless platitudes, and ignored her suspicions. No one listened to her. She was just a kid.
No one believed the wealthy, powerful man was involved in anything so evil as the malicious disappearance of two people.
Angus Crawford played his role of concerned landlord well. He’d joined the search parties as they scoured the tiny island for clues, and he surprised everyone by offering to take Athena in as his ward. The media had gone crazy over that fascinating twist.
A shudder of revulsion washed over her. Fortunately, Clara Reynolds, her mother’s estranged sister, had shown up before Crawford’s claim was taken seriously, and Athena was whisked away to live with her aunt.
At first, she and Clara lived in Vancouver, but the media started hanging out on the street in front of the house, and the phone never stopped ringing from reporters begging for interviews with poor, abandoned Maggie O’Flynn. They’d packed up their belongings and moved.
Their stay in the prairie city of Regina was only a year because an intrepid reporter tracked them down. Then they lived in the Canadian capital, Ottawa, for six months before someone recognized Athena as Margaret O’Flynn, and once again they were forced to flee. Returning to the west, they settled in the bustling, modern cow town of Calgary, Alberta. Athena changed her name, and they left Angus Crawford and the media hounds behind.
Athena was on constant alert. She checked over her shoulder for watching eyes and viewed new acquaintances with a heavy dose of suspicion. But as the years passed, and the story slipped from the headlines, she grew complacent. Her tragic past was buried. She was Athena Reynolds. No one was aware of her real identity. At least, she’d thought that was the case, until the letter from the Vancouver lawyer arrived and proved her wrong.
The water had turned lukewarm before she twisted off the tap and stepped out of the shower and toweled dry. She shrugged into her terrycloth robe and scrubbed her short, red hair, leaving the damp strands standing in bright tufts. The craving for a drink was so strong her mouth watered. She closed her eyes and gripped the porcelain sink and hung on, digging deep for strength.
Come on. Just one little drink. What would one drink hurt?
She bit hard on her bottom lip until she tasted blood, blocking out the insidious voice. She’d promised Clara she wouldn’t drink. She’d already broken one promise she made to the dear old woman; she wouldn’t break her word again no matter how strong her thirst.
Chapter 5
Coffee!
The single word blazed through her like it was illuminated by a thousand-watt spotlight. Coffee—strong and dark, mixed with two heaping tablespoons of sugar—gallons of sweetened coffee. She tightened the sash on her robe and headed to the kitchen. Flicking on the lights, she bustled about the small room, grinding coffee beans and filling the pot with water from the tap. She set the glass pot on the coffee machine and punched the Start button.
The gurgle and hiss of the coffee maker promised relief from her craving, and the kitchen filled with the rich, earthy scent of dark roast coffee. Her hand trembled as she poured the steaming drink into a mug. She shuffled over to the table and settled on a chair. Spooning sugar into her cup, she stirred the sweet mixture. Her first sip scalded her tongue. She winced but risked another mouthful. In seconds, the caffeine-and-sugar bomb eased the sharp edge of her craving.
She peered through the window over the sink. Red-and-orange streaks from the rising sun bathed the distant, snow-covered mountains in a pink glow. Her nerves jittered from the coffee, her eyes gritty from lack of sleep.
Otis hadn’t shifted from his bed in the corner. He lay curled in a ball, his nose buried under his tail as if he were an Alaskan sled dog living in a frozen world of snow and ice and not a pampered pet lying on a padded dog bed in a warm, centrally heated house.
She poured another cup. Sometime during the long night, she’d reached a decision. No more hiding. Better to face the truth than cower in fear that her past had returned. At the start of business hours in Vancouver, she’d contact the legal firm. Talking to the lawyer who’d sent the letter was the only way she’d find out what the woman wanted.
Her gut reaction was to throw the letter in the trash, but she doubted that would be the end of it. She knew lawyers. Heck, she was one. They were a feisty, persistent bunch. The Vancouver lawyer would contact her again and again, until she received a response. Curiosity or masochism, Athena had to know what the lawyer wanted. She just prayed she wasn’t making a terrible mistake.
Otis growled low and deep in his throat.
She jerked and knocked over her cup. Damn!
Hot coffee spilled across the table and dripped on the floor.
Another vibrating snarl sounded from deep within Otis’s chest. He perched on his haunches and stared at the back door; the hairs on the back of his neck rose, becoming a darker stripe down his spine.
“What is it, boy?” She shoved back her chair, crossed to the window, and peered into the backyard.
Typical for the sprawling city in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains, the weather had changed over the past few minutes. The sun had vanished behind heavy, dark rain clouds that hovered low over the valley. A spring prairie storm was on the way. Streaks of rain already spotted the window glass, and a light drizzle spattered the back porch. The gloomy morning light didn’t penetrate the shadows lurking under the budding lilac trees against the back fence.
Otis growled again low, deep, and menacing.
Her stomach knotted. “What’s wrong, boy?” She peered outside again, but nothing stirred.
A second later, a small, dark shape slipped from behind the garden shed and streaked across the lawn to the cedar-planked fence. The black cat scampered up and over the fence and leaped into the neighbor’s yard.
The tightness in her belly eased, and she let out a breath. “It’s just Charlie, Otis.”
For all his size and bluster, Otis was terrified of cats, especially Charlie, who’d swiped Otis’s nose with a sharp claw upon their first meeting a year ago.
She rubbed his smooth head, but his hackles remained erect, his gaze fixed on the door.
Her unease returned. Maybe the cat wasn’t the reason he was nervous. She shook her head. What else could it be? No one was lurking in the backyard. She’d checked. Otis was just a big baby. Unlocking the back door, she nudged it open. “Do you want out? It’s okay. The big, mean cat’s gone. You’re safe.”
He didn’t budge and stared out the door, his tail between his legs, growling.
She shoved his rump toward the open door. “Go on. Go pee.” Muscling his resisting body until he was on the back porch, she stayed in the doorway, watching as he raced, barking furiously, toward the back fence.
After a few minutes of sniffing the ground under the lilac bushe
s, his barking stopped, and he loped across the lawn, pausing at each tree trunk and bush.
When he raised his leg and peed on her favorite rosebush, she stepped back into the warm kitchen and closed the door. All was safe. She locked the back door but unlatched the doggie door so Otis could get back in when he was finished patrolling the back yard.
She checked her watch. Time for the phone call. No point putting it off any longer. Ripping off several sheets of paper towel, she wiped the sticky spilled coffee from the table and floor. She eyed the coffee maker, but she’d had enough coffee. Her gut burned from caffeine overload, and her muscles jittered, her nerves on edge.
Scooping her cell phone from the counter, she strode into the living room and picked up the crumpled paper ball from the floor beside Otis’s bed. Her hand shook as she punched in the phone number of the offices of Smythe & Sons.
The line rang once, twice, three times, four…
Hang up. You don’t need messy complications in your life. You have enough on your plate.
Five rings.
“Smythe & Sons, Attorneys at Law. How may I help you?”
“I…er…hello. I received a registered letter from your office, and—” Her foot tapped the floor in a rapid tattoo.
“Your name please?” The woman’s voice was pleasant, but all business.
“Ath…er, I mean Margaret Anne O’Flynn.” The name tasted wrong and unfamiliar on her tongue. Her heart raced, and moisture beaded under her arms.
The distant clicking of computer keys filtered down the line. “Oh yes, Ms. O’Flynn. Thank you for calling.” More tapping. “Ms. Smythe is able to see you this morning if that works.”
That soon? “I’m in Calgary.”
“Oh, that’s right. I’ve been directed to tell you that Smythe & Sons will pay your transportation to Vancouver and your accommodation expenses while you’re in town.”
Athena pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it as if she could see the woman on the other end of the line. The legal firm was willing to pay her expenses? She clenched and unclenched her hand, her fingernails digging into her palm. They were serious about the meeting. Why? What did they want?
